It's been a while on the way, but it's finally done. And here it is.

Feel free to skip to the good part, but if you're interested in how this came about, here you are.

I might as well start with the quotes that inspired it.

Artemis Fowl - Book One, Page 29, Paperback Version –
"The Russian Mafia did not take too kindly to a Westerner muscling in on their market, so decided to send a message. This message took the form of a stolen Stinger missile launched at the Fowl Star on her way past Murmansk. Artemis Senior was on board the shop, along with Butler's uncle and 250,000 cans of cola. It was quite an explosion."

Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident - Book Two, Page 43, Paperback Version –
"Butler understood the emotions battering his young charge. He too had lost someone aboard the Fowl Star. His uncle, The Major, had been assigned to Artemis's father on that fateful trip. Unfortunately, The Major's body had turned up in a Tchersky morgue."

DISCLAIMER:- Firstly, a confession. I've realised that I've managed to make my version of The Major entirely out of the above two quotes. I thought I'd used more references than that, but that'll be my imagination running away with an idea again. Unfortunately, that still doesn't mean I get to own him, his awesome nephew and niece, or anything else from the Artemis Fowl Series at all really. So no, I can't publish these things for money… unfortunately for me.

Now, to the reason of this story. The Butlers always get shoved to the background, don't they? Their story is told in a few paragraphs per book and that's it. But never fear, that's why I'm here!

So, to the true story of The Major. (Why isn't he an option on the choose a character section yet, surely I've written enough about him by now?)

Onwards!

CHAPTER ONE

The Start of Something

MALIN BEG, NORTHERN IRELAND – PRESENT DAY

The man sat on the edge of the cliff, staring out to sea. The waves crashing onto the rocks nearly 2000ft below, reminded him that, no matter how big, strong or trained you were, there was always something more powerful and merciless than you. Seabirds plummeted from the cliff-face, seagulls pinwheeled in the updraft, crying out sweet freedom.

Who said loneliness was a bad feeling?

The man stepped away from the edge. Some of the Slieve League cliffs overhung a good couple of metres, and he was much heavier than the sheep that scrambled over the rough grass and heather. Standing near the edge was never a good idea. Instead, he slung his bag off his shoulder and settled himself down, leaning against a boulder and continued his staring out to sea. The sun was setting and the light of it glinted off his dark eyes, shining them a bright gold and accentuating the shadows on his face. He scowled.

"You'd know what to do, wouldn't you?" he muttered, reaching into the bag and holding a can by the ends, flicking it twice to stop it fizzing over before cracking it open with a muffled hiss.

His uncle never approved of alcohol. Drinking beer at what was taken as his unofficial gravesite seemed more than disrespectful. Besides. Butler had long since learnt that drowning his sorrows never turned out well. So instead, he sat on the edge of a sea cliff, looking out into the sunset, and drank his can of Coke.

Not a single human broke his solitude. His was the only vehicle in the carpark. And that was almost a kilometre away from where he sat. He was completely alone.

Just the way he liked it.

Here was the place he went to where, at the rare times in his life when he had time to himself, he spoke to his uncle, to his parents and to anyone else he had lost, at sea or otherwise.

The Major's body had been buried over in Russia. Butler wasn't too bothered about that. It was an unwritten Butler-family rule – not to give one where your body ended up.

Bury me where I fall.

The quote was written on every Butler's will. It wasn't meant literally, of course. Rather, plant whatever's left of me in the ground at your closest convenience. After all, it would be stupid to spend money on transporting a body back from another country. Unless, of course, something important could be smuggled back with it. That was a different case. Regardless, there was often little left of a Butler's body to bury anyway, and almost always it was in a state that no-one would want to be looking at in a ceremony such as a funeral.

As it was, The Major had been buried somewhere near the Bay of Kola. As far as he knew, no-one had ever visited it for personal reasons. Even when they had made the trip over to Russia for the rescue mission with the fairies, Butler hadn't had the time to bow his head at the stone that represented the man who had practically brought him up. Artemis, so wrapped up in his own daddy-issues, hadn't thought to ask his bodyguard if he had wanted to visit the grave of the man that had been like a father to him. But to be fair, Butler had hardly considered it himself, anyway. The stone meant nothing to him. The writing on it was probably impersonal and simple and his uncle was six feet under the solid, snow covered ground and never coming back.

No, this was where he felt closest to those who had left him behind. And now that ever-extending list even included Artemis. His principal. The one person who should have been guaranteed to be left behind by him. Of course, Butler still firmly believed Artemis was alive and well. It was just where that was the problem.

The sun was almost gone now. The last sliver of sunlight glimmered on the horizon and Butler watched it sink away, leaving behind a bloodstained sky.

Bloodstained.

Butler snorted, wondering when his metaphoric imagination had become so ironic. It was probably simply following in the path of his dry sense of humour. He was a strong believer in the saying, 'If you didn't laugh, you'd have to cry'.

He breathed deeply through his nose, the cold salt air burning the back of his throat. The gulls screamed on and for a moment Butler considered yelling along with them. But even here in the back of beyond, some well-meaning dog walker would probably report the roaring. Possibly as overhearing a wild animal howling, or somebody being murdered. No. Instead Butler locked the mental box he housed his emotions in and picked himself up off the grass, brushing down his combats. Combats. It still felt weird wearing his own choice of clothing rather than the reinforced suits that passed as a bodyguard's uniform. He had spent a good half of his life in them. His uncle had lived and died in the clothing.

Quit your maudlin, boy. Anyone would think you were full-blooded Irish.

Butler had long since stopped jumping at the mental flashbacks of his uncle. Or of anyone else, for that matter. A person who had lived a life like his, was well used to the mind's tricks of constantly replaying memories. Usually the worst ones, unfortunately. If you didn't become accustomed to them, you'd probably end up in a padded cell talking back to them.

The latest mental comment his brain had dredged up was a longstanding joke for his uncle - or at least it had been – that Butler had been brought up by his Irish mother, with, at least for the first ten years of his life, no other noteworthy role model. The Major had often taunted him that it was her fault he had a touch more mercy in him than Madame Ko would've liked. Juliet, even more so. Butler was usually able to switch his conscience off, to an extent. But Juliet never could. Hence why she was following the career path of a wrestler, rather than a bodyguard.

It occurred to Butler that he hadn't phoned his little sister in a while. Although, it was much more of an oddity that she hadn't rang him. She had practically had him on suicide watch for the first month or so after Artemis's disappearance. Until he had assured her that he knew he'd be coming back and wasn't about to attempt being dead when he did return. She almost believed him. Something in her head told her he wasn't lying. She just couldn't put a finger on what.

Of course the mindwipe had taken care of that.

As if reading his thoughts, his phone buzzed. Butler wouldn't be surprised if it was Juliet. She was oddly in tune with his mental ramblings. But this time, as it happened, it wasn't.

His heart clenched at the name lit up in the screen.

One letter - F

He answered it.

"Butler?"

"Foaly," Butler kept his voice level.

"How are you doing?"

"I've been worse."

"Really? Because I'm looking at your ugly mug on my satellite image here and you ain't looking so good, mate."

Butler rolled his eyes. Was there no privacy anymore? Even here Foaly was keeping tabs on him. Butler wondered how successful the centaur would be if he actually tried hiding from him.

"And I saw that," Foaly snickered. "Don't go rolling your eyes at me, mudman."

"I'm fine, Foaly, really. Now what are you ringing for?"

"Jeesh, keep your hair on. I was only asking. You soldier types… always straight to the point. What happened to some good old fashioned manners?"

"Manners take time. Time in which you can be shot. After which, you probably won't be OK so in all honesty who give a flying shit about how you are in the first place?" Butler explained, fairly calmly. "Now. The news... please?"

Foaly was silent for another stretching second before he let out a horsey sigh.

"Well, I don't want to get your hopes up," he admitted. "But we're getting reports of a mudman named Artemis Fowl living in Murmansk."

"A man?" Butler noticed the word change from 'boy'.

"Yeah, you see, that's the thing. This guy is, according to eye-witness accounts, about fifty-odd. Maybe older."

"Meaning?" Butler asked, brain flicking through the possible reasons for the fact that Artemis could well be fifteen years older than him now, when the boy hadn't even been fifteen years old when he had vanished.

"They've been gone three months. Artemis would have remembered the date he left. And if they got back at completely the wrong time, say forty-odd years ago, there would be no point trying to make contact with any of us. We wouldn't believe them and we wouldn't know eachother. You'd be… what? I'm no good with human aging, but the Holly of the time would've barely been an adolescent."

"I probably wouldn't have been born," Butler muttered, still thinking. "So he'd reveal himself now. When we've had time to get used to the idea of them being gone."

"Yup. And he's never turned up on searches before now because either he's hidden himself well, or we never had any reason to search for him so we've never found him."

There was a pause, filled only with the silence of thinking.

"Right. I best go see if it's him then."

"I can get you a lift if you want?"

"I have some stuff I need to pick up first," Butler nodded. He was approximately four and a half hours away from Fowl Manor. Four, if he pushed it… but not in his current transport. So, within five hours he could be on his way to Murmansk, armed and ready.

"Yeah I guessed you might," Foaly whinnied. "Your sister's trying to ring you by the way. I better go."

"I'll talk to her. She might want to come with me."

"No good for the lifts then, Butler. I know it's Juliet, but the council…"

"Understood, Foaly. I'll get back to you."

Butler cut the call and immediately answered Juliet.

"Yes?" he answered, as blunt as ever.

"What the hell have you been doing? I've been ringing. Six rings, bro. Six! You going deaf?"

"I was in the shower," Butler tried half-heartedly, sheltering the phone from the sea breeze.

"Don't lie," Juliet laughed. "One, no steam fizzle, just some weird windy noise. Two, you don't sound like you're in the bathroom, you sound like you're outside. Three, you're not doing that annoying water-up-your-nose sniffing thing you always do when you get out of the shower."

"Well done," Butler half-smiled on the other side of the world. Nothing got past his sister. Of course it didn't. She was a Butler.

"Which means you're out. Which, unless you've decided to sit on a roof again, or you've had a brain transplant and you're socialising, means you're up at the point, chatting to the only people you actually talk to."

"No, no more sitting on roofs," Butler admitted. "So yes, that's where I am. Well deduced."

"I should think so. Didn't someone phone the firebrigade last time?"

"Yes," Butler sighed. "They couldn't see a ladder so 'naturally assumed' I was stuck. Damn civilians."

"You sound like uncle," Juliet chuckled softly. "You must be getting old."

"Huh," Butler grunted. He no longer rented accommodation, and not just for the reason that irritating, well-meaning neighbours constantly butted in on his life, either. "So, did you ring for anything in particular, or just to tease me about me age?"

"Nope, that's about it," he could practically hear her smiling now. "Other than to check you're still on the top of the cliff and not lying at the bottom of the sea, of course."

"Yup," Butler told her. "Still dry."

"Oh and to check that the floor hasn't fallen out of that rust bucket of yours."

"She's still kicking, Jules," Butler almost chuckled. "No Flintstones moments as of yet."

"What's wrong with you?" Juliet asked sceptically. "You sound… happy-ish."

Butler snorted. It sounded as though his sister was accusing him of taking drugs.

"I'm just glad you called."

"Aww, you big softy."

"… because," Butler continued, not about to be accused of affection without reason. "There's been some news. Someone called Artemis Fowl has turned up in Russia."

Butler heard the warm Mexican air whistle into his sister's lungs.

"Where abouts?"

"Murmansk."

"Do you think he'd head there?"

"Who knows? Maybe. It's a lead anyway. And I'm taking it."

"When?"

"Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. As soon as I can get my stuff from the manor and transport to Russia."

"Are you going to tell the Fowls?"

"Not yet."

"Good shout," Juliet agreed. Then she paused. "Can you wait a day?"

Butler ground his teeth in annoyance, but he had known this had been coming.

"I can get a plane ticket tonight. I can be home in a day. Will you wait for me?"

It brought a small smile to her big brother's face that Juliet, despite legally being an American citizen, still called Ireland 'home'. Then again, home was where the family was. And they were the only family they had left.

"Pleeease?"

Butler kneaded his forehead in frustration, but if he said no, then she'd only hunt him down and catch him up anyway and then be mardy with him when she did eventually find him. Which she probably would, because as good as he was at hiding, he had been the one to teach her to hunt.

"Fine," he relented grudgingly. "But be careful."

"Yes!" she laughed in triumph. "And yeah, course I will. Thanks, bro."

Butler 'huh'-ed again and put the phone down. She'd probably be mad at him for that too, but it would be counteracted by the smug satisfaction she would be feeling at winning an argument with him, once again.

For a few more seconds, he watched the sun disappear. Then he turned his back on the sea and headed back down the thin, eroded path to the carpark where his current mode of transport cast a long oblong shadow over the rough tarmac in the dim post-sunset light. Not, unfortunately, the Bentley. Technically, despite the fact that Butler still firmly believed that his uncle had more-than-earned the right to own the car, it belonged to the Fowls. And he wasn't technically under active service employment for the Fowls. Although they were paying him leave-pay. Which had been enough to buy and renovate the 'rust-bucket' as Juliet had dubbed it. Butler cranked the door open and settled into the driver's seat of the dusty-blue VW 'hippie-style' van he had bought as a write-off and fixed up. He slung his bag into the back on top of the various boxes of bits and pieces of metal that most people would believe were engine parts and that were actually sections of gun that it would take Butler less than thirty seconds to find and assemble. Even in the dark. There was also a bed and a gas-powered stove in the back too, although both were more than a little too small for a man of his size to use comfortably. Not that he was used to being comfortable.

It creaked and complained at him and he tutted quietly to it as though quietening an old cart-horse.

"Oil again?" he muttered, patting the worn steering-wheel.

He swore the metal box was drinking WD-40 like an alcoholic downed ale. It didn't matter. He had become oddly fond of the rusty old vehicle. He had bought it almost on a whim. 'Almost', because Butler's never did anything without at least a little consideration. He had been jogging up the road past the local scrapyard in the rain, since he had taken the bus into the town (that had been an experience - or at least it had been for the old lady sat opposite the bodyguard) to buy some dubbin for his boots and had calculated it would be quicker to walk back to the manor than to wait for the return bus.

And so he had seen the van. And then he had bought it. And had it towed back to manor and worked on it until it moved under its own steam.

Despite spending the last decade and then some as a full-time bodyguard, he was still a soldier at heart. He needed something to do. Something to keep his hands busy. Because whilst he was thinking about the van, he could push everything else to the back of his mind. Entire days would go by spent under it, welding rust spots or in the garage with his head buried in the engine at the back, with only the thrum of the rain on the tin roof for company.

And this was the result.

It looked battered and bruised, but its engine ran perfectly. A little like its current owner. The engine was the only thing he had fixed, other than the radio, which burst into life when he turned the key.

… Car Wash!... Working at the Car Wash, yeah! ... Car Wash…

The song blared out of the recently fixed radio and Butler had to smirk. If the dead sent messages then this was definitely one of them. He cranked the window open and let the strong Irish air blast onto his face, draping an arm down the side of the door and tapping the scrappy blue paint of the rusted door panel rhythmically as it rattled along the potholed road.

Should've fixed-up the outside too, half-a-job.

Butler shook the memory from his head. The Major had always been meticulous about the appearance of his vehicles.

WARNING: Traditionally these would be placed at the start of the chapter, but that bit up there was long enough as it was. So: there will be swearing, violence, deaths, more angst than I have written in the past and the usual slightly dark sense of humour of a certain bodyguard.

It is rated 'T' because I personally really do not think it's worth an 'M' rating at all, if anyone disagrees, feel free to tell me.

This is a bit different to what I normally write, but we'll see how it goes.

So, enough of me waffling. I'd say strap yourselves into your own personal seat in what I am affectionately calling 'The Butler-Mobile', but you'll have to bring your own seatbelt. That's it… don't worry about the hole in the floor, it's good for ventilation…oh and mind that box, it's probably explosive…

Wolfy
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