Wasn't really sure whether to put this in Lil Rems or AIANW, so here it is as a separate fic. It's long enough to be anyway.
WARNINGS: probably classed as a strong 'T' rating for language and innuendo. I'd say fine for mid-teens, but I wouldn't suggest letting your granny read it over your shoulder during Christmas Dinner…
SECONDARY WARNINGS: Very much not read through. So please excuse any mistakes.
I was feeling festive. So rattled out a quick 10,000 words or so. Twelve mini-fics, some longer than others. Set across various years of Butler's life, from his days tailing round after his uncle, to those spent as one of a team of professionals hired to do the jobs no-one else will take. Yes that happened. Read more about them in All in a Night's Work (*shamelessselfadvertisingalert*).
So here's a big "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year" to all of you, from John and Jean and Jake and Brian and Banana and Ro and Chicago and Panther and, of course, Cookie.
Especially to Steinbock, without whom The Gang wouldn't be gallivanting their way across the internet right about now.
DISCLAIMER: Anyone not on the characters list isn't Colfer's, everyone else is. If that makes sense.
The Twelve Days of Christmas
Twelve Drummers Drumming
The Irish love a good street parade. Bodyguards on the other hand, do not.
Have you ever been so tense that you can feel your heartbeat in your fingers? Right then, Dom could. As he watched from the crowd as the brass band marched by. His heart was out of time with the group of a dozen drummers, but he could feel the echo of each hit within his ribcage. The Artemis Fowl of the time was watching too, seemingly bored by the whole affair. Dom looked around for his uncle, who would surely be keeping a lookout from one of the tall buildings enclosing the street the parade ran down. He would have chosen the exact same one any professional sniper with a paycheck resting on Fowl blood would have chosen. Dom scanned the rooftops, trying to spot him. He couldn't see for the glare of the sun. Which he supposed was the exact point. He looked back to his uncle's charge. For a second, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him and the red dot on the older boy's neck was merely a phantom imprint of the sun still floating on his retina. Then he blinked once and took no chances. Artemis gave a startled yelp of alarm as the junior Butler ploughed him into the floor, yelling bodyguard jargon to his grandfather, who instantly pulled Mr and Mrs Fowl behind the tree he had stationed them near to. People screamed around them as a volley of shots came to an abrupt end with one final, long-distance crack. Dom shielded his uncle's charge with his body, only looking up once the screams had become murmurs of alarm and horror. He tilted his head to the skyline once again. From this low an angle, the sun was blocked by the building. The Major was not so unprofessional as to leave himself silhouetted against the sky, but Dom had been right about which building he had been stationed atop of, at least.
Eleven Pipers Piping
He who pays the piper, gets to call the tune,
But if you're dancing, enjoy dancing,
'Cause you'll have to pay up soon.
The time Jean used a blunt knife as a splinter-removing utensil on Dom… and Wilhelm made her read an entire article on the dangers of tetanus and tested her on it afterwards, making her repeat the process if she got a question wrong.
The time Wilhelm cock-blocked Panther eight times in one night… And Panther handcuffed him to a lamppost overnight with nothing but a 'Kiss Me Quick' hat to save his dignity.
The time Panther found photographic evidence of Jake during his short attempt to make it as a burlesque dancer and wallpapered the living-room with it… And Jake found video footage of Panther auditioning for an ice-ballet in spandex and rigged the television to play it every time it was switched on.
The time Jake brought an entire litter of Dachshunds from a pet shop… And John made him apologise in Latin every time one of them gave him a fright.
The time John used the same knife for butter and jam… And Banana bought a dozen tubs of butter and a dozen jars of jam and turned John's bed into a physical representation of why the two should not mix.
The time Banana regretted 'forgetting' the house rules about bringing 'guests home… And Dom carved a geographically-accurate outline of China into the butter tub.
The time Dom laughed at Rolando's love of pink shirts… And Ro put all of Dom's white clothes in the wash with a brand new pair of scarlet skinny jeans.
The time Rolando goaded Brian into chasing him through a low doorway… And Brian made it his mission to ensure Ro's favourite coffee mug lived on top of the kitchen cupboards.
The time Brian filled the bath with soil to grow his latest attempt at cactus hybrid plants… And the entire gang rebuilt Brian's bedroom as a makeshift bathroom complete with two kinds of bucket – toilet and showerhead. And used it.
The time the entire gang snuck out of camp and into the nearest town for a fun night… And Madam Ko… Well, she taught them what was meant by the phrase: If you want to dance the tune, you have to pay the piper.
Ten Lords Leaping
Lord: a man of noble rank or high office
Leap: jump or spring a long way, to a great height, or with great force
Guarding doors at parties was not one of Dom's favourite pastimes. It was boring, chilly and altogether pointless, given that should a door be opened, the security system would sound the alarm anyway. Although granted, the one slight perk to the job was that very occasionally, he would find himself watching a sight that most other people in the world would be ignorant to. A group of billionaires 'absolutely arseholed', as his uncle would put it. Right now, Messrs Fowl, Cavendish, Euglehunt, Barker and half a dozen others were all engaged in a frankly ridiculous game that had perhaps once started life as game of limbo and had rapidly evolved into a game of 'Who can jump highest over the curtain sash?'. Dom was trying very hard not to laugh at their attempts – or his grandfather's look of complete resigned exasperation. It changed as his charge took a run up. Dom craned his neck to see. This should be good. He rarely got to see his grandfather in action these days. Eugene Fowl took a step back. Alexandr Butler took a step forward. The drunken Lord Fowl made an unsteady dash for the sash, his friends all cheering him on. The man's long-suffering bodyguard slid up his sleeves slightly and moved forward again. And so, when the man of the manor – being from such infamously uncoordinated family as he was – caught his ankle on the foot-high makeshift jump, his Butler was there instantly, throwing himself forward without hesitation despite his advancing years, to catch him bodily before he hit the floor. Within seconds, both men were up, the smaller being dusted down by the larger as he quietly suggested they tone down their festivities now and retire to the drawing room. All ten lords agreed and as they filed out, Dom could of sworn he heard his grandfather mutter something about how he and his charge were both getting 'too old for this shit'. He laughed.
Nine Ladies Dancing
Over their career as a professional assassin team, The Gang executed many an elaborate plan in order to get their mark. This… was one of their more 'extravagant' escapades.
Loud cabaret music filtered down from above and into the dingy corridor outside the dressing rooms. This was not, Dom decided, his finest hour. It would also not be making an appearance in an autobiography. If he ever wrote one. Which was highly unlikely. Regardless, right now it was not top of his list of concerns. That coveted spot was currently occupied by a very strong aspiration to not end up dying in this attire. In fact, he would take dying in general over surviving a grievous injury in this outfit, if it meant that his identity remained unknown. If his uncle ever caught wind of this…
"How do they wear these?" Banana was whining. "They're so fucking itchy…"
"I did tell you to shave," Jake said, face twisting into a smirk.
"It's not even that. I think I have a sequin up my…"
"Charlie, please. In case you'd forgotten, we're trying to keep a low profile here," John reminded him exasperatedly.
Jake gave a snort of laughter. He and Panther were coping best with the skin-tight clothing – Jake from 'experimentation' and Panther from his ice-dancing career – although the Irishman's face was currently adorned with a look that could curdle milk at twenty paces.
"Shut the fuck up and stop scratching. We're supposed to be professionals," he snapped.
"We are professionals," Jean grumbled, blowing a feather from the elaborate headwear she was wearing out of her face irritably. "Just professional killers. Not professional funny girls."
"So let's act like it," John said calmly, tucking his crucifix under the netting covering the bust of his costume. "Stop laughing, Ro. You look just as bad."
"Mi dispiace – it's just…" he snorted with laughter again and John sighed, checking his handgun had a full clip before concealing it under the ruff of the material covering his lower half. Or rather, about a quarter of his lower half.
"I think what Ro's trying to say, is that you suit boobs," Brian added helpfully. "And silver. Silver is so your colour."
"Thank-you. But I have to say, white is most certainly not yours," John said, attempting to remain professional. "It's leaving very little to the imagination."
"Well now you know why I wanted the orange one," Brian said cheerfully. "Which you are rocking, by the way, Jeany-darling."
"Remind me to prune your precious cactus collection when I get home," Jean growled, softening the blow when he looked a little hurt. "Besides, you know blue is more my colour."
"Ah," Brian nodded sympathetically. "But Cookie had to have blue. Brings out the colour in his eyes."
"With Ro's ass in that red, more like brings out the colour in his b…"
"That's enough!" John said warningly, shooting Banana a look before he could finish his sentence and Dom could deliver retribution for it. "We're here to take out our marks, not eachother."
"Have you been checking out my ass?"
"Don't tell Cookie," Banana winked. "Couldn't help myself. You look so sassy in crimson."
"I would have taken a nice fuchsia if there'd been one," Ro said with a sad sigh. "Pink is so my colour."
"Well yellow is definitely not mine," Wilhelm grouched. "I look like a fucking canary."
"Well I did offer you the purple one," Jake shrugged.
"Nah, it's alright," Wilhelm sighed. "Purple looks good on you, but I'd look like Casper the fucking friendly ghost."
"That's what you're bothered about?" Banana asked incredulously, pulling the golden material encasing his person into a less irritating position. "Personally I'm more bothered by the fact that this sodding thing is touching parts of me I don't want touched by anything other than…"
"Stop right there," Panther groaned. "I don't care what's touching where and what you'd rather have touching it."
"Well you wouldn't, would you? You're used to wearing a thong."
"It's a fucking dance-belt you cretin," Panther snapped, swinging a fist at him. Banana's escape attempt caused the light to glare off his polished bosom, blinding the angry Irishman temporarily.
"Ah-ha! Win! Looks like this outfit might come in good for defensive-offense after all!"
Panther squinted at him. "I hope the light fucking glares off you stupid gold tits and you get shot in the arse."
"Anyone gets shot in the arse it's going to be you," Banana countered. "There's only so much slimming black material can do."
"Right – come here you little…"
"Boys! Cut it out. You think I like this any more than you do? Fucking get your act together, would you?"
They grumbled and grouched, but since both of them had probably worn some variation of a g-string numerous more times than Jean, they stopped their arguing. Even adorned in orange feathers, Jean could be pretty scary when she wanted to be.
"Everyone done a weapons check?" Dom asked seriously, tucking his own gun into something that could almost pass as a leg-holster.
Ro turned to him and began uncontrollably snorting with laughter again at where he was securing the gun.
"Will you stop that?" Dom growled at him. "It's the best use for these damn things. Where are you planning on sticking yours?"
"Wouldn't you like to know," Ro said with a wink.
Jean clipped him around the ear. "Focus, idiota."
"Alright everyone. Pull it together. As Dom said, check your weapons," John said, taking charge as usual. "I don't know about you lot, but I'd rather this went well."
"Well. Disastrously. I could care less so long as I get out of this," Banana said, readjusting his costume once more. "ASA-F-in-P."
"Here's an idea," said Panther. "Let's just go out there and kill everyone."
"We only have three marks," John frowned.
"Yeah, but there's another 300 people in there that are going to see us like this," Dom said, backing his countryman up. "And them not being able to spread the word about it is looking pretty appealing right about now."
"Ah come on, I think it's a good look on us," Brian grinned.
"You only like it because it doesn't constitute as pants," Jake said with a snort.
The music changed slightly, an announcer booming something into a microphone.
"OK. Showtime," John said, patting his leg for a final gun check and leading the way towards the stage.
"Let's work it, sisters," Ro said, popping one hip to the side and smacking his lips together.
"Please never do that again," Dom told him as they filed down the corridor swiftly. "Ever."
As they stepped out into the blinding light and began shuffling into a line in footwear that would be all but useless for running, but may possibly come in useful in the event of a confrontation, Dom severely hoped that the last conversation he ever had, would not be the one that had just ended with:
"Why? Have I smudged my lippy?"
Eight Maids A-Milking
The art of self-control is just one of very many lessons taught at Madam Ko's Bodyguarding Academy. Lessons included pouring hot porridge over the acolytes and insulting their various body parts. And… this.
Dom wondered what it said about him that he was sat nonchalantly observing the goings on in front of him whilst the vast majority of his friends were in shifting in their chairs in various states of discomfort. He blinked freely, making no motion as one of the women supposedly dressed in the clothing of a traditional Swedish milkmaid, approached and did her utmost to provoke a response from him. It wasn't a very accurate outfit, he thought. She'd freeze if she tried working the early shift down in the cowsheds in that. He rolled his eyes lazily to his left, where John was in a similar state of indifference and the vast majority of the others were quite the opposite. Obviously tipped off by the self-satisfied smirk at the failure of one of the eight woman dressed as milkmaids, a similarly inadequately attired lumberjack with a ruggedly handsome beard and sculpted abs had reduced Jake to the same condition as his fellow Academy-mates… Bar three. The third being Jean. Who had stared every 'opponent' down with her signature 'ball-busting' stare and seemed quite unmoved by whatever gender of torso was sashaying in front of her. And the fourth being Brian. The Greek was was watching the antics with mild interest, but seemed wholly unfazed by the situation.
After almost an hour, the doorway of the tent flapped open, letting in a blast of cold and welcome air. Ko strode in, the various 'components of the trial' stepping smartly away from whatever student they had been 'testing' at the time. The tiny woman's eyes slid along the row of uncomfortable wooden chairs they had been instructed to sit on.
"I see some of you need further exercises in self-control," she said. "All of you. Outside and three times around the perimeter. Barefoot. That should remind you to have full control of your body and mind at all times. And do not think you can slope off into the woods. The fastest will avoid further forfeits."
The students rose – some more uncomfortably than other – kicking off their shoes and filing through the tentflaps.
"Altmann, Anthis, Butler, Chase," Ko snapped.
Jean, Brian, Dom and John all halted immediately, turning to face her and standing in a line.
"Yes m'am?" they said as one.
"Not you four," she said with a slow nod. "You have not disappointed me. Use the time your fellow students are otherwise occupied to amuse yourself. Although I suggest watching your classmates run would be unwise."
"Yes m'am," they chorused again.
To their credit, they managed not to bust out laughing when the other five returned – fastest, of course – and each excused themselves swiftly for the next half an hour.
Seven Swans A-Swimming
Sean 'Panther' O'Tool is the holder of many an unexpected skill. This, however, is perhaps his most surprising. After being kicked off the ice-hockey team for excessive aggressive behaviour and banned from competing, he was approached by a rather brave coach of a very different brand of ice-skating…
"So you're sure he's not going to kill us?" Wilhelm asked nervously.
"Well, not exactly, no. But he doesn't know we're here, so that's a good start, right?" Dom said with a grin.
"Oh for…"
There were eight of them stood in the crowd, away from the barrier which surrounded the lake. It was man-made, but had frozen-over naturally in the depths of the Irish winter. It was being used for an outdoor skating display. This close to Christmas, the park was packed with people visiting the Christmas markets, so it had been easy enough to infiltrate the crowds and stay out of sight.
"Hey – you think that ice will support his weight?" Banana asked jokingly.
"Well it's not gone through yet…" Jake shrugged.
"Yeah, but have you seen them all so far? When old slim gets on there, it's gonna take a pounding."
It was a standing joke of The Gang that Panther was slightly heavier than the rest of them. 'Fat' was definitely not a word anyone could use to describe him, but 'built like a brick shithouse' certainly was.
"Shoulda put him on first," Brian nodded. "It would have been thicker at the start."
"Shh – I think he's up next," said Jean, listening to the tannoy announcing the next pair of skaters. "Boost me up, John-boy."
"No – he'll see you," John said, craning his own neck to see if their friend was about to take to the ice.
"Well I can't see shit from down here," Jean grumbled.
"We don't want to put him off. Then he'll really kill us," John reasoned.
"Ah, che cazzo," said Rolando, the other shortest member of the team. "I wanna to see Pan prancing about in lycra."
Before he could protest against it, the wiry Italian had climbed Dom's back like a squirrel up a tree and swung a leg over each of his shoulders.
"Hey – watch it," Dom grouched, brushing grey ice from his jacket as Ro crossed his legs and bashed his boots together. "And don't put your feet like that – I can't hear shit."
"Scusi? Didn't catch that."
"Oh ha ha," Dom said, making as though to throw him off. "Very funny."
"I know. I'm bloody hilarious," Ro said, straightening scarf.
"Yeah? Well how would you like to be bloody and hilarious on the floor?"
"Aww it's so cute when they bicker," Banana cooed.
"That goes for you too," Dom growled, making a swipe for him. "Go on – kick him, Ro."
Ro stuck his leg out and missed Banana by a centimetre. The Englishman cackled, darting behind him and making Dom spin like an angry bear trying to catch a bothersome insect. Banana ducked Ro's boots a second time and dealt him an echoing slap to the backside.
"Ohi, sanguinosa inferno. Ti ammazzo, ti stronzetto!" Ro yelped. "Let me down, Nooks. Let me down!"
"Lads, what part of 'don't draw attention to yourselves' aren't you understanding?" John said with an air of exasperation he usually reserved for his wayward friends.
"I only want to kill him, John. I promise I'll do it 'discreetly'
"Nope. You stay put. No murder today unless I'm dishing it out," Dom said firmly, grabbing the Italian's knees. Rolando lunged backwards horizontally in an impressive display of abdominal strength, but only succeeded in snatching Banana's highly ostentatious ushanka from his head.
"Hey – that's not fair!" Banana pouted, looking distraught at the loss of his hat. He made a wild swing for it, but Ro jammed it on his head out of reach.
"And slapping a man's ass when he can't protect himself is?" he said, adjusting the faux-fur headwear until it sat at a jaunty angle.
"Well I hope it cushions the blow when Cookie drops you on your head," Banana grouched, rubbing his ears with his gloved hands.
The argument would have perhaps gone on to include jibes on hair-colour and nationality, but at that moment, something made them break off teasing eachother in hope for obtaining material for the future.
"I see him!"
By this point, Jean had 'convinced' John to let her up onto his shoulders and The Gang stood together in the crowd, Wilhelm, Jake, Brian and Banana in front, John and Dom – with their jockeys – stood at the back.
The music that flooded over the crowd was fluting and melodious.
"Tchaikovsky…" Banana murmured. "He's doing 'Swan Lake'?"
Brain snorted. "Been brushing up on your ballet knowledge, have you?"
"Shut up. I played it on my violin for my sister's dance recital once."
"Sure you did…" Wilhelm snickered.
"Shh," Jake admonished before John could give up all hope and crash their heads together.
On the ice, Panther was almost unrecognisable, garbed in a skintight, white costume and a cloak seemingly made of feathers. He glided forwards, every spin and turn and leap executed with the same precision and accuracy he applied to any of his Academy-learnt skillset.
"Aww shit, he's good," Ro said, disappointed. "I was hoping this was going to be funny."
Other than that one comment, no-one spoke again. Around them, many a girlfriend, fiancée or wife had cajoled their unwilling menfolk into mirroring what Dom and John were doing for Ro and Jean ('Yes sweetheart, but have you seen the size of those guys?'), effectively shielding them from Panther's sharp eyes. Although in all honesty, he looked so focused on the ice dance he was performing, he might not even have noticed if all eight of his friends had mooned him from the audience.
When it was over, even Banana didn't have a snide comment to make.
"Well. I knew he was light on his feet, but that was…"
"Impressive," said Wilhelm.
"Definitely," Jean nodded.
"It was… beautiful," Jake sighed.
"Gay-boy," Banana jested, shoving him lightly.
"Don't you know it," Jake winked.
"Alright team. Let's split before he sees us."
"Aww what? We're not staying to see him after?" Brian asked.
"Well that depends," said Dom. "Do you like your face arranged the way it is?"
They turned away as the crowd finished applauding and dispersed steadily back to the tents of the market.
"I wanted to skate…" Brian sulked. "I've never done it before. Looks cool."
"You've never skated? Like – never?" Banana asked, surprised.
"Not much call for ice-rinks in Greece," Brian shrugged.
"That's it, then. We're taking Brian skating," Banana announced. "About turn your horse, Rolando. Jean, I want you on lookout. Find us a skate hire."
"Seen one," Jake piped up. "Over there."
"Onwards, noble steed," Ro ordered, tugging on his friend's ears to make him turn.
"Argh – sonova bi…"
Rolando slapped him smartly on the forehead. "Don't you insult my mother."
"Son of a beautiful, pasta-serving Italian mama," Dom amended. "But you're still a bastard. Get off my damn ears before I drop you stupid-hat first into the nearest bin."
The group made their way to the skate hire, Banana leading the charge, his aura of shaken champagne making people step back in alarm. Or maybe it was the jogging giants with their noisy shoulder-adornments. Either way, other than a near-miss with the low roof of the skate-hire cabin, they made it to the window. The rink had been cleared and members of the public were being allowed to skate in small groups.
"Eight pairs of skates please, treasure," Banana said, leaning on the counter of the window and flashing the woman inside a 'Charlie-special' grin.
She blushed slightly, fumbling a for a pen to take down his name.
"What sizes do you need?"
"Uhm, good question. What are we taking, lads?"
They cleared out the very dusty upper sizes between four of them and got smaller pairs for Rolando and Jean.
"We'll have to sit out, Cookie," John sighed. "What a crying shame."
"Aye, so it is," Dom agreed. Although he had eyed that ice whilst Panther was making springing leaps and he had been surprised it had held.
"Spoil sports," Banana said, lacing up his skates quickly. "Coming Bri?"
"I'm not sure I want my ice-skating virginity taken by Preston Saint-Clare," Brian said almost nervously.
"Yeah, what exactly were you thinking with that one, Nabs?" Jean asked, laughing.
"I was going for 'suave and wealthy'," Banana said. Had he had longer hair, he surely would have flicked it.
"Well you got 'pompus twat'," Jake told him, standing up from the wooden bench. With the skates on, he was almost taller than John. "So you know, close enough."
Banana gave him a shove, perhaps hoping he would stagger over.
Jake foiled his attempt, rebalanced easily on the thin blades. "And I have now just realised why Pan's so good at walking in heels."
"That'll be the same reason Chic's shit then," Jean said, trotting over to the medic and throwing his arm over her shoulder to steady him. "Do us a favour and don't break your ankle. We're gonna need you in a minute when Brian decks it."
But Brian seemed to take to the ice like a duck to water and soon Dom and John were leant on the railings watching the six of them all whizzing across the ice. Wilhelm clung to Jean's arm, his knees bent comically.
"You're doing it wrong," Banana informed him, skating backwards alongside them. "Bent knees is skiing."
"I know that," Chicago growled. "I have been skating before, you know?"
"Really? You can't tell," Brian said, sliding past him.
"Show off," Wilhelm muttered.
"Don't worry, Chic," Jean said grinning. "And you want to see showing off, take a look at Ro."
Of course, the Italian was pirouetting with a speed that would make a lesser man sick.
"What the hell is he doing? He'll drill through the ice…" Chicago grumbled. As he twisted to look, he slipped and flailed wildly.
"I gotcha," Jake laughed, grabbing his arm.
"I'm gonna kill myself. Let me off. Let me off!" Chicago protested.
From the fence, even John was guffawing with laughter at their antics.
"How about I carry you? I saw Seany-boy doing it with that chick, can't be that hard," said Jake cheerfully.
"NO! NO! Put me down! Put me…"
But Jake had lifted him up as easily as Panther had carried aloft the petite female ice-dancer, speeding up dramatically. Wilhelm all-but screamed, Jean – well experienced at skating – followed them, pushing at Jake's hips. Banana joined behind her, beginning a chain.
"Oi – no chains," a thick Irish accent yelled at them. There was a moment's silence, then; "Oh for fuck's sake…"
"Rumbled," Banana yelped. "Every man for himself!"
Dressed now in the hi-viz of a rink attendant, was Sean O'Tool. And he did not look happy.
"What in feck's name are you lot doing here?"
"Skating," Banana grinned. "I thought of all people you'd recognise that when you saw it. Jake's trying out one of your moves."
Panther went a funny shade of red.
"Uh-oh. Trouble a-foot. Or rather, a-skate," John said, pointing out the budding confrontation.
From the safety of their vantage point, they watched as Panther put Banana on his arse, quite literally skating circles around him. Banana tried to get up, every time he got to his haunches, Panther would knock him over again. After a few turns of that, he skated off, lest he get reprimanded by his boss.
"Jackass," Banana muttered, getting carefully to his knees. "I'm pisswet through now."
"You did call him a puffster," Jake said as Banana skated after Panther.
"Banana, seriously – this is never gonna end well…" Jean said, sensible for once.
Banana bypassed Brian and Rolando, enlisting their help as he chased Panther down. The ice-dancing trainee bodyguard laughed at them, skating backwards and making several gestures that only served to infuriate Banana further.
"Seriously man, you can put me down now," Wilhelm said to Jake. "This is just getting awkward."
"Oh yeah. Sorry man. It's just fun, ya know?" Jake said, thrusting him up into the air again.
Which would have been just fine… except for at that moment, Panther was speeding towards them. Backwards. Luckily, being the semi-pro skater that he was, he easily manoeuvred away from them with a bark of laughter.
Brian, on the other hand…
"Skatá! How do you stop? How do you…"
John winced.
"Well shit." Dom said emotionlessly.
Brian ploughed straight into Jake, who valiantly attempted to stabilise himself… on Jean, who in turn crashed to the ice. Roland made a flying leap over the pile of bodies and would have perhaps landed it, had he not attempted to land on his toes – which would have worked just fine on solid ground, but on the ice caused his toe-picks to dig in, catapulting him forward. Banana was going so fast, he didn't have time to stop and simply crashed straight into them.
Panther skated a lazy circle around them, laughing.
"Is anyone hurt?" Wilhelm asked, although he was pretty much bottom of the pile.
"I think I heard something crack…" Jake groaned.
"Shit, I hope it was your leg or something," Jean said, trying to get to her feet quickly.
"Because if it wasn't…" Banana said, catching her drift. He lunged to his feet, slipped and landed heavily once again.
There was another, larger crack.
"Ah skatá."
It was pretty comical, the way they disappeared as though the ground had opened up beneath them. Which, technically, it had.
The ice split, swallowing the group into the icy water. Which wasn't entirely a problem for them, but the members of the public who were the problem. Sometimes being in The Academy made one think in a different way. For example, that a plunge into icy water was more hilarious than it was life threatening. Not so for 'civilians'.
The crack in the ice grew wider, Ro noticed it, rolling to one side. Unfortunately for him, the very action of moving his bodyweight caused the section of ice he was on to tip. With several loud Italian swearwords, he too splashed into the water. Which was just fine. Every single one of The Gang was well used to being submerged in sub-zero temperatures.
The public were scattering for the sidelines.
Still, Panther contained some of his laughter and offered a hand to Jean.
"Come on, I'll help you up."
"Why me? Because you think I'm a helpless female and can't look after myself?" Jean snapped. She was always cranky when she was cold and wet.
"No, you twat. Because my boss will kill me if I don't. Trust me, I'd love to stand here and watch you flounder around in the water," he said, still offering his hand.
Stupid.
Jean took it.
And pulled hard.
"Argh you little…"
With a rather larger splash than Ro had made, Panther made seven of them swimming in the water he had skated Swan Lake above.
The more they tried to get out, the larger the hole became.
"We're gonna have to go in there, aren't we?" Dom sighed.
"My morals say yes," John said, rolling his eyes. "But my bollocks say no."
Dom snorted. It was rare that his Australian friend would stoop to such a comment, but that water did look cold.
"Come on," he smirked, leaping the barrier easily. "Someone's gotta save the seven swans a swimming."
Six Geese A-Laying
The V-formation was first adopted by military aircraft during the First World War to improve communication, allow for easy manoeuvring and to reduce drag. Geese know what they're doing.
Dom looked up, raising his binoculars to his eyes as the planes went overhead.
It was dark, but he could see by their wing-lights that they were flying in a 'V' formation.
"One… two… three…" he counted in a low murmur.
"How many, Cookie?" Panther asked, his breath misting before him.
"Half a dozen," he told him.
"They our birds?" John asked.
He was referring to whether or not the pilots of the planes were the rest of their team. Ko had set them the mission of locating and picking up the their corresponding ground-team… and targeting the teams that were not their own. As the three tallest of the team of nine, Dom, John and Panther had been height-relatedly volunteered as the ground team whilst the slightly shorter teenagers piloted the fighter jets.
"Think so," Dom muttered. "Hard to tell."
The planes roared up the valley and into the distance.
"Flare time?" Panther asked, pulling a ground-flare from his bag over his shoulder. The colour was corresponding to their team. Lighting it when their team went over, would alert them and allow them to drop a package containing vital survival supplies for the next forty-eight hours. Lighting it when an opposing team went over, would get him 'painted'.
"Wait," John said, raising a hand. "Could be a trap. We need to ID those jets before we start making ourselves obvious."
All three of the boy's eyes slid to the edge of the forest, beyond the cover of the trees onto the stark white canvas of the snow. They stepped out there, they were either revealing themselves to their friends, or sitting ducks for the enemy.
Dom sighed.
"I suppose we need a scout, right?"
"Rock, paper, scissors?" Panther said, cuffing his sleeves.
"Nah, I'll go."
He shrugged his bag further up onto shoulders and jogged to the edge of the clearing as the planes turned some three kilometres away and came back towards them.
"Mad as a cut snake, that one," John said, shaking his head.
"I'm gonna guess that means he's off he's nut and agree with ya," Panther said, priming the flare. "Giz a shout, Cookster."
"Sure. Get ready to give it legs if they're not ours."
He waited until the last possible moment.
The pilots would be scanning the ground, but the planes would be moving so quickly they would only see him for a second or so. Long enough for him to read the ID numbers on the planes' wings, but too little time for them to drop anything on him.
Diving out of cover, he threw himself down onto his back in the snow and chucked the night-vision binoculars up to his eyes. The white letters stood out starkly.
"Flare!" he called, scrabbling to his knees. "Light it!"
Panther ripped the rope-cord out, sparking the chemical reaction in the cylinder that began billowing smoke. He pulled his hand back, throwing it towards Dom, who sidestepped. They joined him on the snow, watching as two planes peeled away from the formation, flying back towards them.
"Well, either those are ours, or a couple of those geese are about to drop a load on us," John said drily.
"Three guesses who it is," Panther grinned, as the planes showboated above them, checking them out.
Dom smiled slightly. It would be Ro and Jean. He was certain of it. Especially when the pair flew so low the trees swayed and the three lads covered their ears with their hands, Panther mouthing obscenities at them. But then they levelled out at a higher altitude, making one last pass over the trio on the ground and two large boxes tumbled from their bellies like geese laying eggs in flight. Parachutes opened automatically and Dom, John and Panther ran through the deep snow towards their landing point. Overhead the jets did one lazy loop-de-loop before roaring after the rest of the flock of metal birds.
Within half an hour, they'd dragged the wooden crates into the trees and concealed them out of sight and the three of them were tucking into the first decent meal they'd had in days.
Five Gold Rings
Knuckle-dusters: a metal guard worn over the knuckles in fighting to increase the effect of blows.
Dom rang a tongue over his teeth. That had hurt more than it should. A second glance revealed the reason why. A glint of gold adorning the man's fingers.
The trainee bodyguard rolled his shoulders, clicked his neck and set his jaw, curling his massive hands slowly.
"You know," he said to the drunken man he'd been ejecting from the premise. "Knuckle-dusters are for pansies. How's about I show you how to fight properly?"
The man paled. Dutch courage could only get you so far. And there was no need for five gold rings to increase the effectiveness of blows from those fists, that was for sure.
Four Calling Birds
Bird calls have been used as a way to communicate discreetly between military teams. They can be used anywhere, don't require batteries or signal and are completely reliable. Well… almost.
"That's the signal," Banana said, serious for once.
"Are you sure? I didn't…" Wilhelm said uncertainly.
"Look – it was the signal, OK?"
"You sure?" Panther asked. "Because if we go in there early…"
There was another hoot.
"That one was Jean. I'm sure."
"I dunno, Jean's really good at bird calls but Pan isn't," said Brian.
Banana stopped. "OK, good point."
"Call them back. If they reply, must be them," said Jake, shrugging.
Banana pulled his gloves off with his teeth. "Alright. Listen out for her then."
He gave a few hoots.
There was a few seconds of silence. And then…
"There. I heard her. Let's go."
"Wait – I heard two," Wilhelm said, frowning.
"Guys, pretty sure it's an actual…"
"Do it again," Jake said, hushing Brian.
Banana rolled his eyes, hooting again.
"OK, that was three."
There was another hoot.
"Are you sure that was them? It sounded like a bird."
"Sure I'm sure. That one had an Italian accent."
"Don't chat bollocks," Brian laughed.
"I'm not!"
"Alright then, this one's on you…" Jake said warningly.
They broke cover, sprinting for the rendezvous site which, by all accounts, should have been cleared of enemies by the other five by now.
As they ran through the trees, four dark shapes fluttered from the branches in a whirl of feathers…
And so, ten minutes later, the entire group of nine were doing press-ups in the snow, four of them spattered in the paintballs of the enemies that had most definitely not been cleared from the area.
"You're a damn idiot, you know that?" Jean growled. "How did you mistake me for a damn pigeon? A pigeon, Nabs? A bloody pigeon?!"
Her half of the team; Dom, John, Ro and Panther, had also been punished for Banana's mistake.
"You're very good at bird calls. I thought it was you," Banana panted as he pushed out another twenty presses.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" Dom muttered as Brian struggled to hold his pressed position.
"Banana," he said, dipping his face to the snow to hide his smirk as the furred boots of Madam Ko stalked past, stick threatening at the sign of verbal communication.
"What about him?" Dom said, almost silently.
"Well, he always has said he was good at chatting up birds. Didn't realise he was this good…"
Three French Hens
"SORTEZ!"
Cookie leapt out of bed so quickly his head spun. Which it would not have done without the assistance of whatever was left of the effects of enough alcohol to knock out a medium-sized rhinoceros. He shook his head to clear it, approaching the door to the corridor warily.
The voice that had woken him he recognised instantly. It was John. His usually calm, collected, friendly Australian buddy. Devout Christian, one of the top student at Madam Ko's Bodyguarding Academy and, currently, sounding just about angry enough to deploy one of the specific set of skills they had learnt last term. And if that wasn't enough, he was managing to sound like it in French. Some part of Dom's mind knew why that would be, but as that part of his brain it was yet to make an appearance in his consciousness, he stayed behind solid wood, listening carefully whilst the world began to settle a little sharper into focus.
"I've had enough of this! After the last time, I would have thought you would have learnt…"
"Last time, there have been others? I thought you said…" – the sound of someone getting slapped – " – you lying – " – another slap – " – little – "
"Oww!" a third voice – that of his self-proclaimed 'ladies man' friend, Charlie 'Banana' Smith. Violin-playing English gentleman. Or so his mother thought. "Cherie, please… Surely you didn't think that…"
A third slap – and from a different angle by the sounds of it, followed swiftly by a fourth. A fifth. A sixth.
Dom felt a smirk appear on his lips. Charlie was getting his ass wupped by a bunch of hung-over women. He made a mental note not to re-voice to Jean that the idea that hung-over women giving out an ass-wupping was in any way unusual.
"Alright, alright! Stop it now. Please! Oww! Can all of you please just calm down? You didn't seem to mind sharing the Charlesy-boy around last night."
Another slap.
"Yeah OK, I deserved that one… oww… fuck's sake that one stung…"
There was definitely a group of people on the other side of the door. Three of them were squawking in high-pitched French calling Charles Smith many names he had been referred to as before and even some he hadn't.
"Get out of this flat – all of you!" John bellowed over them all, stunning them into silence like a flock of startled chickens. "I will not have such debauchery under my roof! The good Lord forbade it so and I shall do the same!"
Dom raised his eyebrows. John was going all out this time.
The women were not cowardly. They began screaming abuse at both Banana and John now. Cookie wondered if he should step in, when John must have begun doing something dramatic because the screaming went up an octave and moved away. When the door of the flat finally slammed shut behind them, Dom cracked his own open and squinted through it. From here, he could see John putting the chain across with a sigh.
"Thanks man," Charlie said, touching his reddened cheek with a wince. "I owe you one."
"Yes, you do actually. You know how much I hate going all crazy priest. The poor women must have thought they were getting attacked by a madman."
"Well you did just throw water over them – is that actually holy water in that bottle?"
"No. It's strawberry flavoured. But they weren't to know that. Unlike you. You know the rules about bringing people back here."
"It was an accident… honest," Banana said meekly.
"No it wasn't."
"Yeah OK. It was a hen party and they were… well, let's just say…"
"Let's just not say, shall we? I don't want to hear about you and however many of the hen party you picked up last night, OK? I saw enough of them, that's for sure."
Banana winced. Admittedly the women had looked more attractive the night before, but even then John would have politely averted his eyes.
"Look – I'm sorry John-boy," he wheedled. "You really are awesome for helping me turf them out. And I'll make it up to you. I promise."
"You'd better," John said as a parting shot, heading back towards his room. "Or you can consider your butter mine to dig into for the next month."
Banana's mouth opened and closed slightly in panic. He would probably have made some sort of innuendo out of John's threat had the connotations of having his compulsively flattened spread destroyed by the knife of an aggrieved Australian would-be priest knocked all of his usual humour out of him.
"Ah… ah John? You're joking, right?" he stuttered. "John? Johnny-boy?"
Dom closed the door with a stifled snigger. Maybe next time Charlie would think before bringing a trio of French hens home.
Two Turtle Doves
A pair of turtle doves can be used to represent a loving couple, or a strong friendship. A partnership between two people that can be considered unbreakable.
"Ah-ha, yeah," Dom coughed awkwardly. "Thanks. But I… erm… don't really do traditions."
His uncle had warned him against things like this.
The girl in front of him gave him a sly smile. "Well I do. And you know, it's terrible bad luck not to kiss under mistletoe…"
"Uh… I'll take my chances, thanks all the same," the young Butler said, sidling sideways.
"Well I won't!" the girl snapped. It had taken a lot of planning to get the wary Butler under the archway. It was like trying to catch a shadow. "It's alright for you invincible Butlers to say that, but us lowly cleaner girls are a little more… vulnerable."
Dom would rather have faced down another tiger.
"Look, I'm sure you're really nice and all. But I don't make a habit of kissing randomers in corridors, alright?"
"Well I'm not leaving here until I get a kiss."
Dom swallowed. It was not that he couldn't outrun the girl. It was the fact that his life was about to get a whole more difficult if didn't just…
"Problem solved!" a loud and usually obnoxious voice echoed round the high-ceilinged corridor, practically rattling the parasitic plant hung above the archway.
A flash of red hair darted passed Dom's eyeline and before she could so much as take a step, Charles Smith had pressed his lips against the over-friendly young woman's forcefully, almost sweeping her off her feet. When he broke away, she gasped, making as though to slap him. He caught her hand.
"Now, now," he chastised, pressing a second kiss onto the back of her hand. "Don't you know it's bad luck not to kiss under the mistletoe?"
"You…" she began, outraged.
He cackled with laughter, releasing her hand and breaking into a sprint as the girl ran after him, screeching obscenities at him.
Dom let out a breath.
"Well thank fuck for that," he muttered.
"Thank fuck for Banana?" said an accented voice. "Not something anyone says often, but he has his uses, credo."
Dom turned to his short Italian friend.
"You put him up to that?" he asked. It wouldn't be unlikely for Rolando to have done such a thing for him. He was a good friend. So was Charlie, but he would probably have preferred to watch the Butler squirm for a few moments longer.
"We were coming round the corner," Ro admitted. "Heard you… floundering. Banana fancied a snog off that hot chick, since she was offering."
"Lucky me."
"Having a kiss from a willing young woman stolen from under your nose… Lucky? There's something strange about you, Cookie."
"Shut your trap, Ro."
The other boy chuckled at his sour look.
They were silent for a second.
"You know, it's terrible bad luck to…"
"You were listening for that long and you didn't step in any earlier?" Dom interrupted him irately.
"Well yeah," Ro grinned. "It was funny as hell."
"For you, maybe," Dom growled.
"So about that bad luck…"
"I'll take my chances," Dom snorted. "Thanks all the same."
"And what if I won't," Rolando said with a smirk, tilting his head to the ceiling, his eyes glinting mischievously.
Dom swallowed.
How exactly was he going to get out of this one?
And a Partridge in a Pear Tree
It was the day before Christmas and all through the house… well, in the manor the last few Christmas staff were going about their daily business. In the chilly, frost-covered grounds, a rather large gentleman was craning his neck and apparently, or so it would seem to an ignorant bystander, conversing with a tree.
"Artemis, I am first going to ask you to come down slowly, then I am going to ask you what in heaven's name are you doing up there," The Major said, trying to keep the rising panic… ahem, concern, from showing in his voice as the Fowl clung to the top of the fruit tree.
"I… I can't," Artemis said shakily. "I think I'm… stuck."
The Major pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his thumb and forefinger across his eyebrows.
"Are you…" – being serious? Was what he wanted to say – "Are you sure?" he said instead.
"Yes," the young Fowl boy said miserably. "I… miscalculated somewhat."
"You're telling me," The Major muttered, wondering where the nearest ladder was from here and whether he could leave his charge for long enough to get one without the boy falling from his perch.
"Sorry? I can't hear you. You're too far down."
No, Artemis, The Major thought. You're too high up.
He assessed the situation. The branches of the pear tree were two spindly to support his massive bulk, that much was certain.
"I said hold tight, I'll get you down."
Artemis shot him a look that said he didn't believe him, but The Major wasn't too bothered about that right now. Right now, he had more pressing issues. Like how to get the boy safely back on terra firma… For starters, he needed another pair of hands. Ordinarily, he would go to his father for these. But he and Eugene Fowl were currently away on business. The Major was in charge of the place. And so of course, it was today of all days that Artemis had decided to climb a tree.
The Major blamed himself. Even in such as secure a perimeter as Fowl Manor, of course the thirty seconds he had taken his eyes off the eleven year old to instruct his nephew in his training had been too long.
Hmm. There was a thought.
He put his hand to his mouth and gave a short, sharp whistle. It should only take a few seconds for his nephew to drop what he was doing and return to his side.
Sure enough, the freakishly muscled eight year old appeared, suddenly and somewhat thunderously from the undergrowth of a nearby clump of trees.
"Yessir?" he said, standing up straight like he had been taught.
"I have a job for you," The Major told him, deigning to leave it until later to chastise the boy on his noisy arrival.
Domovoi beamed. He loved it when his uncle gave him tasks to do. The Major suspected that his enthusiasm for that would soon fade and so was making the most of getting his nephew to do chores he found dreary. Such as cleaning boots and sweeping floors. The kid, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy them.
"See that tree?"
"Yes uncle."
"Can you climb it?"
"'Course," Dom scoffed.
The Major shoved him in the shoulder with a massive hand. "Don't brag, Junior. More to the point, can you get down?"
"Yeah… why?" asked the boy.
"Look up, Junior. What do you see?"
"A tree."
"And…" The Major prompted.
"Pears?"
"Yes. Amongst the pears."
"Oh," said the youngest Butler of the family. "Uncle? What's Artemis doing up the tree?"
"I'm stuck," Artemis said grouchily. "Obviously."
"Right, Junior I want you to climb up and…"
"Don't send him as well!" Artemis said grumpily. "Look – maybe I can get down by myself…"
"No!" The Major said, loudly and firmly. "Stay put."
He undid his belt swiftly, handing it to his nephew.
"Junior – shimmy up there and wrap that around Artemis and the trunk of the tree."
The young bodyguard-to-be grinned.
"Yessir!" he rattled, transferring the belt to his teeth and taking a running leap at the lowest branch of the tree. Within a few seconds, he had attained the same height as the Fowl boy. The Major shielded his eyes to watch.
"Hey Artemis. Watchya climb a tree for?" he said, somewhat unclearly over the belt.
"Obviously I was under the impression I could get down," Artemis sniffed.
"Obviously you was wrong," Dom said wisely, wrapping the belt around the Fowl boy and the tree.
"Were, Junior. Obviously I were wrong," Artemis said. "Well actually, it's 'obviously I was wrong' and 'obviously you were wrong'. But that wasn't my point…"
But the Butler boy wasn't listening to his point, grammatical or otherwise. He was awaiting instructions from his uncle.
"Alright boys, stay put. I'll be back with a ladder. Don't move, you understand me? Stay where you are."
"Obviously," Artemis said again under his breath.
"Pardon?"
"He said 'obviously'," Dom yelled down from his lofty height of five and a half metres.
"Junior!" Artemis hissed as The Major looked suspiciously like he was amused and jogged off to the nearest shed in search of a ladder. Or indeed, someone who knew where a ladder was, making mental notes to make an inventory and location list of all of the manor's equipment for the future.
"What?" Dom asked, enjoying the view.
"You didn't have to snitch on me."
"I wasn't snitching. My uncle asked and I answered him."
"You don't always have to do as your uncle asks, you know," Artemis told him haughtily.
"Why wouldn't I?" the young Butler frowned. "He's usually right about stuff. And he's training me to be like him! I always listen to him and do what he says and stuff."
"Well I don't have to," Artemis said with an air of superiority. He undid the belt buckle – he'd already felt stupid enough stood there roped-up whilst an eight-year-old played at being Tarzan.
"Woah – wait, Tim. Uncle said to stay put. We should probably…"
"You do what you like, I'm going to get down," the older boy said, crouching shakily.
"I thought you said you was stuck," Domovoi frowned.
"Were. I were… never mind."
"But you was."
"And now I am not. Now can you please either get out of the way or climb down ahead of me."
"Okaaay," Dom said uncertainly. "But my uncle did just say…"
"And what did I just say about having to listen to him? Grow a spine and do something for yourself for once! You think I listen to my father all the time?"
"He's not my father," Dom scowled. "He's my uncle. I don't have a father."
Artemis sighed. "Well that's an incorrect statement if I ever heard one. Biologically, you have to have a sire, Junior. I am aware your father is absent. And besides, I never said Major was. I just said that sometimes, we have to do things against the wishes of adults."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"Like climb trees and get stuck because you're incompetent?"
Artemis felt his ears burning. Here he was, somewhat inconvenienced in a tree, being lectured by a boy three years his junior who did not boast nearly as high an IQ score.
"I made a mistake. Where exactly did you hear that word from anyway?"
"Incompetent? You called me it once," the eight year old shrugged. "So I thought it probably meant daft as a brush and half as useful."
The saying made about as much sense to the Fowl boy as the word 'incompetent' made to the eight-year-old Butler, but he winced slightly all the same. He had forgotten how sharp he could be with the other boy. The lad didn't deserve it. Well, not always, anyway.
"Well… it does, somewhat. And yes, it was an error of judgement on my part to climb this high. Could you… could you help me down?" he asked, although it nearly killed him to say it.
"'Course I can," the Butler boy said with a smile, swinging himself down easily to the next branch, seemingly forgetting his uncle's strict instructions to stay put. "Just put your foot where I show you. I'll guide it…"
Together they made slow but steady progress down the tree, Domovoi jumping down a layer in the branches and carefully positioning Artemis's foot on the studier-looking ones.
"Nearly there now, Tim," Dom said happily. "'Nother three metres or so."
Artemis managed a small smile, although his arms were shaking with the effort of gripping various parts of the tree by this point. He found didn't really mind that Junior sometimes called him by the nickname his parents used for him.
"Steady as we go then," he nodded. "Maybe we'll even be down before…"
"JUNIOR!"
"Oh crap," the young Butler winced.
"What are you doing? What did I just tell you to do?" The Major demanded.
"Sorry Uncle, it was just that we thought we could…"
But The Major didn't find out what the two boys who seemed to be determined to make his life a living nightmare had thought, because at that point, the branch Artemis was standing on gave a creak. In response, he jumped, foot slipping on melted frost on the creaking bough and striking Dom in the head, who hadn't been holding onto anything but the belt he had taken up with him. And the other end of that wasn't attached to anything either…
Shit, The Major thought, sprinting forwards.
Artemis fell through the branches, kicking as he went, before crashing down… directly into his bodyguard's arms. Domovoi was less fortunate. He bounced off a branch, flew almost back up into the air, snatched for a hold anywhere amongst the leaves and got the belt snagged on one instead. Grip tightening instantly, he snatched at the leather strap with his other hand, stopping it from sliding through his grip. For perhaps two seconds he swung there. Which gave The Major ample time to deposit Artemis gently to the ground and step forward to…
"Ooof," Dom grunted as The Major took the force of his fall in his forearms.
"Excellent catch, Major," Artemis said, brushing down his cashmere jumper casually. "Twice over, in fact. Have you ever considered joining a cricket team?"
"Yeah – good catch Uncle," Dom grinned, patting his arm to be let down.
The Major tipped him onto his feet gently and felt a surge of relief flood through him. Both his boys were safe on the ground again.
And that's the way it was going to stay.
He turned his gaze sternly to his charge. "We are going to write up an agreement about this, young man."
Artemis dropped his, shuffling his feet slightly. "Ah yes. I thought it might come to that…"
The Major snorted 'come to that' indeed. Nowadays, it seemed he had to draw up a miniature contract to ensure the boy would do anything. He dreaded the kid hitting puberty. He already had ingrained 'spoilt brat' issues to deal with.
It was ridiculous that he had to get an agreement in writing just to get the boy to do almost anything. Domovoi on the other hand… Actually, the little shite had also disobeyed him. He treated them both to his fourth-sternest glare.
"Hmm. Well, let's all go inside. We can discuss it there, alright?"
"Alright," the boys mumbled.
The Major abandoned the ladder for some gardener to put away and shepherded them into the manor.
Later, when his father would ask for the day's report, he would simple shake his head and mutter: "Ever heard the last line of that infernal Christmas song with a dozen days in it? Goes on for hours. Well the last line – the one about a fowl up a fruit tree. That's how my day went. Bloody kids."
And his father would give a rare chuckle and clap him on the back.
"Boys will be boys. Merry Christmas, son."
And Merry Christmas to you too!
Ta-da!
Said that before, but it bears repeating. Have a goodun. And if you don't celebrate it, enjoy most people being more friendly than usual and have a great 25th day of the twelfth month of the year.
Wolfy
ooo
O