Living alone, Butler had little reason to use his Blue Diamond training. In some ways, this was obvious — being a bodyguard is to have your profession defined by the existence of a second individual. Without something — someone, rather — to guard, the title is rather meaningless. Yet the small ways Butler had lived his life before...

Before.

The small ways seemed to become less practiced as well. The small, gable-ended farmhouse was tucked away in the sleepy village of Duncade, and in this white-brick house, Butler felt his life, too, become smaller. He wasn't grieving, per se, as he knew that somewhere beyond the veil of reality that separated this world from Hybras, his charge survived. He was not grieving. He was waiting. And he lived his life like a man who was waiting, too. Living in Duncade made that easy for him. The village was near the coast of County Wexford, and when Butler rose at dawn each morning, he would watch the mist roll over the hills and down into the town, baptizing it in an act that exempted the town's residents from worrying what lay beyond that timeless bubble of the village's borders. The cars that would rumble to life after the sun rose a little further were all outdated, bearing models from the early 80s. As the day dragged on, Butler would sometimes turn on his solar-powered radio, and, weather permitting, tend to his garden that lay behind his home. There, surrounded by the vaguely salty air and the crackly words of his talk radio, it was easy to pretend he was the only human being left in the world. And although the land was harsh, as the months stretched by, this odd world in which he lived became accustomed to him, and bit by bit, it submitted to his ministrations, bearing weak tendrils of green.

Months became years, and the land allowed Butler to retreat into it. As the days grew longer and the sun deigned to peek out from behind the clouds more frequently, Butler prepared for the third summer he would spend at the farmhouse. From his life before this small coastal village, his bank account contained more than enough money to see him into his twilight years; tradition paid well, and over a decade of protecting Artemis allowed the man to put aside worries of finding a new career. Another small mercy. Thankfully, the Fowls hadn't seemed surprised when he notified them of his retirement. Occasionally, Angeline and Tim brought the newly born Fowl twins to call, though as time stretched on, the families saw one another less and less frequently. The Duncade farmhouse wasn't large enough to make hosting a common occurrence, and in his retirement, Butler found he had little patience for the Cordon Bleu cooking he'd been trained in as a young man. If they managed to not begrudge him for his solitary nature in his older age, then he too could grant them the grace of not minding that they found driving down to Wexford somewhat of an awkward affair.

The gravel crunched under his feet as he shifted his weight, sitting on the steps of his front door. Soon, he would go for a run, and after that, perhaps he would train with the set of weights he'd recently brought down from the attic. It would hardly do for Artemis to come back and found that the march of time had outpaced Butler, leaving him unable to return to his side, slotting back into their comfortable roles of charge and bodyguard. Butler closed his eyes, letting the warm beams of the sunset wash over his face. It was going to rain soon. He'd been surprised at first, but recently, he found his shoulder, still tight near where he'd been shot a lifetime ago, would ache when the pressure would drop. He'd tried many of the tricks he'd learned to combat this, short of booking an appointment with a physical therapist, and found that the most he could do was lessen the cramps.

Idly, he reached a hand out to pluck a leaf from the small mint shrub that sat beside the stone steps. The clean-smelling natural oils of the plant rubbed off on his fingers, and he smiled, rolling it between the finger pads of his index finger and thumb. In a few weeks, as the summer heat grew to a crescendo, perhaps he would add a few of them to his nightly cup of tea.

Just because he was waiting to rejoin the world, did not mean that he eschewed all of its little pleasures. He had his garden, and he had the books that he would order by post from a larger, nearby town, and he had his sunsets. Just because he no longer lived among the rest of humanity, did not mean he was cut off from the world. If anything, in these past few years, he'd become more intimately connected to it. No longer was his life a mural painted with the shine of gunmetal and the sting of wounds inflicted upon him as he in turn inflicted pain upon others. When he'd been tending to the garden last spring, he'd accidentally caved in part of a rabbit's nest when tilling the earth, and he remembered falling to his knees, frantically moving the dirt away from the hole left by his discarded spade. The high pitch cries of the young were almost like squeaks, and, hands trembling, he'd looked to see if he'd somehow injured any of them. By some miracle, they were all unharmed. Although he now knew he'd been wrong to do this, he'd carefully picked up one of the babies to inspect it for injuries. Its fur had been like velvet, and he'd been quietly awed by how clean it was. Somehow, this miraculous little creature which lived in a hole dug into the earth, seemed like it had a spotless coat. Likely too scared to move, it had remained docile in his hand the entire time, and he'd prayed the callouses on his hand didn't disturb it as he'd carefully placed it back with its littermates. He'd returned inside, and was blessed by another miracle when the mother returned to the nest despite the disturbance at dusk. Before moving to Duncade, Butler had never been so close to the strange, animal world that lived beside man's. He carried with him an innumerable set of similar tales to that day in the garden, and by going without a fight into this dreamlike chapter of his life, Butler discovered what almost amounted to peace.

Rising slowly, he made his way to his garden. The blackberries he'd planted were nearly ripe, and if he'd wanted, he could have plucked them now to make a blackberry Hoisin sauce to go with the pork tenderloin he'd purchased from one of the farmers in town. That, or create a glaze to go with the freshly-caught monkfish he had sitting in his freezer. His lips quirked upwards in a smile, vaguely amused. It was a very easy game to play — guessing at what he might have cooked if he were still working for the Fowls. The life he'd lived before Duncade seemed like the life of another man; although he bore both the scars and wondrous talents of his younger self, to use some of his gifts felt like playing a role in a movie more than it did reminiscing.

In the backyard, he began his daily task of removing any offending weeds. Weeding always took longer than he thought it would, and by the time he'd sufficiently tidied up the garden, the sky was a pale purple. Sighing, he sat there amongst the pulled-up plants, taking in the quiet of the dusk. He was far enough away from the wharf that he was shielded from the unpleasant sound of car motors and raucous fisherman, and he basked in the way the wind rustled through the tall grass. Faintly, he could hear the crooning of a dove, interspersed with high-pitched chirps characteristic of the bats that would soon be zipping through the night sky, searching for midges.

He furrowed his brow. The chirps sounded off.

Butler heard the creak he'd long tried to coax out of his front door with weekly oilings, and he was immediately alert. Silently, he maneuvered around the side of his house, being cautious to stay away from the windows. Whoever had snuck in through the front might still be under the impression that the owner was still out.

He was hardly trying to be unceremoniously killed in a breaking-and-entering gone wrong by one of the local boys.

When he turned the corner to face the front of the house, the cheerily flashing green light of his keypad — the source of those odd chirps from earlier — was the first thing that caught his eye.

Perhaps it wasn't one of the local boys, after all, he thought, putting a hand up against the cool stone of the house. Hands as steady as they were when he'd still had a charge, he pulled his revolver from the holster on his hip.

He'd not been foolish enough to think that the outside world would be wholly content to leave him alone in Duncade, after all.

The lights inside his home were off, and the only light the illuminated the foyer was from the open door. The intruder was by the bookshelf, and Butler could faintly make out the embossed cover of his copy of Moby Dick in the fellow's hands. This stranger seemed perfectly at ease in the house, unaware that Butler was merely a stone's toss away.

Not in the mood for strangeness, Butler coughed, alerting the stranger that he had company. In one fluid motion, he snapped the book shut, holding it close to his chest, the perfect image of a host ready to entertain. He turned to face Butler, and although the light was too poor to make out his features, Butler was stricken by his nacreous pallor — it was as if the stranger was so pale, his skin softly glowed in the dark, similar to the surface of the pearls that would wash up with the oysters along the coast.

For a moment, Butler wondered if he was looking at a ghost.

He shoved down the superstitiousness that rose within him.

"You know what that is?" he said, voice low and raggedy from lack of use. If thunder could speak, then this would be its voice.

The stranger nodded, though he made no indication that he was worried at having been discovered.

"Good," Butler continued. "Then you know what happens if you do anything to upset me."

Another nod.

"Excellent, you're doing very well. Now lace your fingers behind your head and turn round."

Once again, the stranger did as he was told, and he turned to face Butler. The colors of his irises were mismatched, one deep blue and the other a soft hazel, and in the black of his pupils, Butler imagined that he could see his reflection: a domineering mountain of a man, with a full beard and a head of long hair which was drawn back into a ponytail. Butler knew he looked much older than a mere three years, and he felt the weight of each of the lines around his eyes, as well as the greater number of callouses on his hands. On the other hand, the boy that stood in front of him looked but a day older than when he'd last seen him.

"Butler?" faltered Artemis. He tried again, trying to make his tone lighter. "Are you behind all that hair?"

Butler stepped back as though struck. His eyes widened and he swallowed rapidly, suddenly parched.

"Artemis?"

"The time tunnel, old friend," explained Artemis, his tone curious at the wavering in Butler's. "I saw you only yesterday."

Hastily, Butler moved quickly to the curtains, and in his urgency, pulled them, rail and all, away from the wall. The pale light of sunset flooded the small room, and Artemis' eyes scrunched up slightly at the change in the light.

Butler opened his mouth as if to say something, but then closed it, finding himself at a loss for words. A tad awkwardly, Artemis placed the copy of Moby Dick back on the shelf. Similarly hesitant, Butler placed his gun on the side table by the door.

For a moment, both of them stood there, watching one another as the last light of the day casting a bluish haze around the world.

Stepping forward carefully, as if the Artemis that stood before him was an apparition that might dissipate upon closer inspection, Butler held out a hand. Unbidden, the image of the disturbed rabbit's nest came to his mind, and he could almost feel the soft warmth of the youngling he'd cradled in his hands as the sun rose, casting its ruby light all over the garden.

Butler turned to his young guest and took the boy's face in his hands. With a trembling thumb, he wiped the grime from round Artemis's eyes. To Butler's relief, Artemis remained, clear as day, in front of him. In fact, he remained perfectly still. The only movement he made was the automatic blinking at having something so near to his eye. Artemis' eyes both shuttered closed, and when he opened them, his new, mismatched eyes stared back at Butler.

Though he didn't know whether it was from relief or a sudden wave of grief, Butler's knees threatened to buckle.

"Artemis," he forced out, forcing himself not to stammer, "it is you. I had begun to think… No, no. I knew you would come back." And then again with more belief. "I knew it. I always knew it."

Night had fallen in Duncade, and the cool air was full of the sound of crickets. The small light installed in Butler's kitchen flickered, causing the honey-colored light to dance. Artemis had pulled a chair into the small room, and he watched, expression inscrutable, as his former bodyguard bustled about, looking for something that could be turned into a quick dinner.

Pausing in his search, Butler let his hand fall away from one of the top shelves. "Do you still like fish? I think I have some in the freezer."

Butler shook his head, frowning. "Nevermind, that'd take far too long to defrost. I think—"

"Domovoi," Artemis interrupted, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Butler swallowed hard. He turned around once more, busying himself with the dried pasta and grains in the pantry.

Trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, he continued. "Holly is a good influence on you, it seems."

Though he could no longer see Artemis, he heard the boy huff — though he knew that he wasn't genuinely miffed. To tell the truth, Butler still felt like he must have been half-asleep. Artemis' stories of the demon general on Hybras and time tunnels seemed to follow a kind of dream-logic, though nothing ever did make proper sense when Artemis was involved. When Butler had finally managed to collect himself earlier, releasing Artemis from the inelegant bear-hug he'd gathered the boy into once he'd confirmed that it was, indeed Artemis, he found that he had no words to offer his charge.

There were so many things he should have said. He should have told Artemis that Minerva had never forgotten her first friend, and that she would come to call during the school holidays. He should have told Artemis that Foaly had continued to fight within the LEP for funds to be directed towards the search efforts to locate both Artemis and Captain Short. He should have told Artemis that he was now a big brother to a healthy pair of twin boys.

He should have confirmed that Artemis knew it had been three years since he'd last been on Earth.

Butler pulled out a half-empty box of spaghetti, pretending to be engrossed in the cooking instructions.

Artemis had to know it had been some time since he'd been in this world. Butler's aged physical appearance was in and of itself a clue. There must've been signs up in town, signs that Artemis would have seen as he made his way from the quay to the cottage, that clearly proclaimed the date.

There was a noise beside Butler, and he looked up, surprised to see Artemis had moved to stand next to him.

Unsure, Butler put the box of pasta back down. "I... think I might have some pork. It would take a bit, but I could make it."

Cocking his head in thought, Artemis waited as Butler described the sorts of meals he could throw together with the meager fixings in the kitchen. Artemis hummed, picking the boxed pasta up from the marble countertop and placing it back inside the cupboard. The kitchen was more tailored to one of Butler's stature, and Artemis had to strain to place the box on the correct shelf inside the cupboard.

"Do you have anything from the garden?" Artemis asked, smoothing the wrinkles out of the front of his button-down shirt. He must have noticed Butler's brief confusion, as he waved a hand. "I saw the tools strewn about the front lawn. I assume I'm not remiss in my speculation?"

"Er," Butler began, hesitant. "I... do have a garden, yes."

"And window boxes," Artemis commented, a small smile playing across his mouth. "I would have never guessed this were your house unless one of the dock-men had specifically directed me to it. It's very quaint."

Affecting an air of casualness, Artemis put his hands on his hips, almost the spitting image of his father, back in the days when the Fowls would throw massive galas.

"You are happy here, yes?" he asked, a note of hopefulness belying his airiness. "You've carved out a... a nice life for yourself here."

Butler winced slightly, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's a nice town. Lots of good folks, yeah."

"Good. I'm glad to hear it."

"Good."

Once again, the two of them fell into silence, and Butler just prayed that he'd get through the night without humiliating himself by beginning to tear up again. Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow they would phone Fowl Manor and inform Angeline and Tim that Artemis had returned home, unharmed.

Despite the ruin he'd been paid to leave in his wake over his years of Blue Diamond training, Butler liked to think that deep down, he was a good man. He was always kind to waitstaff when he wasn't busy intimidating his charge's business partners. When the paperboy delivered the news, Butler would occasionally go out to press a €5 note into the young man's bike basket. In the past few years, he'd even gotten in the habit of depositing the spiders he found in his home outside, unharmed. However, he could not ignore the unkindness within him that was so persuasive. Seated right by his heart, perched on his ribcage with claws that reminded him of how old he'd grown, this unkindness whispered to him: "wait to phone the Fowls — he came home to you, not them, after all".

Ignoring the voice — though, in his actions, he was surrendering to it — Butler motioned for Artemis to follow him to the backdoor. It was a pleasant night, and had Butler not been the kind of man who made his living at staying a few steps ahead of his enemies, he'd have left it unlocked so that the night breeze might have wafted through the screen door. High in the sky, the full moon sat, shining brightly enough that Butler and Artemis were able to see the layout of the backyard with relative ease. On the lawn, right by the beginning of the garden, Butler had left a small straw basket. In the moonlight, the surface of the blackberries seemed to ripple with an ink-like richness. Kneeling, he began to pluck some of the riper berries from the small bush, testing each one for softness between his fingers before removing it from the stem. Curiously, Artemis sat down to join him, though he was less thorough in testing the berries.

Working in the quiet of the outside air was easier. The backdrop of the ambient sounds of nature was a panacea for any awkwardness at a lack of conversation, and the sweet smell of the intermingling rose hips and summer fruit.

"Tomorrow, we can come back out for a few other things," Butler felt himself say. "I might have some raspberries that are also ripe."

"Tomorrow," Artemis agreed, reaching into the straw basket to remove a berry. He held it up, letting the moonlight catch its skin.

"And what you've not to do is this: bite no bit, and drink no drop, however hungry or thirsty you be; drink a drop, or bite a bit while in Elfland you be and never will you see Middle Earth again," he quoted, lowering his arm. He met Butler's wary gaze and smiled.

"It's from a fairy tale," he explained. "I was just struck by the question of whether the reverse is true."

"If someone from Earth eats human food?" Butler asked, a sardonic note making its way into his words.

Artemis laughed, and the motion made him look as young as he was. "Oh, no. I meant if someone from 'Elfland' were to consume human food. In a way, Hybras — the land of the demons, that is — was a bit like fairy land, after all."

In an unusually deft maneuver, he popped the blackberry into his mouth.

"Never will you see Middle Earth again," Butler quoted back to him. He hoped Artemis didn't notice how his voice quavered slightly on the final word.

Artemis smiled. "I'll have to remain content with our friends Below Earth, then."

The ridiculousness of the play on words surprised Butler, and, forgetting his composure, he snorted. Just barely, a few of the worry lines that had etched the years onto his face softened.

Standing, Butler offered a hand to Artemis. Grasping it, Artemis pulled himself to his feet, looking up at his bodyguard.

"Bring the basket inside, Artemis," Butler said gently. His dreams from earlier — visions of extravagant meals he might cook upon Artemis' return and the way in which life would slot perfectly back into place — were beyond the scope of what he could accomplish in his tiny cottage.

What he did know, however, was that he still had some bread in the cupboard, and a splash or two of cream in the refrigerator, and a few bags of earl grey tea. A bit of toast and tea were a far cry from the feast he'd imagined, but there were better than nothing. Most importantly, they were attainable. Even if he and Artemis didn't fall perfectly back into step, mirroring the way things had been three years ago, this small dinner was a first step at which Butler knew he wouldn't stumble.

"Do you have a guest room?" Artemis inquired, and Butler smiled.

"I have a couch, which is nearly the same thing."

Almost imperceptibly, Artemis tensed, no doubt catching the implication about the lack of visitors to the property.

"When your parents come to call, they usually stay in a local guest house," Butler provided, not wanting to ruin the good mood. "But we can't exactly put you up there right now, so the couch it'll have to be."

"Would you be terribly opposed to adding a guest room or two with renovations?" Artemis queried, letting his earlier concern go for the moment.

Butler scratched his chin, running his fingers through his beard. "Renovations?"

"You're not planning on selling the place on account of my being back, are you? It's a lovely cottage — albeit small."

"A summer property, then," Butler joked, and Artemis nodded, guileless.

"Of course."

Resting a hand on the doorframe for a moment, Butler turned back to look at Artemis, suddenly hit by the dreadful thought that this was all merely a dream. Artemis looked back at him, waiting.

Instead, Butler allowed the thought to wash over him, evaporating like the dampness of the lawn would come dawn.

"I missed you," he said simply. "I never doubted you were coming back, but — I did miss you, Artemis."

Artemis took the straw basket from Butler, nodding. He had no words to offer up in comfort — perhaps none existed.

They made their way inside, and the whistling of the kettle and the odd protest emitted by the toasted served as a language of its own; a language capable of filling the space of three lost years.

August

by Mary Oliver

When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend

all day among the high
branches, reaching
my ripped arms, thinking

of nothing, cramming
the black honey of summer
into my mouth; all day my body

accepts what it is. In the dark
creeks that run by there is
this thick paw of my life darting among

the black bells, the leaves; there is
this happy tongue.