In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas / corpora
Artemis Fowl got the suffix 'the first' tacked onto his name at around 3 a.m. on September 1st, 1988. He was in Moscow on business, playing cards in a smoke-wreathed room with various Bratva members. It wasn't his fault he wasn't with his wife — during the last check-up they'd scheduled with a specialist in London, Artemis and Angeline had been informed that their child was likely due after September 10th or so. One also shouldn't judge him too harshly for the smoking, as he honestly didn't make a habit of it. He only did it during business. It was part of the necessary pretense, simply another seedy box to check to make sure he wasn't suspected of being soft.
It was such that Artemis found himself in the dining room of Solomonov Vitaliy Romanovich, an obscenely powerful man who delighted in going by the diminutive 'Vitya'.
Vitya gestured at one of the footmen to refill his drink, taking a hearty bite out of one of the wild salmon canapés on his china tea plate. Artemis watched him carefully, eyeing the man in the same way one might study a darkened room to confirm through scrutiny the absence of danger, and he set his cards on the table.
"Folding so soon?"
Artemis motioned for the footman from before to pour more sparkling mineral water into his drink flute. Betraying nothing, he met Vitya's gaze, raising his glass to the mafiya man in a mock toast. Artemis smiled, ignoring the way the Major shifted in his seat further down the table.
The game slowly started back up again, and Artemis leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. The tobacco in his cigarette had done nothing for him other than cause a brief spike upwards in his heartrate. In the dim, artificial light of the room, after so many hours of work, the chatter around him seemed like it was bleeding in and out of his awareness. Crossing his arms and sighing, he tried to find a comfortable posture on the chair, but it was of no use. He hoped his compatriots would fold soon, but he suspected Vitya would keep the party going on into the noon of the next day — disoriented business partners were docile business partners, after all.
On his right wrist, he felt his ornate watch ticking away. Each thrum of the device felt like the throbbing of a second pulse against his skin. It offered none of the warmth that a more complex machine might emit, only motion.
It was 5 a.m., Moscow Standard Time.
To the West, Angeline Fowl lay in her bed, feeble and pallid. A young Domovoi Butler stood in the door, diligent, as the midwife cooed at the baby. The older woman gently rocked the small child in her arms, and Angeline stared at them, her eyes drooping due to near delirium from exhaustion.
"Is the baby… alright?" Butler asked, his voice low and hesitant.
The nurse blinked. "Hm? Why, of course he is, Mr. Butler."
Butler nodded his head, and she went back to fussing over the child. The baby blinked, his eyes almost comically large for his tiny frame. He seemed to be looking at Butler in curiosity, uninterested in the nurse's ministrations. Butler gave the boy a small wave.
He'd read that engaging a child's senses was beneficial for development.
In response, the child looked away, glancing back at the nurse's face. The baby had remained mostly silent after the nurses had wrapped him up in a blanket. Butler hadn't been hoping for a colicky baby, per se, but the quietness of the room unnerved him.
Angeline weakly tried to raise her hand, and Butler straightened, ready to move to her aid if need be.
"Let me see him," she coughed, voice scratchy.
The nurse holding the baby stepped closer to the bed, bending at the knees so that the baby was close enough for Angeline to see properly. Angeline exhaled, smiling as tears pricked her eyes.
"My baby," she murmured, and her son looked at her, his dark blue eyes glistening in the darkness. "My son."
Shooting her a final glance, Butler stepped out into the hall, giving Angeline and her child some privacy. Artemis Fowl needed to be informed that his son had been born.
As he made his way to the Fowl patriarch's study, his ears kept perking up, waiting for a child's cry or wail to echo from Angeline's room. It never came, though. The only sound in the manor was his own muffled steps upon the carpet and the quiet chatter of the nurses as they tended to Angeline. Butler ignored the pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck.
Outside, raindrops began to pitter-patter against the roof, creating a gentle rhythm. The sky seemed to sigh, and a young Artemis Fowl II listened, entranced.
Butler's worries about the new Fowl heir were unfounded. The boy began to talk without any complications, gurgling out words before when all the books suggested was normal. He was a remarkably precocious child, and although Butler occasionally worried the boy was verging on frailty, he ultimately seemed healthy enough.
In hindsight, he should have realized it would only be so long before his charge grew bored with life within the manor. Artemis Fowl I had made sure the Fowl estate was well stocked with the finest things their fortune could afford: the kitchen had aromatic spices from every inch of the globe; the library was practically bursting with esoteric texts; the walls were adorned with beautiful tapestries and paintings. Artemis Fowl I had beaten the world down so that it fit within the stone walls of Fowl manor, and in theory, his wife and son had to want for nothing. When Angeline had been younger, Butler remembered her leaving on weekend trips to visit her family or friends, but after her son was born, it seemed like she was content to retreat into the beautiful dollhouse her husband had fashioned around her. Perhaps the reality of who her husband was and where she lived had finally sunk in, Butler mused, carrying the tea tray. At least inside she didn't have to think about the sectarian violence broiling in Northern Ireland, or the heating-up Cold War, or the vile things her adoring husband had done to pay for their life in the manor.
Butler poked his head into the Fowl study, rapping a hand against the door frame. At the desk inside, Artemis Fowl II was curled up in his father's ornamented leather armchair, nose buried in a book. The boy's ears perked up at the sound, but he didn't look up from his reading.
"You weren't at lunch," Butler remarked, stepping inside.
"I apologize," Artemis said, his young voice cold and clipped in a way Butler had never stopped thinking of as strange. "I was busy."
You're seven years old, Butler thought, setting the tray down on the mahogany desk. Busy?
"Your mother missed you," he said instead, and Artemis lowered his book, eyes almost guilty.
"I promise that I will be at dinner."
"You should eat," Butler ordered, pushing the tea and toast closer to the boy. Artemis hesitated for a moment, but he finally obliged, taking a small bite out of the portion of the toast with the least amount of jam on it. Artemis chewed thoughtfully, setting the food back down on the plate and pointedly nudging it away. Butler pressed his lips into a thin line. Thank Christ that at least Juliet wasn't a picky eater.
"May I ask you a question, Butler?"
"Always, Artemis."
"Where does Father go when he leaves on business?" Artemis inquired, and Butler sighed. He moved the tray on the table, making room for him to rest his weight against the desk.
"He's on a business trip, Artemis. He's told you this."
"Where does he go, though? He won't tell me what his 'business' is."
Butler shrugged. "Your father told me the same thing."
Artemis looked at him shrewdly. "I don't think I believe that, Butler."
"That's too bad," Butler admitted. "Because that's all I'm going to tell you."
"You work for me, though," Artemis argued, brow furrowed. "If you do know more, then you must tell me."
Frowning, Butler leaned back. "I protect you. I work for your father."
Sensing that he'd offended, Artemis tried to backpedal. "I… no one will tell me, Butler. Why? I simply want to know more about my father."
His bodyguard considered Artemis' plea.
"I'm sorry if I seemed dismissive," Artemis wheedled, prodding further. "I'm… I'm just curious."
Despite being fully aware Artemis' apology was motivated more so by ulterior motives than it was by genuine compunctions, Butler softened.
"I know you must miss him," he relented.
Artemis perked up, sensing he'd succeed in wearing down Butler's earlier decision.
Butler ignored the voice of Madam Ko in the back of his mind. He wondered if he could absolve himself for a brief moment of weakness surrounding his bodyguard principles.
Artemis was just a boy, Butler thought. And a smart one at that. He doubted that there was a child on earth that could be satisfied with simply artifacts from the outside world.
Reaching to ruffle his charge's hair, Butler almost smiled at the way Artemis scrunched up his face.
"Why must you and Mother persist in doing that?" Artemis complained.
"Just another grown-up thing, I guess," Butler ventured, humming good-naturedly when Artemis scoffed.
"What are you reading?" Butler asked after a moment, changing the subject. Artemis glanced back at his book, debating his next course of action. Finally, his excitement surrounding the book he'd been reading won out over his desire to continue pushing Butler regarding his father.
Artemis spun the novel around, allowing Butler to examine it properly. "It's a collection of short stories by Kenzaburō Ōe. Right now I am on 'Lavish Are the Dead'."
Butler nodded, picking up the work and mentally filing the name away. He was nearly positive Artemis fell very short of the intended age demographic.
"What's it about?"
Artemis' eyes lit up. "The subject material varies, but the tone is similar between the stories. Ōe's style is very derivative of French existentialists. I like him more than Sartre and Camus, however."
"Camus wrote 'The Stranger', right?" Butler surmised, looking at Artemis for confirmation. "Read that book during university. I've never forgotten the way the author described the old man's sickly dog. Poor animal," Butler reproved, tsking.
Artemis nodded. "Yes, that was Camus. 'Lavish Are the Dead' is similarly macabre in the service of its philosophy."
Butler thumbed to the first page of the short story to which Artemis referred. He narrowed his eyes, reading silently. Artemis continued on, unconscious of Butler's increasingly deepening frown as the man scanned through gruesome paragraph after paragraph.
"I suppose it can be read in many ways. One view would be that it's a meditation on the forgetting of the Pacific War, despite the violence's profound impact on the cultural psyche. However, it could also be read as the submerged presence of the Korean War in Japanese society, memory, and culture. I'd argue both critiques come mainly from the perspective of the intellectual establishment, be it that it is both Ōe and the protagonist studied French literature at the University of Tokyo."
"Artemis," Butler said slowly, resisting the urge to rub his temples or to throw the offending text from the room. "This is about dead bodies being kept in the medical faculty of a university."
His charge tilted his head, blinking owlishly. "On a literal, textual sense, I suppose so, yes."
Butler made a face, putting the book down. "It's not appropriate for you. It's… too much. You're too young to be reading something like this"
"I asked Father. He's the one who brought it back from Tokyo," Artemis offered lightly.
Butler floundered, unsure.
To push the matter, Butler would have to either insinuate the Fowl patriarch was so absentminded as to not curate the reading material of his son or he would have to insinuate that the man had made an incorrect call in judgment. Either would be a challenge to Artemis Sr.'s authority. Either would be making a statement on which of the two had more of a say over Artemis' behavior. An absentee father or a paid caretaker — Artemis was beginning to test the waters of which of the two men had more of a claim to be the male figure to whom he deferred, Butler realized.
Artemis watched Butler, waiting for a response.
"I see," Butler noted, being careful to keep his tone even. Artemis' eyes widened, a motion that would have been nearly imperceptible had Butler not been searching for a reaction on the boy's face.
The surprise vanished from Artemis quickly, and his eyes narrowed. "Oh?"
Rising, Butler pushed the book back towards Artemis. "Yes. If he approved the book, then I am fine with it."
"You have no further opinion on the matter?" Artemis pressed.
Butler shrugged. "I'm just your bodyguard. Is my private attitude towards the matter necessary?"
A completely bullshit statement.
Butler knew that.
Artemis knew that.
Hell, it was likely even Artemis Sr. knew that.
Butler blamed Artemis Sr., just a bit. Usually, the Fowls and Butlers were closer in age. As eerily as the young Fowl might present himself, it was hard to not feel parental twinges towards the boy when Butler's primary duties as a bodyguard were mundane things — things like keeping Artemis from skinning his knees around the house or preparing meals for him and Juliet. The Major and Artemis Sr. were unambiguously boss and bodyguard, but Butler, who had to force himself to not subconsciously categorize both Artemis and Juliet as his kids, and Artemis, who knew his father as a visitor to the house instead of a permanent fixture? Their dynamic was undoubtedly more fraught, unspeakably more complicated to unpack.
But Butler couldn't bring himself to give words to his failure. To do so would make it irreversible. It'd be the final nail in the coffin he'd fashioned for himself.
So he pushed the tea tray closer to Artemis, quietly getting up to leave.
Disappointed, Artemis moved to pick his book back up, returning to his previous activity.
Pausing in the doorway, Butler turned, faltering.
Artemis didn't lower the book, but his eyes tracked Butler's every movement like a hawk. "Yes?"
"Artemis," Butler began, hand curling around the doorframe with uncharacteristic timidity. "Your father said he'd be home tonight. You can ask him about his trip at dinner."
"...Will you be joining us?"
"No."
"I see," Artemis commented neutrally, fixing Butler with a pointed stare.
Ignoring the way his feelings stung, Butler let his hand fall from the door, turning away.
"Make sure that you eat your lunch, Artemis," Butler said at last, weary.
"Mhm."
Both the toast and the tea remained untouched.
Artemis sat in his chair ramrod straight, taking care not to swing his legs or slouch childishly. Carefully, he looked around the hall he was sitting in. Twinkling, prismatic light from the chandelier's crystals dappled across the cool marble floor, the color muted by the artificial light.
When he'd finally managed to convince Father to bring him along on a business meeting as an eighth birthday present, Artemis had expected to be at least let in the room.
If he strained his ears, he could make out the sound of boisterous laughter and raised voices behind the closed door to his right. However, try as he might, the words themselves evaded him, slipping through his fingers like water. For all he could tell, Father and his business partners were talking about the World Cup. Artemis glanced down the hallway to his left, trying to see if there was anyone else in the palatial London estate. Not even the odd secretary or worker. Rupert Gorman was one of those types, then, Artemis noted, looking back towards the door. Although it was true that not even old money could keep one safe these days. Better a paranoiac than a fool.
The door creaked open, and Artemis jumped at the cacophony of sound that seemed to burst from behind it. A tall but otherwise unassuming man stepped out, closing the door behind him softly. Artemis studied him, taking in the man's form of attire (reasonably elegant), appearance (haggard), and way of carrying himself (restrained). He looked just a few years shy of Artemis' father's age, although the chestnut of his hair was already taking on a salt-and-pepper appearance.
The man began walking down the hall, his footfalls every so often falling shakily due to his slight limp. The man soldiered on, a vein throbbing in his neck.
He passed by Artemis, not even looking.
Artemis cocked his head, intrigued. Considering what his father had said about behaving tonight, Artemis weighed his options, finally deciding to feign a cough.
Again, the man did not so much as turn, continuing his slow procession down the hall.
"Would you like an Advil?" Artemis asked.
The man paused. Looking at Artemis, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards slightly.
"I would much appreciate one, thank you."
Fishing around in the pocket sewn into the inside of his jacket, Artemis presented a tube of the painkiller, holding it out. The man made his way over, swiftly snatching it away. Crunching on a few of the pills and then swallowing them dry, the man gave a small nod of thanks to Artemis.
"It was no trouble," Artemis reassured him. "I normally wouldn't be so blunt, but I'm afraid that Mr. Gorman has scattered his staff to the wind."
The man ruminated on the statement, still chewing. "They're not just on a break?"
Jumping at an opportunity to show off his intellect, Artemis shook his head no. "The employee parking spots aren't empty, yet the house is completely silent. I've not even heard footsteps coming from above or shuffling about in nearby rooms. Gorman is more than happy to show off his wealth and security by hosting, but he's far too suspicious to allow any of his guests to interact with his workers."
"Interesting theory," the man remarked, slyly crossing his arms. "You've left something out of your consideration, though."
Artemis crinkled his nose slightly. "Is that so?"
The man smiled, his teeth bared in the same way a chimpanzee might show off its canines in a challenge. "How do you know I don't work for Gorman?"
Artemis felt a cold sweat prick at his forehead. "I'm—"
Laughing, the man waved him off. "I'm screwing with you. Rupert's a worm. I'd never work for the guy."
Sighing, Artemis leaned back, the effect of the stress lifting making him almost lightheaded.
The man stuck out a hand. "Dmitry Endor."
Artemis looked at the hand warily, unsure of how to feel about the man's joking. "Artemis Fowl. The second."
Endor blinked. "You're Fowl's brat?"
Finally, Artemis shook Endor's hand, nodding. "You're one of his colleagues, I presume."
Endor quickly withdrew his hand, reacting as if scalded. Artemis barely had time to note that the man's hand was usually chill to the touch — clammy, too.
Endor proceeded as if nothing strange had occurred, shoving his hands in his pockets nonchalantly. "So, junior," he continued. "Your dad brings you along on meetings now?"
"Er..." Artemis hesitated. "Yes?"
Technically, it wasn't a lie. Just because it was his first time tagging along didn't matter that much in the end.
"Interesting," Endor grinned mirthlessly.
Silence fell over the two of them.
"Thank you for the painkillers," Endor remarked, reaching into his own jacket pocket. Artemis tensed, shooting a glance at the door. Butler might've been ordered to stay at home and tend to his mother, but the Major was within shouting distance.
Artemis' fears eased slightly when instead of producing a weapon, Endor simply presented him with a thin, well-worn book. Endor shook it slightly, gesturing for Artemis to take it.
"Take it as a token of my thanks."
Politely, Artemis took the text from the man, setting it down next to him on the chair. "Thank you, sir."
"The meeting won't be over for at least another couple of hours. No pressure to enjoy it, just thought you might want something to do other than count the number of tiles in the hall," Endor said, shrugging.
Unsure if he should thank him again or if it was better to move on, Artemis opted for staying silent, choosing to instead examine the book. It couldn't have been more than a few hundred pages, and it was bound in black, India ink-stained paper. Opening it gently, he examined the pages, scanning the smudged text.
A creak sounded to his right, and Artemis flinched, looking back up just in time to see the door to his right close.
Dmitry was nowhere to be seen.
Frowning slightly, Artemis shifted in his seat.
Minutes ticked by, and the door remained closed.
Cautiously, Artemis reopened the book, beginning to read. All the while, he kept his ears trained, ready for when the door creaked open. Eventually, his anxiety ebbed, and he allowed himself to be absorbed in the story, the hours ticking by.
Late into the night when the party had finally slowed to a close, Major and Artemis Fowl Sr. found Artemis leaning against a side of the chair, sleeping peacefully. Neither man thought anything unusual of the book lying closed by his side.
The thrum of people parted around them as Major carefully picked up the Fowl heir. The young boy stirred briefly, but he fell back into a deep slumber after a moment. Artemis Fowl Sr. pocketed the book that had fallen off the chair, pocketing it so as to bring it with them to the hotel.
Moving slowly, the trio made their way out towards the car, the approaching dawn casting a soft light over the car park.
Unbeknownst to his father and the Major, Artemis' dreams swam with vivid, technicolor images. In the strange hypnogogic state he occupied between sleep and lucidness, he was bombarded by flashes of emotion and form, each new thought passing smoothly through his mind before he could grasp at it to make sense of things. Although on some level he was dimly aware of the feeling of being set down on the leather upholstery of the backseat, he was caught up in a dream-state that felt like a dark, cold body of water where up and down were constantly being confused with one another.
Shifting briefly, Artemis' brow furrowed. Sleepily, Artemis Sr. carded his fingers through his son's hair.
The artificial red and white lights of the cars peeling out of the car park streamed through the tinted windows, giving the night an otherworldly feel.
In the back of the car, Artemis dreamed.
AN:
OOF okay so! notes/references:
Each chapter is going to open with an epigraph — a short quotation that's meant to speak to the chapter of book it introduces.
In chapter one, I chose, "In nova fert animus mutatas dicere formas / corpora" which is Latin for "[my] mind moves [me] to tell [of] forms changed into new bodies". It is from Ovid's 'Metamorpheses", a Latin narrative poem that chronicals the events of history from the creation of the world to the deification of Julius Ceaser in a semi-mythological/historical narrative. As you can probably guess from the title, many of the stories contained within the narrative have to do with how the violence of the gods and mankind can lead to both good and bad people being warped, both literally (magical transformation, such as how the goddess Diana changes a hunter into a stag as a punishment) and figuratively (how the hunter in that story has gone from being a hunter to the hunted). It's a terribly bleak story that happens to contain most of the examples of Roman mythology that pop culture draws from today. Also, I think some Latin AP courses have you do a capstone project where you translate it from Latin into English? Essentially, the quote was chosen for the epigraph as a way of introducing that this story is going to be canon-divergent (taking the text and morphing it to a new and unfamiliar form), but it also speaks to some of the themes surrounding transformation and change (magical and figurative) that i'm gonna deal with here!
"Lavish Are the Dead" is a short story that is a really cool synthesis of french existentialist styles and the author's own creative touches, and it was chosen as a book to be referenced within the text because of the work's philosophy on the way the past can haunt the present, how letting the dead speak for themselves is necessary to fully respect the past, etc. Following in the tradition of French existentialism, it's easy to lose the thread of the themes in the wake of the morbid, descriptive horrors of the text (Butler's comment about the sickly dog from Camus' book 'The Stranger' is the only thing my mum remembers about the book, lol). This work is 100% not gonna be a horror piece bc 1) I do not know how to write the genre and 2) frankly I don't think i'd do a horror piece for af even if i could because it's not appropriate for the series, IMO, but this reference is in service of establishing that Artemis can sometimes glance over real world concerns (e.x. that Butler is concerned the book's subject matter is too macabre for like, a literal 7 year old) due to how he gets caught up in his intellectualization of the content (e.x. the themes, the beauty of the writing style).
Finally the most overt reference is the title! It's from Macbeth — right when Macbeth goes to meet the witches at the beginning of the play to find out his future, the witches announce his arrival by saying, "by the pricking of my thumbs/something wicked this way comes" i.e. that Macbeth holds some fantastical and terrible things in his future.
OH actually nevermind there's one more: Dmitry Endor - Dmitry= "devoted/dedicated to Demeter" and Endor = in the Old Testament, the Witch of Endor is a woman that a king consulted to summon the spirit of the dead prophet Samuel. It's meant to be a bit *too* fitting, implying that he perhaps chose it himself, trying a new name on as he acclimates to a new era.
That's p much all! Next chapter is going to be a time jump going into artemis' emerging abilities, his tutelage w/ Endor, and the tie between humans/mages/the People.