D E S C E N T
- Dim Aldebaran -
Chapter Two
I have been ready at your hand
to grant whatever thou woulds't crave;
I have waged both life and land,
your love and goodwill to have.
"Greensleeves"
Loreena McKennitt
:i:
Holly still had that Baja-blue blouse on as she rushed over the sidewalks, head held low to reduce the number of encounters with tabloid writers—she was well enough acquainted with the Lower Elements Express as it was. More importantly, however, was the question of Root: if he saw her looking remotely feminine, she might lose what respect he had for her.
His respect was all that kept her going at times.
So she went to her apartment first.
Problem: she had lost her keys.
"D'Arvit!" she swore, not so much under her breath as without it. In a society where everyone opted for digital passwords, keys, a Mud Man device, were a strange and inconvenient thing. However, the fact that no one in Haven knew how to pick locks, and that Mulch was safely locked away, was rather convenient to her. She had a horrible memory for passwords anyway.
She went through her pockets, methodically this time. There was her debit card and a bit of polyester lint in one, and her comm piece in the other, muted so she didn't have to listen to Root any more than she had to.
She swore again, louder. This time, someone answered: "Try just opening it."
A mother clapped her hands over her child's pointed ears in a neighboring flat. "D'Arvit Foaly!"
A snicker—or rather a whicker—came from the other side, muffled in only the slightest due to the thin walls. "No need to swear," Foaly replied. There was a crinkling noise, as if he were adjusting his tinfoil hat. "I unlocked it for you. You should be grateful."
"How in Frond's name did you get in there?" she demanded, flattening her face against the door. She was getting later by the second. Her paycheck had a certain inverse relationship to Root's blood pressure. Really. Foaly had calculated it once.
Holly fiddled more furiously with her pockets, muttering under her breath. Foaly rattled on: "Holly, I love what you've done with the place. How long have you been living here? Thirty, forty years? Very cozy, if a bit sparse. Not a bottle of Irish whiskey in the place, unlike Julius'… And speaking of the Irish…"
Holly looked down at her blouse. The beaded hem jingled at her, sapphires and aquamarines glinting with artificial beauty.
"You have five seconds to get out of the main room," she snapped.
"I'll be in your bedroom. Tell me when it's safe"
"D'Arvit, NO!" Holly threw herself at the door, crumpling a bit when it stayed in one piece. Don't let him see the skirt, don't let him see the skirt,
"My my Holly, does this really fit on you?" drifted his voice.
"FOALY!" She slammed herself into the door again, just for good measure.
"Try the knob."
She stared at it for a moment, what little she had heaving. Then she turned the knob.
The 'cozy' room was untouched. The only sound was Foaly's innocent whistling from her room. He stepped out, his tin foil hat a strange mockery of a halo. From his hands dangled the Skirt.
Back when Holly had girlfriends—say, sixty years ago—they would go shopping. She was not a complete fool for it, but it was fun enough. She remained in the background, critiquing every outfit with a sharp tongue. Her friends always looked so stupid in Mud Maidesque clothing.
But… some things rubbed off. Holly had had a thing for green back then, you see, and when this flighty little number went on sale…
She never told her friends about the Skirt, retaining her practical, antifeminine reputation. They drifted apart once she joined the LEP Academy. She blamed them for it, for getting married to perfect stud elves and having perfect little elflings and perfect little houses. She managed to rationalize her choices, most of the time; but all of us have our little secrets, our little yearnings which go so against the masks we wear. This was Holly's. She was a female, just like everyone else.
Whenever she saw the Skirt, a small, secret pang pierced to her heart, thinking about the perfect little life she could have had, one without death flying at her at Mach 2 on a daily basis. She kept it deep in her closet, but every decade or so she would take it out and give it a twirl.
Foaly grinned and shook the Skirt so its multilayered pleats fluttered like emerald parrots in a cage. "Really, Ho—"
"Please don't tell Root."
Foaly's face was surprised, and rightly so: he had never heard pleading in Holly's voice before.
Holly took his silence as uncertainty, and she met his eyes. "Foaly, please…"
His face gentled somewhat. 'Gentle' looked very awkward on an equine face. "I won't. But, anyways, speaking of the Emerald—"
"I don't have time," Holly stated. The weariness in her voice surprised him more yet; he had to see this new development. "Root called me down to the Plaza."
"Funny, Root sent me here to talk to you."
Holly dropped the jumpsuit she had been carrying to the bathroom. "Oh."
"Really, Holly, the issue deserves more than that!"
Suddenly, she snatched the Skirt from Foaly and hung it briskly in her closet. "And the issue is…?" she asked tersely.
"I'll give you three guesses."
"Foaly!"
He whickered. "I'll give you a hint: it's important enough that Julius doesn't want it on the record."
She thought about it. She really did. 'It' being her hands wringing Foaly's neck.
When he saw the look on her face, he backed up and nearly tripped over her unmade bed. "Well, I kept hinting at it."
She slumped in on herself. "How long do we have?"
He grinned again. "The med records show I'm out with a case of food poisoning. My complaint is speeding its way to the Cop Café as we speak."
She couldn't hold back a laugh; it felt good. Cop Café was the free buffet for LEP officers, with notoriously bad food. Foaly, evidently, desired some change. "Come on. Let's have a drink."
"Have any vodka?" Foaly joked, following her from the bedroom. He squatted on a beige seat-all, a lovely set of curves which could accommodate any fairy in the Lower Elements.
Holly scurried to the fridge unit and made herself busy. "How did he stop the mindwipe?" she asked, looking for thyme.
He shrugged. "No idea, but don't tell me it surprises you." He didn't need an answer, continuing regardless: "I don't know if he actually knows, now. It's more of a gut instinct. But Juliet put the Eyes out."
"How?" Holly demanded, throwing ingredients into the blender, which was built into the fridge unit. "You said—"
"She broke it dusting."
Holly guffawed, then broke into open laughter. "Dusting?"
Foaly nodded forlornly. "Some of the particles must have worked its way into the electronics. I kept the feed going until she reached Artemis' room—to report to him, I believe—and then it shorted out completely."
Holly raised an eyebrow, adding a garnish of basil before passing the Italian herb freeze to the centaur. "Sounds like an accident to me. Dusting? Not Artemis' style, to be frank."
Foaly grinned and steepled his fingers. "But we don't underestimate Fowl anymore, do we? Or did you—like being in his dungeon?"
Holly threw him daggers. "Low blow. Shall I return?"
His feigned innocence gave her an acceptable 'no.' "A Butler comes through the door. She looks resigned. She dusts. She knocks the vase over—a trained bodyguard and maid, mind you. She makes a beeline for the fragment with the Eyes, takes it, and goes to Artemis and father-dear. They leave after a few minutes. She goes to his room, sets it down, and the dust finally shorts it out. Artemis clearly expected the dust to short it out sooner so we'd think it was an accident."
"Wasn't there sound?"
Foaly squirmed in the seat-all. He had been a bit rushed in designing them. "The Eyes don't have sound. Small size, perfect transmission, no sound. It's in high definition too; latest fad in the Mud Man world right now."
Silence for a time. The herbs were a bit old, but there was nothing fairies liked better than green smoothies. Life felt best when it slipped down the throat, intense and rejuvenating in a way only fresh herbs could be.
"Is this off the record?" she asked eventually, sipping her drink.
He tipped his head. "Between friends."
"He should have kept his mouth shut."
Foaly looked at her, and smiled one of his rare smiles that weren't drop-dead ugly. "Funny. That's what Julius said too."
:i:
Dom laid down on his bed, arms limp at his sides. Had he been fifty years younger, the label 'teenage angst' would have been slapped on him.
The ceiling cracks were hardly fascinating. Dom was not a particularly imaginative man. They looked like Angeline's future job for him. She would complain to him, he would have to deal with the 'problem.' He saw nothing wrong with cracks in ceilings. No one looked up at the ceiling unless they were in a mood.
The 'mood' could be one of several things. Boredom; rarely a problem in Fowl Manor. Grounded; that state of being was only a problem with Juliet (Artemis was not 'grounded.' He was 'detained.') Sleeping; common enough, but not with one's eyes open. Moping; Butler's current state of being.
Of course, he wouldn't call it moping. 'Moping' implied that there was a specific wrong against him, and that he wanted everyone to know: only Juliet 'moped'. 'Melancholy' was too sophisticated for him, giving a certain romance to the whole situation, which it certainly didn't have for him. 'Depressed' made it a condition, something pills and a shrink would cure, neither of which he would do. 'Sad' made it sound simplistic, uncomplicated. 'Unhappy' had the least implications.
Butler was 'unhappy,' because he was not happy. Very simple. No fuss in defining it. Why was he unhappy? Because he was getting old. Why was he getting old? Because he saved his Principle's life. Why did he save his Principle's life? Because that was his sworn duty.
See? Not a very complicated emotion at all.
Funny how our minds work. Always whirling for 'what-if's, those fairy-tale happy endings. When the consequences of our actions please us not, we take one of two reactions: we rationalize, or we wish. We never accept. Accepting consequences is alien to our minds; we only speak of accepting.
Butler did not rationalize.
It didn't keep him from hating himself
Butler would never again leap in front of the bullet, but somehow, somewhere, he wanted to. Even if he didn't know it.
He was sadly lacking in these memories: did he remember the spin-kicks he gave the men by the whaler, did he remember holding Artemis as he cried for his father? Of course not. Foaly knew what he was doing when he wiped their memories. Butler couldn't even dream of diving into a magma chute that could hold Hawaii and dwarf its heat.
Artemis could.
:i:
"Dom!" Juliet cried, skidding into his room some time later. He had pulled himself from the bunk, now occupied with polishing his rifle. "Dom….!"
He looked at her. Juliet wasn't supposed to call her that when the Fowls could overhear. "Yes?" The handheld gleamed like quicksilver, polished well beyond all aesthetic standards.
"There's something wrong with Artemis."
He stared for a moment, then tucked the handheld into its holster. It couldn't be life-threatening if Juliet hadn't bothered to use the comm system. "What?"
"Okay, I went in his room, right?" She closed the door after herself, walking rapidly down the corridor. Dom had no difficulty keeping up with his crippled sister. "I get knocked out, I wake up in Artemis' goddamn bed, and there he is, pacing the floor. I ask him what's wrong, and he doesn't answer me, damnit, it's like I'm not even fucking there." She circled her right wrist with her left digits as she talked; most of her wrist bones had been reconstructed, splinter by splinter. They ached with agitation.
Dom eased a bit. "Nothing's wrong," he said. Juliet stared at him in disbelief, so he continued: "He's mad at you for coming into his room; he's giving you the silent treatment."
"No, Dom, listen, that's not it—"
"He's my Principle, I know how he reacts—"
"I was fucking raised with him, this isn't the silent treatment—"
"Juliet, it's alright—"
"NO IT'S GODDAMN NOT!" she screamed at him. Her fists were clenched at her sides, her chest heaved. "Something's wrong with him, and you won't even look!"
Butler clasped her shoulders. It seemed strange that such a delicate thing could be the sister of such a giant. "I'll look."
He gave her a long look from the corner of his eyes as they continued down the hallway. Usually it took more to get her all riled up. He pondered a tête-à-tête as they ascended the grand staircase, but decided against it. She was growing up. She needed to learn to deal with her emotions herself. And besides, she needed to learn to gauge a Principle better, since she would be a Butler now that she had given up on that wrestling nonsense—
They reached the third floor, both panting slightly from the multiple flights of stairs. Neither had ever really recovered from their respective injuries. Artemis' door, sweetly simplistic after the gaudiness of the Manor in general, rose before them. It seemed strange how such a plain thing could be so intimidating. Even Butler did not take entering Artemis' private space lightly: since his father had returned, Artemis had been withdrawing increasingly into himself. Butler had once slept on the other side of the wall; now, he slept on the other side of the Manor.
He knocked, once, twice, thrice, to the rhythm of Artemis' favorite Vivaldi concerto. It was something of a joke between them; back when Artemis had been 'Arty' to all, he would spend hours with his Principle, listening to him jabber on in the toddler tongue about Bach and Schubert. Later, as a headstrong eight-year old, he had demanded privacy. The secret knock was installed in response.
He hadn't used it years. Some seconds later, an answer, the cello and string continuo dark and lucid from Artemis' computer. Even a classical ignoramus could find beauty in Yo-Yo Ma's powerful playing; especially in that darkest of keys, G minor.
Butler gave his sister a look. "See?"
She shook her head. Her eyes were red, as if she were about to cry; with the mascara smeared, they looked deep-set and wearied. "No, Dom—"
Artemis opened the door, gesturing for them to enter. The hard lines and neutral colors should have been no more welcoming than before—yet the drapes had been cast aside, though; the gold afternoon light of Ireland made the place warm and near home-like. Even the piano seemed balmy: the dust glinted like fool's gold strewn over black silk, and a quixotic shadow was cast over the ivory keys.
Artemis stood there. He rarely looked happy nowadays; yet he had his characteristic half-smile, mysterious and vaguely feline. Gone was the strange-glazed eye look, the muttering lips. He almost seemed… normal. For Artemis Fowl, granted, but… still...
"Yes?" he asked, voice lukewarm.
Dom looked at Juliet. Juliet didn't look at Dom. Her eyes were out-of-focus, aimed at Artemis' head yet not quite shooting daggers.
"Nothing," Butler said at last. "Juliet was worried about you, so I brought her up here to show everything was fine—"
Juliet's eyes snapped into focus again, glaring at her brother, and did something no one else ever had before or ever would again do:
She slapped him.
It was awkward, at best. She had to stretch to reach the bottom half of his cheek, and her toes were poised in such a way any Prima Donna would be proud. No red mark was left, since at that range nothing could hurt, and the movement was hardly sudden. Simply… unexpected.
But it's the thought that counts, right? Slapping a brother who never understood, slapping a brother who couldn't even give a damn about what she wanted, slapping a brother who tried to mold her after his own image.
After that strange silence unique to outbursts, she turned and fled down the hallway.
Slapping a brother who had cared for her since their parents had died fifteen years ago.
Butler turned to Artemis. They shared an unspoken thought, PMS, and went their separate ways.
:i:
Foaly had dealt with everything. She really ought to thank him sometime.
On the other hand, he was the one who had messed up the mindwipe somehow.
The Council hadn't known about the 'Eye on Arty', as Foaly had christened it. Root wanted to keep it that way; her excuse for heading up was investigating illegal nonconsensual exchange of terrestrial artifacts: in layman's words, seeing if the goblins had been buying gameboys off of suburban boys again. Foaly would edit video feed from a similar recon to put into the official file.
She had only the best to handle the best. Opal's patent on the DoubleDex had been revoked; Foaly's latest wing system had the best of both designs (though he had sniffed at the idea of copying Koboi.) The suit had just been serviced; it felt like silk as she slipped it on. As a rule, LEP suits never felt comfortable. She liked seeing that rule broken. Her Neutrino was a prototype tailored especially for dealing with Mud Men, including new settings for 'child' and 'adult'—she set it to the latter. Artemis was, after all, an adult by LEP standards. Or maybe she just wanted to see him fry a bit. He wouldn't mind. They were friends, after all.
She chuckled humorlessly. As if she could be friends with a mind that didn't exist anymore.
No, just suppressed, her mind whispered traitorously back.
"Foaly?" she asked the headpiece, desperate for some ambience.
"Yeah?" He had been experimenting with Mud Man slang lately. He could say 'you' in Polish and follow it with fifty-three possible translations of 'D'Arvit', each in a distinct dialect of the Chinese language family.
I must be desperate, she thought grimly, and asked, "How do I know Koboi isn't controlling my Neutrino from her coma?"
He exploded first in Middle English, digressed to Old, then hopped a language tree over to en Français and Español. The ambience of his rant was enough to drown out her thoughts as the green hills of Ireland rolled beneath her, streaked with blood in the premature sunset.
:i:
This is the second version of this chapter. Nothing major was cut; typos and phrasings were cleaned out a bit, and a few orphan paragraphs were murdered due to their reiteration in later chappies.
Something quick: other Greensleeves fans will note the odd lyrics. Many lyrics were made to that lovely melody over the ages, including the particular rendition (written by some English king—I forget who) that McKennitt sings which I have used.
Thanks for reading yet another chapter! Constructive criticism is a godsend, and will be taken into account in the next revision.