I N F E R N O

- Dim Aldebaran -

Chapter One

:i:

He had had toast and marmalade for breakfast every morning since he was three, and Darjeeling since he was four. The only variety was the type of marmalade; he had preferred orange as a child, but now it was too bitter for him. Apple was an eccentric delicacy: but cranberry, perhaps, was his favorite at the present, even if he had to special order it from Maine. The tartness contrasted beautifully with life in general.

The bittersweet lingered in his mouth long after he downed the last of the tea. He briefly considered calling Juliet up to take care of the mess, but decided to do it himself. She was probably still asleep, and awakening Sleeping Beauty was a task best left to Butler this early in the morn.

Recently, he had been getting his own toast in the morning. Dom, though still an early riser, was aging. Aging gracefully, perhaps, but still aging. For something as petty as toast, Artemis felt he could brave the kitchens himself.

The dishwasher, however, was another case entirely. The dishwasher was not as genius-friendly as the toaster.

He smiled a bit to himself. To think Artemis Fowl might do the dishes! Oh, the horror…

He took the trip down to the kitchens and set them in the sink, gently, as to not disturb houseguests several rooms over. On his way back up to his room, he paused on the grand staircase—stained glass windows shattered the dawn and made it its own, then abandoning it to its fate on the floor of Fowl Manor. There it lay, draped in weariness, bleeding from every fracture, every line.

It was a beautiful sight.

He ought to paint the scene; it would make an excellent birthday gift for Mother.

A smile tugged at his lips, bringing them into an easy crescent. A pity he was already painting something.

He watched the blood of the dawn seep into the floors for a time, then continued up the stairs, absently humming Happy Birthday under his breath.

:i:

Butler came up at ten or so to announce the formal Fowl breakfast. He had every intention of bringing his Principle down to eat as soon as possible; there was a small party waiting for him downstairs, including several friends of the family.

These intentions faded when he stopped at the door. He could hear Mendelssohn drifting from the room like the scent of vanilla, warm and golden.

Artemis' habits were well known to him—he half-raised the boy, for Christ's sake. The young savant held that music was best live, especially something as rich and complex as classical. He only stooped to recordings when his own hands were full—in this case, with a paint brush.

He smiled to himself. Still not done? Artemis must be taking his time. "Breakfast, sir."

The door opened. Artemis' face, now lean and angular, beamed in that subtle, near-invisible way. "I thought I told you not to call me that anymore, Dom."

Butler followed Artemis' gesture into the room. It was a warm, sunny thing now—it faced south so sun streamed from the large windows at all times of the day and the moon at night, and had an impressive view of the lush grounds. A large grand piano occupied the left of the room, and his bed, little more than a cot, seemed little more than an afterthought on the right. Mendelssohn's Songs Without Words rippled from his desk, next to his bed. In the center, the current focus of the room, was a large easel.

Artemis caught his glance and smiled that quicksilver smile of his, barely even there. "Not quite done yet. I can't seem to manage the expression." He walked over to the easel, picking up his oil palette. His brow creased.

Artemis had 'recovered' hundreds of paintings over the past few years, but he refused to have them just in passing on their way to the Louvre. His forgeries were near-perfect. His father's houseguests, many art connoisseurs, had never noticed the difference before.

His current project seemed to be giving him difficulty. When he had heard of this lost treasure, he made it a priority; they had it out of the Alberta mansion easily enough. Though normally Artemis had little love for Neoclassicists, Fragonard's light, flitting moments, reminiscent of Impressionism, were done with a startling realism that cameras could never quite capture.

The painting had already captured Artemis' heart. He called it Girl in Solitude; it showed a young woman leaning over a balcony, black hair tempted by the wind, as her eyes looked out, out of the picture, into a world she could only regard with envy. The melancholy of the piece, unlike the sheer giddiness of other Fragonards, struck him as very true.

Artemis was gazing into the eyes he had created, mouth puckered slightly. He looked almost boyish, a child pondering a missing piece to a puzzle.

"You can keep it," Butler said suddenly.

Artemis turned with an almost wistful expression on his face. "No, I couldn't."

"The world will survive without her," Butler commented, gazing at the girl. The tangled briars circling her reminded him of Juliet's unkempt rose garden; she had not cared for it since beginning her wrestling career.

"So will I. It belongs in the Louvre. We're sending it today."

His face gentled, and he took Artemis by the shoulder. "You want it. Consider it a birthday present to yourself."

Artemis stared at the painting. The girl stared back, blue eyes oddly accusing.

With a tight smile he turned to Butler. "I expect there's a party downstairs?"

Butler nodded.

"Then by all means, let us go." He moved towards the door.

"Artemis?"

He stopped and looked back.

"Don't forget it's your birthday."

The smile was genuine this time; small, but genuine. "I won't," he said quietly, and left.

Butler waited until he could no longer hear the footsteps.

The experts at the Louvre wouldn't be able to tell the difference.

Artemis wouldn't look at it again until he knew it was in the Louvre, away from temptation.

Artemis would never guess that Butler would be capable of such a thing.

He smiled to himself, closing the door when the deed was done. Happy Birthday, Artemis.

:i:

When Mother announced a trip to Paris to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, Artemis found himself marveling at how things turned out. The painting would in all likelihood be displayed in two week's time, coinciding exactly on the date planned. If he didn't know better, he would say she knew of his recent exploit.

Father had gotten him a leather-bound journal, remembering his childhood habit of keeping a diary. Artemis had converted to encrypted computer entries by the age of nine, but he accepted the gift with a smile anyway.

Mother, other than the trip to Paris, had somehow managed to find a first edition So Spoke Zarathustra. Artemis promised he would read the original German text on the flight to Paris. She had scoffed at the idea of learning German in two weeks, but he easily proved her wrong.

Juliet, not present, had told them beforehand to watch her wrestling match that day. When they crowded into the media room, Artemis' eyebrows nearly hit the ceiling when she warbled out Happy Birthday to Arty! before her match. Her exuberant fans sang along. By the time it was over, Artemis was blushing so badly he excused himself, much to his parent's laughter.

Butler had had a sword custom-made, with 'Artemis Fowl' running down the blade in Gnommish. In the hilt he had had the likeness of Holly engraved—his parents thought it odd when he chuckled at the gift. Artemis leaned it against a wall in his room, promising to put it on display later.

Holly sent him a large box of lollipops—You've been a good boy for five long years, the card said. I'm starting to get bored.

Mulch gave him a large chocolate coin with a hole in the middle. Artemis set it next to Holly's coin on his vanity, wondering what Holly had done when she learned of the Dwarf's gift, what she thought of that wry echo.

Foaly sent him Fairy versus Mud Men Artwork, a large book detailing why the fairies thought their artistic tastes were better. Artemis snorted at the thought that anyone could top Botticelli, but resolved to hide his affairs from the centaur better.

Opal, out of Howler's Peak no less, sent him a long letter detailing everything she'd do to him once she escaped. He stopped reading at the third page; even genii can get bored with repetition.

:i:

They were there as Girl in Solitude was unveiled. Artemis found it difficult to enjoy the painting as he had in the solitude of Fowl Manor—no pun intended. In retrospect, he found his forgery more attractive; everything seemed so… hollow, so emotionless. He put it off to the bustling crowd, all trying to get a closer view of the latest Fragonard masterpiece. Perhaps his… infatuation with the painting was finally ending.

Butler saw the look on his face. "What is it?"

His face puckered. "It… doesn't look the same." The girl's eyes suddenly seemed flat, hardly the evocative things that had snared him so quickly.

Butler stared intently at the painting for several moments, then shrugged as only giants can. "I see no difference, sir."

Artemis sighed slightly. "Come. Let us go to the Renaissance section." That was where most of his… additions belonged. He felt a strange attachment to them now that they had been guests in Fowl Manor, almost maternal in his protective instincts.

Butler turned to leave, but Artemis hesitated, staring at the painting a few moments more. "I thi—"

The bodyguard pushed him aside as a girl tripped headlong into them. After scanning for threats, Butler held out his hand to the girl—only to see Artemis already had. He smiled as the girl took it.

"Merci," the girl said, slipping her hand out of Artemis'. She wore a pale orange burqa. Artemis noted the accent—she was not French, and most certainly not an Islamic immigrant to the country. American, in all likelihood.

Nor did she have the conservative Islamic attitude her burqa suggested—though he could not see her eyes, he knew she was staring through the veil.

But then she ducked her head down, and left, fading into the crowd.

Artemis found herself staring after her. The girl had obviously tried to trip on him; patting down his pockets, he found nothing missing. The same for Butler. If a pickpocket, a failed one.

He ran over her physical characteristics again. He couldn't make out the eye color through the burqa, but her hands were that pale, blotchy red color that medium-toned skin gets without sunlight, and had seemed quite soft to him, either well-moisturized or never worked.

Butler had seen the irregularities as well; he took Artemis aside and asked permission to contact the Louvre security. Even without knowledge of Artemis'… donations, the Fowls were known benefactors of the French art museum.

"She's probably just a pickpocket," Artemis assured him. "No harm done."

Butler dropped the issue; Artemis promptly forgot it.

:i:

The thievery of Girl in Solitude made headlines worldwide; not because it was particularly good, nor because its painter was a household name, but because something had been stolen from the Louvre, of all places—it could have very well been the Mona Lisa, the news anchors all gibbered.

Father prompted the issue at breakfast at a Parisian cafe: "Girl in Solitude's been stolen." He sipped at his Earl Grey. "Amazing, only there for a day!"

Artemis hadn't downloaded the news onto his laptop yet; hearing this, he nearly spilled his tea on a passing waitress. "Désolée, mademoiselle," he murmured, looking up at the waitress. She acknowledged this with a giggle—Artemis found girls doing that with annoying regularity lately.

Mother laughed gently, but Artemis was in no mood: "The Fragonard?" he demanded. "Are you certain?"

Father looked puzzled—"Yes, why?"

His parents were both staring at him; Butler, next to him, gave him a careful nudge. "I rather liked that painting," Artemis replied glibly. "It's tragic someone had the mind to steal it."

Mother nodded. "Yes, well, at least it wasn't that one armless statue, of that woman—what is that called again, Arty?"

"Venus de Milo," Artemis said absently, thoughts elsewhere, in that land of possibilities only savants could visit—

"Yes, well, at least that wasn't stolen… I always liked that sculpture, very pretty—Arty, where are you going?"

Artemis had gotten up. "Back to the hotel room," he said. "I—I'm not feeling well."

Butler stood to follow. Artemis hadn't looked that… upset in years. Not since his last dealings with the fairies.

"No," he said sharply. He looked vaguely startled for a moment, then… apologetic, but then he turned to leave.

As he left, he could hear Mother's voice drifting through the Parisian café—"Timmy, do you think it's the food…?"

He didn't care.

Someone had stolen his painting.

He wanted it back.

:i:

I just went through and fixed a few typos people pointed out; thank you sooo much for the CC! Seriously, if anyone has any constructive criticism, that would be wonderful.

Thanks for reading! Again, CC is much appreciated. I have no beta for this, and I don't want to overbear poor Lily, who does Descent and all my oneshots. So.

CC!