Disclaimer: If I owned AF, why would I be stressing over college admin? Hmm?

Author's Note: Thanks for all your support, guys. I'm still crazy busy but I'm going to give it a genuine attempt to finish this fanfic. I basically realized that though I'm at a personal low as far as reviews go (even a silly little oneshot like Conversation with Death somehow managed almost 20), that was never my goal in fanfiction. When I started fanfiction, I really couldn't care less if anyone read my writing (I've always been really insecure about my works anyway)-- I just wanted to become a better writer. And writing is something I've rarely had time to do but fanfics pressured me to keep writing, even when everything was going wrong.

Also, I'm getting really excited about this AF novella I'm working on (slash!). It's almost half done...okay, maybe not quite, but still. I absolutely love the idea and hopefully it'll make its debut sometime in the fall.

So here goes:

Chapter 3: Life and Death

Strangely enough, the tune of a wedding march is stunningly similar to that of a funeral dirge, though the two occasions sit upon opposite ends of the spectrum. But yet it is strikingly appropriate that while a wedding burst into life far underground, mourners paid their last respects to the dead in the land of mud.

But in this case, not many could possibly have good words to say about the deceased in question: a man by the name of Frederik Rasmussen, and even his son knew it. In fact, Robert Rasmussen had sat himself in the back of the congregation, hoping not to attract too much attention and secretly imagining that the supposed mourners were simply saying "good riddance" and hoping for a slice of his father's fortune in his will. After all, what was there to miss about an old fat cat of the oil industry who'd spend his life polluting the now-teetering earth and descended into lunacy himself by the end of it?

Yes, it was a rather sad way to pass on, the younger Rasmussen reflected dispassionately. But he could not quite paint himself sad though the local television cameras might expect, for his father's death at nearly eighty years of age had only been expected, after descending into total madness, courtesy of Alzheimer's. Pity that the ailing businessman himself had once been part of the conservatives decrying the stem cell technology that could've saved his life.

He had now passed on to a better place, Rasmussen told himself. That is, if blaming gays for all the faults of society counted as doing God's work.

Nevertheless, for all his father's own personal failings, Robert's eyes were already set to continue his father's work— not this blasted oil business which was headed straight to hell, of course, but something else, something far more peculiar.

In the last years of his life, as he descended towards madness, Frederik had revealed to his only son something he'd never dare speak of. Of the reason that his eyes lit up in anticipation each time another drill was started, why he had devoted his life to depleting the earth, despite what the environmentalists might say:

Decades ago, when he was a young boy, his family, had lived in central London, seeking respite from the world war that gripped most of Europe. But yet, it seemed the bombs followed him even across the channel and it wasn't long before he too became a casualty of the blitz, the German bombing on English soil in the summer of 1940, another statistic had fate not taken control of his destiny then. As he lay there on hard pavement, seeping blood, a young girl seemed to appear from thin air. Robert recalled how his father voice had broke, hoarse from the memory, as he described her: not even quite two feet tall, with the long auburn curls, and the largest hazel eyes glittering with…could it be, tears? Stranger yet, he'd barely registered her pointed ears, half hidden beneath her locks, and the mechanical wings she sported. There was something inescapably magical about her, especially as she lowered her hands to his wound; with a jet of blue sparks, miraculously, the festering, blood-soaked skin wove and healed itself right before his eyes.

For years afterwards, he could not fathom the meaning of what he had witnessed that fateful day. His mother, a devout Catholic, had merely attributed the incident to a miracle and thanked the holy virgin. But Frederik knew that it was much more.

He'd believed the girl to be a fairy.

They must be hidden around us, Robert, his father had said, grasping his son's hand as if it were his only lifeline in tumultuous waters. There was one who saved my life; there must be more. And they can fly, but they haven't real wings— merely metal contraptions. And if they are hidden, Robert, where do you suppose they are? Where is a place yet untapped by humans?

Underground. Deep underground; that was the answer and the reason for his father's unrelenting fascination with drilling. The money did not interest him and no amount celebrity was payment enough for his efforts. No, what Frederik Rasmussen had wasted away his whole life for was to capture the power that these unfathomable creatures surely had at their disposal and that had saved his life as a boy. Magic! It was the stuff of daydreams, surely unthinkable in the real world. But yet…what if?

And his unquenchable curiosity had been passed onto his son. Even as his father slipped towards the precipice of death, Robert had not halted in his duties, taking many steps closer towards the culmination of his life's goal. And he had gone further than his father had ever dared and found a way to get the truth from the devil himself. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

But just days before his father had finally slipped away from this world, Robert Rasmussen had discovered another. He had made contact with the fairies.

Shrieking in the rather annoying manner of adolescent females was not generally characteristic of Holly Short. In fact, she especially detested those stereotypical examples of her gender, namely Lili Frond. But at that particular moment, a shriek of surprise would not have been entirely out of place.

"Artemis?" Had she not already been on the ground, she was certain that her jaw would've made the drop. (Admittedly, said drop was a mere three feet…) But there was no mistaking it; the pallid hand that reached out to help her up even flaunted the ring/communicator that she had given him years ago.

If the mere sight of Artemis Fowl underground, in midst of hundreds of fairies, civilians and even Council members among them, not been enough to be strange, the next fact that struck Holly was even more peculiar: he was not human.

No, far from it: the Artemis Fowl that stood before her was barely more than three feet, had pointed ears, and even sported lighter hair than his characteristic raven black locks. He did, however, retain pale complexion and mismatched eyes, one intensely azure and the other a honey-hued hazel flecked with jade. And of course, no one on earth or beneath it could possibly hope to forge his frighteningly vampire-ish smirk.

"Pretty convincing, huh?" Foaly interjected. "I've been waiting for a chance to test out my genetic mutation device. It's still pretty experimental but it's a lot easier than you would think since apparently, I only had to block less than 0.5 percent of his total genes to give him a fairy appearance. The miracles of convergent evolution, eh? And I just dyed the hair so no one would figure out that it was actually him— imagine the outcry that would cause in public. However, there was a slight difficulty in the repeating CGAT sequence in chromosome 5…"

But neither of his friends was listening. Their whispers formed the milieu of the centaur's ostentatious lecture.

"I can't believe you're actually here."

"Trust me, if it means escaping the prison of sand and sea known as the Caribbean, I'd willingly dye my hair any shade of the rainbow."

"How about blue?"

He winced at the very idea. "Am I going to be forced to keep that promise?"

"It'd be nice if you keep at least one sometime."

"I already did."

"Oh, really?"

"I promised we'd see each other again, and viola. If I continue on this road, I might just qualify for sainthood yet."

A slight chuckle. "Not quite, but I suppose you'd be far too boring that way. I never did like the saints."

The dialogue was quite muted after that point for both the interlocutors' lips became occupied with other dealings.

"Oh, come on, guys," Foaly protested. "If I knew you would just spend all day making out, I wouldn't have done this incredibly selfless and compassionate…er, experiment. I was actually looking forward to some stimulating conversation, for a change. Break it up, people, nothing to see here….Hey, it is my wedding day!"

"Of course, of course," Artemis managed to pull himself away, though his eyes never left Holly's. Ah well, Foaly would have to settle for a compromise. "Yes, genetic mutations…isn't that a tad dangerous? After all, to pinpoint the exact genes…"

"I know, that part was incredibly difficult," Foaly took over the explanation, glad to traverse another list of his achievements. "Luckily, this human, Craig Venter did most of the work for me, and combined with the documents of fairy microbiologists, I've got nearly every bit."

"So…is Juliet here as well?" Holly interjected, completely disinterested in the technicalities of microbiology.

"Yes," Foaly answered before continuing his sermon. "It's quite a remarkable job, actually and absolutely revolutionary— the first of its kind. And since I only blocked the genes instead of permanently altering them, the effects will wear off within twenty-four hours. Of course, there's a slight chance of affecting…er, other traits, but…"

"Allow me a wild guess— I may have lost several IQ points?"

"Yeah, basically," Foaly admitted. "But there's only a five percent chance!"

"But there's a five hundred percent chance that you'll get your butt kicked tomorrow morning if you don't scat," Holly threatened cheerfully.

"I'll take those odds," Artemis muttered and thus began yet another extended kiss.

"Oh, for Frond's sake," Foaly muttered and had the sense to back off, albeit with grumblings about the "ingratitude of the young 'uns nowadays". After all, he valued his life; who would be the constant savior of his entire race if he were to miraculously disappear, courtesy of one very temperamental elf?

Scrapes was quite aptly named, perhaps because he had chosen the street name himself. After all, a choir boy name like Sage of all things hardly inspired fear in the hearts of one's enemies and as soon as he decided that there were far better prospects for the average ruffian on the dark side of the law, it was time for a name change. And of course, there was also the matter that he was being searched by the LEP at the time and handing out his identity would've been tantamount to turning himself in.

And scrapes was exactly what he loved to get himself into. It was consequently what his visage was constantly plastered in; so much, in fact, that blue sparks constantly swarmed about his features, causing some of the others to suggest that that perhaps he ought to have called himself Blue-Face. The average thug was not very imaginative.

"Hey, boss-man!" one of his countless lackeys called out from his post in the alley. "City's gone under lockdown."

No, duh, thought Scrapes. As if anyone could possibly fail to notice when the city was entirely closed off to outsiders and absolutely all emissions were eliminated. But being a ringleader wasn't all fun and games; it also required dealing with idiotic excuses for allies. At least they were too stupid to question orders.

"Get me a line to the surface!" Scrapes shouted from his rented place in the slums of Haven, and with his usual affectionate tone. "Pronto, or there'll be hell to pay!"

But today even Scrapes might hesitate at getting into a fight and jeopardizing the extremely profitable deal he'd set up for himself. Imagine, it'd only been mere days ago that he and his gang had ridden an illegal chute up to the surface, to an antiquated fairy fort just below the surface of Texas, too insignificant even for stakeout. They'd gotten some drinks and drugs to boot, all while staring at the full moon— a heaven for an inner city ruffian, but they were interrupted by a human, of all things. But he'd come with a deal in hand, and plenty of gold to trade and that was Scrapes's language, after all. Thusly, he'd come away with quite a stash of bullion and a promise of further contact (and gold), via a pair of secure communicators, courtesy of the oblivious LEP.

As stupid as humans generally were, the mud man had no idea that Scrapes had his own agenda at stake. Yes, he'd help the man infiltrate Haven, telling him everything he knew about the city in the center of the earth and the technology and security it possessed— a goldmine of knowledge, no pun intended. But Scrapes knew a thing or two about the LEP, being an ex-cop himself and he had decided that if he and his gang were going to corner Haven's underground (the underworld of an underworld— how ironic), then a certain pair of allies would have annihilated.

And what better time was there than when his favorite mud man permeated Haven itself?

As ordained by the Book, fairy marriage ceremonies were not speedy affairs. If one wished to be hitched within the hour (and face eternal damnation if the televangelists were to be believed) then one eloped to Atlantis and hit the casinos afterwards. But if one was looking for a traditional service, then one had better be prepared to stand for several hours while the several unbearably elongated and monotonous passages were read from the Book. The price of true love, apparently.

Indeed, it was no surprise that by the second hour, most of the audience members had nodded off and not without a few strident snores, either.

"As the twisted water runs and the ancient oaks grow, the moon shall wane…"

It was a sign of the tediousness of the ceremony that the only soul actually fully alert at the moment was Artemis Fowl, a human, if disguised as a fairy for the time being. He had long since known large sections of the Book by heart, but it was quite interesting to hear a more modern interpretation. But even he was distracted by the gentle plunk of a very pretty head upon his shoulder.

Artemis once again noted how peculiar it was to see Holly in a dress for the first time (and the last, as she'd wryly said), but stranger yet, she was positively ravishing in it, despite her complete lack of femininity— or ability to walk in heels, for that matter. At that particular moment, her curls had tumbled haphazardly out of their ordained place at the nape of her neck and her dormant head fell inadvertently onto his chest. He could smell the distinct aroma of her moisturizer, creamy on her supple skin, and wild-flower-scented shampoo, its scent coating every curl. Briefly, Artemis wondered if he could be considered a pervert for positively enjoying the experience.

"And thus, two souls are united, to form a bond that shall never be broken…"

Trouble leaned back, digging his lanky figure as deep within the cushions as possible, hoping Holly wouldn't notice him gawking at her date. Who was it? For the life of him, he couldn't quite place him…he had sandy hair a bit like her boyfriend in college, the one he'd beat up when he'd got her drunk as some frat party. But his eyes were the strangest blue hue. He had only noticed from a distance but even he could tell that the slim, sharp-featured face was distinctly familiar…

"Through life and death, joy and despair, never shall they be parted…"

Struggling not to let the waves of drowsiness capture her, Vinyaya glanced about the audience, her gaze pausing on each member. There was Commander Kelp, acting as if his tie was choking him, and his friends around him, Vein, Newt, and Grub, whining as always. Near the front was Lope and Cahertez, though she knew full well that he was only there for appearances and would be out of here and straight to the crunchball game this afternoon just as soon as the ceremony was over. And there was Holly sitting in the front row, adjacent to her sister, a tall blonde girl, and some young man with the most striking blue eyes; in fact, her head was lolling quite improperly on his shoulder. It was no small surprise to the Wing Commander that her one and only female Major was dating again, especially as Trouble was still giving the poor guy the evil eye (if looks could kill…). Unless…no, she quickly waved the thought away from her wandering mind: It couldn't possibly be Artemis Fowl, of all people? Could it?

Suddenly remembering the budget proposal that Foaly had recently put forward for the experimental manufacture of his new "genetic manipulation thingies", Vinyaya almost laughed aloud. That was one smart pony, sneaking public enemy number one in on his wedding day and simultaneously managing to get his gung-ho friend in a dress, and stilettos to boot. She certainly wouldn't report them but Holly had better behave herself or there'd be hell to pay if the Council had anything to say about it.

"…in sickness and in health, in sadness and in bliss, in poverty and in wealth…"

Holly blearily raised her head, running a hand through her unkempt hair. Strangely enough, as she listened to the final verse of the ceremony, she almost wished that it could last just a little bit longer. She was realistic enough to know that as with everything with Artemis, this wasn't forever, but she would take whatever she could get. For a moment, she was overcome with the irrational desire to touch him, as if he would dissipate into thin air at any instant. The soft, silky suit jacket beneath her fingers felt like cotton candy clouds, moving through the skies at breakneck pace; they would be gone before long, but somehow, they deceive, pretending that they would always lounge lazily in the azure of the skies.

She closed her eyes and imagined the tender breeze upon her face, wishing that all would halt, just for a moment— that the earth would stop its relentless tilting, that the wind would calm to nothing at all— just so this moment would stretch like molasses, into days and months and years.

"And unless anyone objects to why this couple should not be united—"

The heavy double doors of the hall swung open smoothly, revealing a single darkly-attired figure who intoned with a chuckle, "Well, well, I'd hate to be dramatic but I've got to interrupt this lovely little occasion."

Without warning, other masked people were swinging in from the windows, emergency exits, and one even landed from the chandelier above. Screams filled the hall, panic ensuing, far overtaking any sense of rational thought.

Even within the mass terror, Artemis contemplated that this, whatever it was, was a rather excellent plan; even with possibly a hundred LEP members in attendance, none of them would armed in such an occasion and thus completely defenseless, along with all the other unsuspecting wedding guests.

In the split second that it took him to ponder this, unfamiliar hands snatched at his wrists, binding him with such swift agility that he faced a gun pointed directly at his temple before he could utter a word.

"What are you doing?" Holly shrieked, attempting futilely to hurry in her heels. "What do you want?"

"Now, this wouldn't be the charming Ms. Short, now would it?" Artemis's captor inquired as if he were socializing at a soiree. "You're on our hit list, too, if you must know."

Cursing her stilettos, Holly tried to follow but the attacker was already half way down the aisle, dragging Artemis along with him. But naturally, her reputation as an excellent field officer wasn't for nothing and as she slipped off her shoes, she vaguely noticed how sharp the heels were and that they might actually pass as a weapon. But she had no time to refine this plan and merely chucked the shoe some fifty feet at the assassin, hoping that the years of playing crunchball had perfected her throw.

She needn't have worried, for the shoe hit him squarely in the skull, rendering him unconscious and reducing him to a mere heap on the richly carpeted floor. The sight was almost comical— a hitman taken out by the mere power of ladies' apparel.

"Awesome," Juliet commented as she dragged her own unconscious hit man beneath a row of seats. "I knew heels would come in handy someday."

"Got anything else heavy?" Holly asked as the remaining attackers drew far too close for comfort.

"Just this," Juliet said, motioning to the trademark jade ring at the end of her plait. "I guess it'll have to be hand-to-jewelry combat."

Two unarmed females against the remaining dozen professionals trained to kill without question. It was going to be close.

Author's Note: I'm not really happy with the A/H stuff in this chapter but hopefully my muse will return sometime this week. If everything works out and I don't get wrapped up in sometime else (no promises), there should be another update this friday.

In the meantime, can I get a few reviews? S'il te plait?

Lily