This chapter owes a great deal to Susan Kay's brilliant novel Phantom. it also owes a great deal to Ru-Doragon - hopefully this will make you want to strangle me less - and all my other glorious reviewers, who are still reading this story two years after I published the first chapter. (Where does the bloody time go?)

Disclaimer: Artemis Fowl belongs to Eoin Colfer. Phantom of the Opera belongs, in its various guises, to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and probably a lot of other people who will have to get used to the fact I can't be arsed looking them up.

Chapter Twelve - Well, This Was Unexpected

And so they sang.

Every time he heard her voice he was transported, an altered man. it was as though when her voice was raised with his he could be the man he'd always longed to be. Normal, with a normal house and a normal wife who did not shy away from his face or his hands or his heart. He was entirely too jaded to believe he would be able to walk out amongst the world mask-less, even with Holly at his side. It would be enough to live with her a normal life. Secluded, yes, but together.

If only they could clear up this misunderstanding between them, this persisting belief of hers that she belonged elsewhere, away from him. He wished he could make her understand, but try as he might, he could not find the right way to tell her of what he truly desired. He could not express the deepest emotions of his heart to her in words; Artemis was a verbose fiend by nature, but when it came to Holly he was utterly tongue-tied. He had managed to spit out that he loved her; it was possible that was the first time he had ever uttered those words to a living being, ever.

And didn't that make him feel like an insane old monster.

Artemis was well aware he was, at the most, a few years over forty. He wasn't sure. But he had lived so many terrible moments, packed tight into those brief years, that he felt as though he had walked the earth for centuries and still found no kind words, no comforting arms. He was altogether too weary for this experience with Holly; the exhaustion warred with his heart and his heart won out, although barely.

Holly was an experience all of her own; even if he had been on speaking terms with humanity his whole life, been enfolded in that embrace of hypocrisy, cynicism, and lust - it would not have prepared him one iota for the experience that was Holly. She barely reached his elbow, yet she dominated the conversations they had together; she was the more powerful presence in the room and he, who deferred to no one, found himself backing down to her opinions, her thoughts - hell, her whims. Surely this was not the effect of love alone; Artemis had not known love like this before, the desire to consume and to encompass her within his affections, to make her his own so no one could claim her.

But didn't his senses scream to him that to do so would be a mistake, that caging nightingales removes their desire to sing and rusts their pretty voices? For all he loved her, there was so much he did not know, had thought he did not need to know. Her occupation, her favourite food, her favourite singer and a thousand other trivialities. He had wanted her voice, but her voice was inextricably linked to her soul; he could not have one without the other. He was not sure he wanted to.

Their days continued on together in relative peace. Holly softened towards him for reasons he could not comprehend but he did not care to question it: what mattered is that they were together and happy and she would come to love him as he so desperately needed her to. A week, two weeks - he did not know how long it had been since he had brought her below with him, and if he was honest with himself, he neither needed to or wanted to. Holly was with him and they would remain together, and he clung to this belief with all the power of forty years of suppressed longing and grief.

He walked into her bedroom one morning to find her gone. A brief moment of panic, rage intermingling with despair, before the sound of slightly pained grunts met his ears. He peered around the bed to find her on the ground, performing a series of rapid push-ups that frankly made him feel a little queasy. Physical exercise always made Artemis get a little hazy; the iron strength of his wiry limbs came naturally, but as he aged he noticed an odd tightness in his chest. Really, the only form of exercise he was comfortable with was the Punjab lasso, and he hadn't needed to bring that out for years. One of the perks of having a former bodyguard as his 'conscience' was his continuing safety, yet he was all too aware that if he returned to his former habits of murder and mayhem, Butler would not hesitate to act. Butler would decidedly not approve of this, and would no doubt take steps to return Holly to the world above.

Well. Let him try. Artemis was not a genius for no reason, and he had turned his genius to the design and construction of a dozen different traps and alarm systems, all protecting his lair from intruders. He was fairly confident Holly's 'people', whoever they were, would not be able to penetrate the barricades and protections of the fifth cellar.

He was recalled to the present by Holly.

"Morning, Artemis," she said from beneath gritted teeth, lowering herself up and down with an expression of fierce concentration. Artemis promptly clapped one hand over his eyes in horror. Where were the dresses he had bought her, all carefully measured to her unique size? The soft blouses, the delicate skirts? Why on earth was Holly working out, to use the common vernacular, in a pair of short shorts and one of his old undershirts?

"Good morning, Holly," he replied, because really, what else could he say. "Would you care for some breakfast?"

Her smile was like the sun, and yet it was tempered by the fact that a smile shouldn't really mean so much to him. Artemis' own smile was a thing of bared teeth and thin, taut lips; the sight of it had been known to give small children nightmares. He recalled catching a glimpse of it in a mirror in his home when he had been a very small child, before the sideshow. He could recall the unbearable moment he had comprehended that the monster in the mirror had been himself, a moment that had prompted his lifelong fascination with mirrors, and with monstrosity...

"Where'd you go, Arty?" Holly asked flippantly as she passed him. He was suddenly aware he had spent the last minute or so staring into space, while Holly had entered her bathroom and changed, and exited again. Really, Artemis, he scolded, try and act a little normal. But there were more pressing matters, for a start...

"Arty?"

"Artemis is a little long," she replied, walking to the kitchen and helping herself to the bowl of fruit. He was amused. He had never had a nickname before; no one had wanted to learn his name long enough to invent a diminutive. He cocked his head, regarding her petite form as she slumped into a kitchen chair with a sigh. He sat across from her, thinking he had never seen a lovelier sight.

"Sleep well?" he asked, promptly cursing himself for his inanity. Sleep well... could he be more dull? Holly thankfully didn't seem to notice his self-flagellation, chomping into her apple with an air of a starving man confronted with water.

"All right, I guess," she said, raising a brow. "You?"

"I didn't," he said, before he could stop himself. Her quirked brow remained, and he stumbled over his words in his haste to elaborate. Christ, he hadn't been a teenager in years, how did she do this to him? "I mean, I don't need to sleep. Much."

"Way to go, Cullen," said Holly drily, throwing her apple core into the bin. Artemis frowned behind his mask.

"Cullen?" Holly shook her head in amusement.

"My... friend back home, a techie, he has interesting tastes in literature."

"A friend?" The words were out before he could stop himself. Her glare made him duck his head. He wasn't sure of this altered Holly, who was kind enough in her way, whose sharp edges seem blunted, but even a dulled blade can cut.

"Yes, a friend. So what's with the name?" she asked, moving onto a banana. "I thought Artemis was a girl's name."

He sighed. "It is." At the expression on her face - questioning, mildly aggravated - he elaborated. "It was my father's name. Artemis - Artemis Fowl, the First."

Her faint smile was wondering. "So you do have a last name. And family."

He scowled a little. "Not any worth having." He didn't want to tell her more, he really didn't, but he was quite enslaved to her will and he did not wish to deny her anything. Except her desire to leave, of course, but in time she would come to see it was for her own good. "My mother was a socialite, my father a criminal." Her smile slowly melted away as he got into his tale, he always took a twisted enjoyment in recounting it, even to himself. "I was born a maimed and twisted thing, as you have seen." He admitted this with a waved hand, as though it didn't still hurt, all these years later. "My mother could not bear the sight of me, and my father was loathe to deny her anything. And so one night when I was very young he took me to a travelling fair of freaks and left me with them. I never saw my family again." Well, that was not quite true, but she didn't need to know that.

All this time he had kept his eyes on the weathered wood of the kitchen table, but now he raised them. To his surprise, hers were warm with sympathy, the hazel alive and gleaming. Not pity. Sympathy. It was not the same.

His body went rigid against his will when she leaned over and laid a tiny hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Artemis," she said, her voice low.

He rose, brushing away the old emotions. "It matters not," he said coolly, walking to the sink. Anything to keep his back to her while he got control of himself. He was not really surprised when a firm presence on his elbow forced him to turn. He stared down at her, wondering if she was as lost in his eyes as he was in hers. Doubting that she was.

Her hand dropped to tentatively take one of his own. He couldn't move, couldn't think. Her scent wrapped around him and all he could feel was the soft pressure of her little hand. "Why do you always wear gloves?" she asked, the inane question lightening the atmosphere as she peeled said item of clothing off with surprising quickness.

"Don't!" he snapped, but it was too late; his hand was closed between both of hers, skin to skin, and the most wonderful sensation of warmth spread over his chilled flesh.

"You're so cold," she said, chafing his fingers gently. He dropped to his knees without being conscious of it, until he was eye to eye with her.

"Poor circulation," he breathed, watching her warm brown skin surround his own deathly pale, skeletal fingers. No one held his hand, not ever. No one had ever wanted to. But here she was, close enough to kiss, if only he was not trapped behind his mask. And the touch of her - her hands were not soft and feminine but hard with calluses and blissfully real, solid to touch. These were not a lady's hands, but a warrior's.

"Who are you, Holly?" he asked, dumb with joy. Her hands stilled.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what do you do? Where do you come from - I know you're not French. Who are you?"

She yanked her hands from his, her expression tight, lips pursed into a thin line. "What business is it of yours?"

He was bemused. Her reaction was intense; if he didn't know better, he would have said afraid. "Well, I love you, I want to know more about you - "

"Can't you just be happy with what I've given you?" she snapped. And just as he was opening his mouth to refute this statement with all the strength he could muster -

The phone rang.

The trill of the mobile phone sounded from behind the locked door of his bedroom, and he sighed, rising to his feet, ignoring the cracking of his knees. Of all the times... but he knew that particular tone. Butler. He could not ignore this.

Of course, he had the feeling Holly might be barricaded in her bedroom by the time he returned. The thought alone was enough to make him terse with Butler.

"What is it?" he snarled into the receiver once secluded safely in his rooms.

"Master Artemis," said that familiar, deep voice. "We need to talk."

"Oh, do we?" his employer sniped, well aware of how juvenile he sounded and utterly uncaring. "I am disinclined to acquiesce to your request, Butler, and - "

"Sir," said his bodyguard, and a chill raced down Artemis' spine. "I know."

He sank down onto his bed. "Of course you know," he said wearily, the old tiredness coming back to him. "Be at the edge of the lake at eleven tonight, and we will talk."

And he couldn't deny the speed which he returned to the kitchen to be with her once more.

She was still there, much to his shock , sipping a glass of water and making the odd face at it - pollutants, he remembered her saying days ago. It tasted fine to him. She looked up at him when he entered with a curious expression of resignation; it broke his heart.

"I apologise," he began, but she cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Don't," she said with a sigh. "I... I overreacted. Won't happen again." He smiled, but of course she couldn't see it, hidden behind the mask. He liked to think she sensed it.

"Is there anything you require before I leave you?" he asked, and her grin was half-hearted and wan.

"I don't suppose a weight bench and an exercise bike would be too much to ask?" she queried, and Artemis couldn't suppress a smirk.

"Whatever for?" he asked. "You're too slight and small for such things, Holly, and anyway, why would you want them when you could sing?"

She regarded him with a degree of pity, and something else he couldn't identify. "You're right, Artemis," she sighed. "Why indeed."

And he had the feeling, for the umpteenth time since he had brought her to his home, that he did not understand her at all.