Angst ahead! Plus, let me just say that the first half of this guy steals shamelessly from Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci and Lines because I may have just downloaded his entire works off of google and now that's all I read. Also, in the next chapters the game is: what random Greek god does Mulch represent for absolutely no good reason?

Chapter Nine: Dies Irae

Past:

Artemis sits at his computer, chin in hand, one long finger keeping time to Mozart's Requiem, K. 626, playing at full volume in his head. He wonders if he has over-estimated his opponents. He doubts it. This isn't, after all, a very subtle plan. Sighing, he switches to the Prelude of Bach's cello suite, some easy listening while he scrolls through his notes again.

There are so many things he could do with this project. So many things he is not doing. Some nights he lays awake thinking about what would happen if he left all the probes intact and sold his little super-machine to the highest bidder. Images of carnage spew across the dark canopy above his bed: starved lips gaping in the gloam, death-pale bodies small as children strewn across a cold hillside. There is madness here, outside of the circle of her arms, and it has made him cruel.

His reflection is just visible over the tiny font on his screen. He looks like Hell. His face is haggard, though still the utterly smooth white of bone. Except for his cheeks, where two splotches of red burn, visible even in this poor mirror. He sleeps poorly these days, waking long before the sun, feverish and panting. His skin is moist, and his hair sticks to his cheeks in strips like prison bars.

Those few hours before dawn are always the worst, when he is utterly alone, a pale ghost loitering in the dark. The house feels cold and desolate, though he is buried deep under eiderdowns and his family sleeps down the hall. But she is his fever-dream, and even as he lies awake she haunts him with her wild eyes, until the sun comes up and burns her from the backs of his eyelids.

He doesn't always dream about her. Truthfully, the dreams are sporadic, sometimes disappearing for nearly a year at a time. But the fear of them, of having her near when she is so far away, has seen him lay awake for entire nights, unable to close his eyes until he feels the sun fumbling at the windowpanes.

He never sleeps when with other women. The idea of anyone sharing, even unwittingly, her presence is impossible for him. Half of his lovers write off his self-inflicted insomnia as the eccentricity of a prodigy, only to be expected. The other half wants to talk about it. They want to know, they want to help, to fix him. He doesn't usually ask those ones back.

In the dreams she speaks to him in Gnommish, only he can ever quite understand what she is saying. She takes him by the hand and leads him into some lonely grot, and feeds him flowers and wild honey and he kisses her wild eyes shut and watches her smile curve around words that seem to be 'I love you', but he is never sure. It's with her fingers in his hair and his mouth on her skin that he wakes up, alone and shivering in his four poster bed. And it's then, with the memory of her still lingering, that he truly hates her, because he knows he will always love her.

He dreamed of her last night, and that is why he now sits in front of his computer, wanting so badly to take apart the Persephone and solder back the delicate wires that will expose them to the world. After all, he built this project with the intention of attracting the faery council's attention, it may as well be the threat they will think it is. He has had this thought many times before but has never actually gone ahead with it. Nearly has, yes. It's always close. But under his hate and his bitterness and his broken heart, the fact remains that he loves her, and can still remember the searing feel of his guilt when he lied to her. And that would be a drop in the bucket compared to the betrayal of her entire people. Even she, with her seemingly infinite forgiveness, wouldn't love him after that. If she ever loved him at all.

The council will send her to reason with him no matter what when this project is put on the market, because they won't know the difference. No need to make something so dangerous for no reason. It's like building a bomb and saying, well, I wasn't actually going to use it. A criminal he may be, but not a hypocrite. The point is to see her, and that is it.

Helpless and furious and furious because he's helpless, he switches off the monitor and goes to the window. Leaning his forehead against the cool glass he looks out over north pond, truthfully a small lake, with the sedge all winter-withered and black under the failing stars. Closing his eyes, he begs for the sun to rise and take the taste of her out of his mouth.

He stands there until, faintly through the double-paned glass, he can hear a bird begin to sing.

Present:

'Diggums 'n Day PI service, how can I help you, amigo?'

Artemis can hear the sound of some vegetable or other coming to a loud and most likely messy end on the other end of the line. 'Hello, Mulch,' he says.

'Well, well, well, if it isn't Master Mudboy. Sorry, Mudman these days, so I understand.'

Artemis can almost hear the leer in Mulch's voice. 'Who told you?'

'Let's put it this way, I got it from a source most people think is, ha, past his expiry date,' Mulch crunches with particular gusto.

'He makes a habit of these apparitions, does he?'

'Got one too, did you? I think he just gets a bit bored. After all, there can't be many criminals of my cunning floating around over there with him. But what can I do ya for, Arty? I take it this isn't a social call. Our little leading lady seems to be the only one who gets those.'

Artemis counts to ten. Mulch is a friend. Be nice. Well, at least try. 'Would you like me to pay you a social call too, Mr. Diggums? I'm afraid I only have time for a quick one.

Mulch guffaws and in the background Artemis can hear Doodah shout, 'Watch it with the ABC grapes, would you? D'arvitting whacko!'

'Ah, kid, I've missed you. But, what do you need? Name it and it's yours. Well, within reason.'

'And for the appropriate amount of gold.'

'Artemis, I'm hurt. Would I do that to you? Though, if you have anything on you, I'm a bit skint right now.'

Artemis laughs. 'Not on me, no, but help me with this and I'll have something for you.'

'That's my boy, knew you wouldn't let down old Mulch. Now, to business! What's the prize?'

'A sheep.'

'...come again?' the sound of grapes falling from an open mouth.