#scribbleswrites

They sit across the room from him, his father and another man. Their eyes gleam in the dark office, each going over numbers, figures, schemes to grow in wealth. Artemis knows the answers to their calculations before they do, but he knows he is not supposed to speak them. Father has told him to sit and listen- “learn to do business” as if Artemis has not already demonstrated an intellect that will soon outshine even his father’s.

He finds himself wishing he was at his mother’s side. While Mother was never entirely attentive, he knew that she would at least pretend to understand what he was saying, and nod along for a while- at least until Father entered the room, and her scarce attention would be snatched elsewhere again.

Perhaps when this meeting was over, he could find Butler. He always seemed to have time to listen to Artemis’s visions, even if he never quite grasped what he was talking about.

No longer listening to the two men talk business, Artemis twines his hands together, allowing his focus to drift elsewhere. No matter what Father would say, he would learn nothing here.

————

The lights of the stage are dazzling, and his fingers grip the violin bow tighter as it slides across the strings, filling the air with the notes of his latest composition.

The audience sits in silence- even the most dull of his classmates’ families seemed to be enraputured. While his chosen talent was hardly the most original, Artemis knew he had more skill when it came to the arts than any other child in his school. He supposes that he must sound quite good- he had practiced a lot at the Manor(enough that Father had demanded he do so outside) and Butler, ever the listening ear, had nothing but positive comments.

And yet, he is not satisfied.

Because once more, the same as every previous performance, neither Father nor Mother was there. Their empty seats stood unfilled, and he found himself mourning how little he saw them lately. He had assumed, incorrectly, that they would come, if for no other reason than to brag the talents of their son. But alas, it seems, as usual, their focus lies elsewhere. On matters other than him. He would be lying if he said it did not sting a little.

As if by magic, his interest in his performance withers, and he continues to play the music with nothing but a hollow feeling in his chest.

The auditorium would soon be packed, seeing as he was only the first musician scheduled, but he doubted he would be staying long once he finished. Butler would already have the car pulled up- what reason did he have to stay?

Perhaps Juliet would like to hear him play.

————

The Manor sits heavy against the cloud-scudded sky, rain pattering off the stones, and Artemis can feel the sadness emanating through the halls.

In his hand is clutched an old, leather-bound book of Irish fairytales, the text long since worn from its cover. It feels warm in his hands- he holds it tighter, the memory of the one who gave it to him almost too strong to bear.

He can see Father out of the corner of his eye, slumped in an armchair, head in his hands. Mother is nowhere to be seen- he supposes she has gone back to her work helping others. A sour feeling settles in his stomach.

Artemis stands, slowly making his way over to his father. The man looks more empty than he has ever seen him, his hair unkempt and his suit slightly wrinkled. It is so unlike his father that Artemis briefly wonders if his father will take ill from the ordeal, and if he should find the Major and express his concern. The older man had always trusted Artemis’s word, much more than Father, and he would know what to do. The Butlers seemed to have a much better grasp on emotion than any of the Fowls.

But the Major was not there, so Artemis would have to suffice.

“Father?”, he whispers, careful not to raise his voice. He doesn’t want to sound upset, or distressed. That was unlike a Fowl. “Are you alright?”

Artemis Sr. raises his head, his normally bright stare dull and grieved as it meets Artemis’s own. He doesn’t answer, instead turning his gaze to the smoldering fireplace. Artemis found himself feeling uncharacteristically useless.

“Do... Do you want this?”

He holds out the book, wondering if his father would find any comfort in the tales it told. If Grandfather had taken such joy out of reading the stories to his grandson, certainly he had shared them with Father.

He realizes his mistake when Artemis Sr.’s face sharpens like flint. He turns to glare at the item with an expression of fury. Taken aback, Artemis flinches. Seemingly without thought, his father sneers.

“Oh. Of course he gave you that.”

Artemis blinks, startled, pulling the proffered book back. His father’s gaze is cold and derisive, glaring at the tome as if it was the lowest thing on Earth. Artemis tucks it against his chest, suddenly protective; he knows now what this will be about.

“As if you need any more of that nonsense filling your brain.”

Artemis winces, blue eyes immediately flicking elsewhere. Now is not the time for this, and Artemis briefly wishes Butler was around; it had been foolish to send him away. Now there was no one around to prevent the inevitable argument.

For a glimpse of a second, he considers backing down. It’s late, he’s exhausted, and they are both grieving. They are both Fowls. There is no chance that there will be a winning side.

But Artemis is nothing if not stubborn, and he is hurt. He is angry, and he opens his mouth to argue.

“I hardly think stories based upon ancient mythology are nonsense, Father. Not that I’d expect you to understand.”

Artemis knows it is unfair to be angry with his father. They are both distraught, grief-stricken people, who by all accounts should be finding comfort in each other.

Artemis Sr. sighs, voice dripping with disdain.

“You’re right, Artemis. I don’t. I don’t, and I’m disappointed that you do. Always spouting nonsense about ‘fairies’ and ‘elves’- you have such a wonderful mind, Arty, and all you do is waste it.”

Artemis shrinks back, brow furrowing. He presses the book against his chest. His father’s words hurt.

“I’m not... That’s not true.”

His father’s eyes narrow, turning back to the fire. Dismissive. Artemis can feel his anger begin to boil over.

“I never should have let him fill your head with such idiotic stories.”, his father continues. “You shouldn’t be interested in anything but the family business, you are a Fowl, but no, it’s always fairy tales and engineering and violin music at six in the morning! I didn’t raise you up on childish things-“

“Sometimes I think you haven’t ‘raised’ me at all.”

The venomous words escape him before he can reign them in. Artemis takes another step back, his anger burned away. He feels hollow and ashamed and exhausted and wounded- Far, far too many feelings to be dealing with at once.

Artemis Sr. stiffens, but his ice-cold gaze does not turn from the fireplace, hands clasped in front of his face. Artemis can see his knuckles are white. He wishes he would look at him.

“I... I’m sor-“

“That’s enough, Artemis.”

His father’s voice sounds so angry, so cold, that Artemis feels the apology die in his throat. He steps back once, and then again, turning on his heel. He flees the room, something breaking in his chest, with his father only continuing to stare emptily into the fire.

He leaves the book on the table.

————

Artemis is twelve now.

His violin sits abandoned, dusty, untouched in years. Though Artemis’s fingers occasionally twitch with the urge to play the compositions that fill his mind at night, he abstains. There is no enjoyment in it anymore, he has no time for silly music. A useless hobby that only crowded his time, distracting him from more important matters.

He passes his mother’s room, careful to keep his footsteps light. He didn’t want to disturb her. Angeline barely slept these days, and recognized him even less, so he didn’t bother with stepping in to check on her. Butler insisted it was Juliet’s job now, and Artemis agreed. It was better for the both of them.

He nods at Butler as he passes by. The bodyguard, ever vigilant, nods back with a small smile. Artemis enters his office, shaking off the early morning chill of the Manor, and sits in front of the countless monitors that line the desk. The light is harsh in the gloom of the space, and he winces briefly, before turning his attention to the lines of text scrolling across the monitor to his right.

Business appears to be good, with all of the more urgent emails answered the night before. Nothing important there. The cameras viewing the Manor grounds look normal, with nothing out of place. His mother’s huddled form can be seen on one of the darker screens, and he sighs. At least she’s sleeping.

The screen behind him drones quietly, and Artemis tries his best to ignore it. If his father was found, he would be the first to know, but that didn’t mean he could waste his time staring at the news all day. Family business was more important. The ever-increasing acquisition of funds was more important.

With nothing important to attend to, he allows his focus to slide, knowing that any attempts to redirect his attention will be useless. His head feels full of static.

Before, it was visions of grand machines, calculations that stretched on and on into the metaphorical distance. Of music spilling over the pages, notes that filled the air with a cacophony of beautiful sound. Now, he found himself quelling these thoughts on instinct, seemingly unable to find interest in them like he once did. His mind was colorless and devoid of anything but the tasks of the day, each centered around maintaining the little empire his father worked so hard to build.

He misses them. He misses enjoying those things, as childish as it was. His world felt boring, stressful, and empty now. While the Butlers provided a little light, some days it was all Artemis could do to leave his bed. How unlike a proper Fowl.

He feels no pride in the family name these days.

On impulse, he opens the drawer, rummaging around for clean paper and a pen. Might as well work ahead if he had nothing better to do. He pauses when his hand brushes against something, small and familiar.

Artemis carefully pulls out the book, running his fingers over its leathery surface. A small flicker of warmth fills his chest as he briefly remembers the man who gave it to him. It wanes as he then remembers the day he lost it. He had never been able to find it again, after that argument.

The pages are worn. Artemis opens the cover, the paper smooth under his fingers. It had been so long since he bothered to read something other that documents.

Father would be disappointed. Artemis knew that, and it stung deeply. That fact stung so bad it nearly brought tears to his eyes.

But Artemis was so tired of being a stereotypical Fowl. He wanted his curiosity, his ambition back, and as much as he would deny it, a small part of him still very much believed in the stories that that little book told.

It was childish. It was ‘nonsense’. But nevertheless, Artemis began to read.

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