AN: This is just a short sonfic that I wrote randomly. The song is Passing Afternoon by Iron and Wine. I don’t own it, nor do I own Artemis Fowl.

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    Artemis sat in the manor, his wrinkled hands typing meticulously, his eyes not even registering the words he was writing. The passion had long left him, his work was simply habit, one he couldn’t break despite the lack of necessity and enjoyment. It was soothing, if unsatisfying, the familiar click of the keyboard reminded him of less empty time, where his frantic typing would mean victory, or even more exhilarating, possible defeat.
     Of course, we all must age, but Artemis never really thought that included him. True, his strict diet and stolen magic had helped him outlast every friend, colleague and school mate, but it didn’t stop his heart from faltering when he climbed the stairs or prevent his knees from creaking every time he stood from a chair.
     Still, he had feigned immortality as a child, and he had been a child for an extended time. Artemis was nearing the end now, he could feel it, but he wouldn’t let go. Living was yet another habit he couldn’t break.
     He allowed his mind to wander, as it had taken to doing these days. Artemis couldn’t sum up the feeling to mourn for his lost intelligence. He still retained enough to continue his work, but his mind just wasn’t the same. He would find himself lost in thoughts and memories sometimes, and other times unable to think or remember at all.
     Now he remembered many things; Butler’s death, though he couldn’t recall his father’s, the twins’ falling out, and, as always, the day Holly left him forever.
     Holly. It had been a long time, and some days he forgot about her entirely, while other days she was all that was on his mind. Holly would no longer be young, he could imagine the first streaks of gray flecking her short hair.
     Though he knew that she wore it long now, Trouble liked it long. Artemis had always liked it short.
     Artemis envied her youth. He envied Trouble’s even more.


There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon
Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon
And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her
Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms


     Holly went through her morning routine. First she brushed her teeth and got dressed, nobody needed to see her right after she got out of bed. Secondly she put on the coffee, Trouble needed it in the morning, then made the bed, perfect and smooth. Thirdly she served breakfast and packed lunches for the children. The movements were almost instinctual, it had taken forty years of marriage to get into this routine, and another forty to perfect it.
     It had started off slowly. She couldn’t get out of doing all of the feminine tasks, that’s not equality. But the perfectionist in Holly just couldn’t watch the dinner burn every night or the living room transform into a trash heap. After a while she did the chores, Trouble just wasn’t very good at them.
     Then their first child came. Somebody had to stay home, preferably somebody with the ability to produce milk, so she went on temporary leave of her job. After their second child was born the leave seemed less temporary. When the third child and final child came into the world, and grew, Holly just didn’t have the effort to go back, it had been too long. The years of being a housewife had worn away her fighting spirit, it no longer leaked into her life, but remained as a ball at the center of her chest, a guilty feeling that reminded her of her loss.
     While she dusted she hummed a melody, a mud man song, bittersweet and filled with the longing she felt. Her mind journeyed back before her life became perfect, when everything was uncertain, when she knew Artemis.
     She remembered him as he was presently, Foaly kept a feed, and even after he retired he passed it on, typical paranoia. Holly could picture him in her minds eye, Artemis was frail, his skin hung off of his bones and his eyes were dull, but still held the spark of defiance that led him through his life. He was still beautiful.

There are things that drift away like our endless, numbered days
Autumn blew the quilt right off the perfect bed she made
And she’s chosen to believe in the hymns her mother sings
Sunday pulls its children from their piles of fallen leaves


    Artemis could still remember so much of her. The chestnut colour of her skin, the way the light fell on her hair, the sound of her voice after…
    After the one time that they dared to destroy one another.
    He wondered if she ever told Trouble. He wished that she had.
    But no, it would have destroyed their marriage.
    Artemis tried to tell himself that she would be happier this way. He thought that he should be glad for her.
    He wasn’t. He never would be. Love is selfish, and he was head over heals.


There are sailing ships that pass all our bodies in the grass
Springtime calls her children ’till she let’s them go at last
And she’s chosen where to be, though she’s lost her wedding ring
Somewhere near her misplaced jar of Bougainvillea seeds


    Holly hugged her children tightly as they attempted to struggle away from her. She wished that she could keep them with her. They wanted to leave, to fly away. They wanted independence and freedom and privileges. They didn’t know how dangerous those could be.
    Holly held her daughter close and stared into her bright blue eyes. Their calculating look bore deep into her. The girl blushed, terrified that someone might see her hugging her mother. Holly sighed and reluctantly let go.
    The mother winced as they ran off into the terrifying world. The thought of the intelligent blue eyes warmed her, but not enough to stop the tears.


There are things we can’t recall, blind as night that finds us all
Winter tucks her children in, her fragile china dolls
But my hands remember hers, rolling ’round the shaded ferns
Naked arms, her secrets still like songs I’d never learned


    Artemis’ breath echoed around the manor. He climbed the stairs slowly and entered his bedroom.
    He sat on the hard bed and lay down. He closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest.
    Then, he went to sleep.


There are names across the sea, only now I do believe
Sometimes, with the windows closed, she’ll sit and think of me
But she’ll mend his tattered clothes and they’ll kiss as if they know
A baby sleeps in all our bones, so scared to be alone

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AN: It’s not entirely finished, so any constructive criticism would be nice. I’d like to fix it up some more.

Is it way too cheesy? I think that it might be. Oh well. And there’s a cliché or two. But cheesy once and a while works out.

Some other stories by BlackOpal:

• Regarding Non-stories
• Spectator Sport (Warning: TTP Spoilers!)
• The 14 Drabbles
• Storms
• Story News 3