Disclaimer: Artemis Fowl, related characters and situations are © Eoin Colfer. This is an act of fanfiction and is no way affiliated with Eoin Colfer or Penguin Books/Miramax Books/Hyperion Books. All content, situations and original characters are property of the author and must be treated as such.

The Nymph lives in a world of her own, but doesn't know it. She lives in a world of trees and glens, of dancing and no consequences. She lives in a world of ideals that never tarnish, a world where the Good always conquer over the Evil, because the world wouldn't let Evil be victorious. And, if asked the question of why Evil exists in the first place, she would say it to be as a lesson. No one could know what was Good, if they didn't know of that which is Not.

They used to laugh at her, behind her back, but more often to her face. She didn't care, she really didn't. But it did change her. Not for better or worse, because nothing is ever that definite, as she doesn't know, but change, as all things always change.

She breathed and protested, lived her life on a high-strung wire, taking everything personally and responding with a passion that made The Bard envious with the depth by which she was able to express herself. Although, she rarely laughed, for so much was Bad with the world, so she had to change it, not knowing that it couldn't be changed, however hard she was to try.

She was a guardian, enviously imitating the Furies, for she wanted their power of Right and Wrong, their powers of revenge. She was a guardian, envious of the Fates, for they had the power to change people, to make their paths and bend the mortal to their will. She was a guardian. She was pathetic, so small, yet thinking so high. She was idealistic, wanting everyone to change, knowing that she was not the one who needed to change, because she was Right.

She was alone. So, so alone.

It made her more… indescribable. She couldn't know what she was anymore, for somewhere inside she wished for all that she condemned. She loved the idea of freedom so much, but freedom from others is a hard thing to face. Being individual is most highly praised, yet so lonely, because there's no one who can understand.

The Nymph always wanted understanding, yet she never knew that was what she craved.

So she went on, moving through the motions which were expected of her, and which she couldn't quite place as being… not right. She fought, she grew angry over the mundane because it gave a moment of purpose and emotion. She didn't smile much, because even Spirits have worries; they are tied to the Earth, to the tree or the stream, and this is so stronger than a mortal burden, holding such a great pull, that if it was a human responsibility the owner of such would have fallen under their burden a long time ago.

She holds up against everything, straight-backed with the glint of an untarnished star in her eyes – a star that lived long ago, but its light has taken so long to reach our understanding; it was the ghost of a fire far, far away.

And then she wasn't. She wasn't alone, she wasn't wondering any longer if anyone would hear her if she screamed, if the noise would travel any further than her patch of trees.

When they met the Sphinx was disguised, her eyes hidden behind lies, her eyes shielded from being the victims of anymore lies; they were too painful, the lies, they took too much out of her and all she wanted anymore was freedom from thought, mindless entertainment.

As everyone is always hidden behind mirrored lenses, hoping to reflect back whatever it was the onlooker wanted to see, which in most cases was their own reflection, cured of blemishes of course.

But they both knew that if they could lower the glasses, if they could dare to remove the facades and falsities that they tried so hard to not live by… they knew they'd still see what they wanted to see, they knew that they would still see their own reflection.

It gave the Nymph comfort, and it did the same for the Sphinx, for they knew they were not alone, even when they were.

But the time came when the Sphinx was drawn away, and the Nymph had to stay behind, tied to her grove of unworldly trees. The Sphinx was content, for she had found her other half; she had drawn strength to continue through the ages, for as long as she would be needed. But the Nymph struggled, she struggled against the Fate she said she didn't believe in, she struggled to change the way things had always been, the things about which it was said change was impossible, for human nature, for the very structure of the universe had molded it so.

But then the Sphinx was gone, and there was nothing left but faith that it would not be forever, and even if it was they would still have dreams.

That's where they are different, the Nymph and the Sphinx. The Sphinx is content with the world, the Nymph is not. Although, some times it is the Nymph who holds wisdom of stillness and society, since age has jaded her so efficiently, but at others it's the Sphinx, who sees faith and realities, cultured in worldliness.

They fit together perfectly, strengths and weaknesses matching and complimenting. They couldn't rule the world together, but together, they can realize why they wouldn't want to, and why they don't have to even try.

But she is tied to the Earth, to her allotted place, and she loves it there, in the same way as she always loves – with passion, vitality, fervour. And the Sphinx is tied to games and riddles, for that is what the Fates have allotted to her, she will forever be the background, she will always have a purpose, yet no one but her shall ever truly know what it entails.

But they can have faith in each other; they can have faith in coincidence and the Fates, for what other than that would have let them find each other. They have changed each other, but only to the degree that was foretold before they ever existed.