Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this menial attempt at a story. They belong to the genius Eoin Colfer. Only the plot is my own. Please don't sue me. I spent the last of my money on The Artemis Fowl Files.
Author's note: This is a little something that popped into my head while I was working on another story. Don't forget to review.
Spoilers: The entire Artemis Fowl series.
The Demon Design
Ireland. 8,000 Years B.C.
He ran up the steps, ears ringing. His bare feet slipped and he nearly fell. It had rained that morning, and the gold plated stone did not provide adequate traction at the best of times. He ground his teeth. As was the case with most of the royal family, Lord Frond the first had much more gold then intellect.
At the top of the steps two trolls lurched into his path. They growled and would have lunged, had not the gnomes seated on their shoulders tugged their reigns. The giant beasts settled for growling and tossing their heads, throwing venom and saliva from their tusks.
"What is your business here Elder Emon?" the gnome on the right asked politely.
"I must speak with Lord Frond," Emon said. "The Seer of the Mourning Grounds has…" he paused for a moment not wanting to frighten the gnomes with the truth, "…passed on. She left a message for the People."
The gnome nodded and tugged his troll out of the way and the other followed suit. Emon ran hurried through the palace, pausing only once he arrived outside the Throne room, to peer at his reflection in the polished gold plated doors. The scars from the final battle still stood out, pink against the normal blue black of his skin. There wasn't much he could do about that, but he straightened his prematurely white hair, tucking errant stands behind his pointed ears. He smoothed his robes and stretched up to his full height, just over three feet, and pushed the doors open.
The King of the Faries was seated in a woven chair a few feet to the right of the golden throne. Emon laughed a little to himself. A gold throne was very impressive to visitors, but it was murder on the spine. The king was wearing his heavy crown though. Emon could feel the magic of it from the other side of the room. The De Danann had made it well, though Emon was less then thrilled about the head they chose to place it on. Emon gave a perfunctory bow and hurried forward.
"What is wrong Elder?" the king asked.
"Lord Frond, the Seer of the Mourning Ground has died."
"You mean she has passed on," The king corrected.
"No Lord Frond. She is dead."
"But how? The demons are vanquished…"
Emon raised his hands for silence. Too startled to be offended, the king obeyed.
"She left a message for the People, and it is not a bright one. Would you hear it and bare its contents?"
The King nodded, his stomach twisting itself in knots. "It is my responsibility."
Emon nodded and reached into the pocket of his robes. From it he took a single acorn, and set it on the gleaming palace floor. As soon as it touched the ground it sprouted roots, pushing them down through the polished gold as if it were no denser then soil. A stalk grew upwards; leaves already growing from delicate new branched. The leaves whispered together, and the faries listened to their words.
You will forget and the Demons will walk the Earth
Already the Magic fades and I am weary
What you have forgotten the Mud People will Learn
Beware the Mud People
Among them will the Hunter be found
Named for the Goddess
The Hunter is the Key And the Demons will know
The Hunter can free them
I am weary
"This can't be," Lord Frond said. "The De Danann imprisoned them forever outside of time. No mud maid will be able to free them. The mud people have no magic!"
"It is what it is," Emon said. "And we must bare the word to the People."
"No!" Frond said. "It is too soon. The De Danann have only just left us, and the People still shake with memories of the war. They do not need to hear that the Fomorians might some day threaten them again. They need time to heal."
"My Lord, the Seer's words have never been wrong-"
The King waved his hand cutting him off.
"You have done your duty. You have told me the Seer's words. I will deal with this. You may leave."
"You may leave," the King repeated, this times his voice laced with the powers of command imparted by the Crown.
The Elder Emon had no choice but to leave.
The following day Emon visited the Warlock's guild, and passed the warning on to them. They wrote the Seer's final words down in their books and passed the books down faithfully. For the next few thousand years, the Warlocks kept an eye on the Mud People, but humans seemed just as primitive as ever. 6000 years later, when the worshipers of a Goddess of the hunt, called Artemis popped up among the Mud People of Greece, the Warlock's interest was peeked, but nothing came of it.
The books were handed down, and handed down. 9000 years later few but the most avid historians bothered reading them anymore. Technology was where the real money was at, not ancient histories about people that no longer existed, and magic no one could conjure anymore anyway. 10,005 years later, when Artemis Fowl the 2nd first matched wits with the Fairy People, no one remembered the book at all.