Title: Sun destre guant en ad vers deu tendut.
Fandom: Artemis Fowl
A/N: Ficlet- 400 words. Enjoy!
Summary: His right glove he lifted up to God. Artemis lifts his glove to no-one. Ficlet. No pairing. Artemis and literature.
Artemis doesn't read anymore. It wasn't as though he had ever been a vociferous reader of fiction at least, he had seen no point in wasting valuable time on imaginary instances, especially when he was sure that there were things in the world more interesting and stranger than any author could write about. Now he doesn't read books at all. He touches them, run his fingers over tooled leather coverings, sometimes even inhales the musty book scent that emanates from the open pages. His hands trace the words as though they are the strange symbols of some strange forbidden race, but his eyes do not read them, for the words themselves are of no interest to him, but rather what it is that they comprise.
It is a forbidden luxury for him. Something that is prohibited by his very nature, and by his very circumstances. He does not think over the attraction that the pages have for him, the delicate material crackling under his fingers, the slight madness that overcomes him. Artemis is of the new world, the Ireland of the Celtic Tiger, and its blood runs through his veins, and this is alien to him. Perhaps all the more attractive because of it.
An old phrase- he can't remember its origin runs through his head. Sun destre guant en ad vers deu tendut. His right glove he lifted up to God. He doesn't see their rhythm or reason, because God does not exist for Artemis. Neither God nor the devil. Artemis lifts no glove, vows no allegiance to anyone, begs no forgiveness. Asks no quarter.
He cut himself on paper once, instinctively lifting the hurt finger to his mouth, tasting the copper of blood. He imagines that that is what betrayal tastes of, when he allows himself to think such fanciful things. In an excess of impatience he pushes the table away from himself, and the book as well. Useless. He would do far better to be doing something useful, like fine tuning his latest criminal endeavour.
A few seconds after he rings the bell Butler enters. Artemis can hear soft footsteps behind, yet he does not turn. He permits himself the moment of weakness. Then he chastises himself, and turns with eyes that do not see to allow himself to be lead out. The book lies discarded upon the table.
Perhaps those who do not see, see best of all.
Hope you enjoyed. Artemis was blinded by an acid attack in this.
Reviews very welcome of course