Chapter Text
It is terrifyingly easy to bring a minor across borders without parental approval. Billy Kong had done so with a few handshakes concealing tightly rolled bills and a wink here and there. As far as his benefactors knew, this young girl would never be seen again, except perhaps on the news that night, or on the back of a milk carton. She would be one of the many gone missing every year, stolen by their own parents or strangers, either put away where no one could see them and take them back, or put on display for every interested party with a few extra coins to "take" in whatever way they could think up.
This is what it took for Butler to get Minerva back into her home country: the quick flash of a blue diamond tattoo on his shoulder to a barman, the calling in of one of his innumerable favors, and NT$30,000. Of course, if he had not been one of Madame Ko's students, the cost could have easily been five times that, but the bodyguard's school had more connections than a kudzu plant, and he soon walked out of the tavern with Minerva close on his heels, giving the girl's new passport a quick inspection. It was a remarkable forgery. Only the most diligent of customs agents would detect the slightly off sheen to the stamps. Even if Minerva had not been a genius or had a photographic memory, she would have had no trouble confirming the information on the document. After all, it was completely correct: her home address, age, date of birth. Only one thing was slightly different: the name.
"Minerva...Lee?" She finally said when they had walked a quarter-mile from their contact.
"My passport is for a General Xavier Lee. If our last names were different, questions could be asked." As Butler walked, he lightly bent the passport, back and forth, over and over. Occasionally, he would inspect the once-pristine document, adding a small tear or more defined crease to a page's corner. "Remember your cover, Minerva: you are my daughter, and we are coming back from a trip to attend my grandmother's funeral."
She analyzed his face. "Butler, we look nothing alike."
Butler shrugged, almost completely tearing out one page from the passport's innermost leaf. "If anyone questions it, I'll imply that your mother had an affair and you are illegitimate"
The girl gave a quick, soft curse in French, and glared at him with such ferocity that Butler took a single step away from her side. He looked at her with something like shock, though he was not completely discomposed. Artemis cursed so rarely that he had almost forgotten that gaining a filthy vocabulary was part of any normal child's rite of passage into adulthood. Of course, this girl wasn't what one would consider "normal," being far too much like Artemis, but Butler suspected she had enjoyed at least a bit more social interaction with her peers than the missing Irish boy.
Butler felt his heart pull again, the ache almost forgotten while he planned their escape from Taiwan. Artemis...gone...no, missing. He had to keep telling himself that. He'd get home and contact the People and see what they thought. Then he would find out when he could expect Artemis back. It was just a matter of waiting. Surely.
Eventually, Minerva managed to switch back into English, her face red from both a lack of air—which made her words somewhat divided, as she tried to regain her breath—and her quite apparent rage. "You will say no such thing! That is...will you stop doing that! You'll ruin it!"
"Hmmm?" Butler looked away from the ancient cinder-block wall they were passing, along which he had dragged each edge of the passport, leaving an almost invisible line as the border was worn away. He pressed harder when he came to the bottom spine corner, sanding away an eighth-inch wedge before complying with the girl's order. "Stop yelling, Minerva. A lot of the people here have studied English, and I'd rather we kept a low profile until we're back on the jet."
"What. Are you. Doing?" Minerva insisted, reaching up to snatch the passport away.
Butler allowed it, his work done. As the girl inspected the damage, he stepped from the sidewalk and into the gutter, barely avoiding a dam of trash that held back a murky brown lake. He raised a hand in the air, waving vigorously whenever he spotted a taxi. "Weathering your passport," he finally said. "It's four years old, by the issue date, and there's plenty of stamps inside, since the General is known to travel regularly. My passport is a bit worn, but you're a teenager. Or almost one. Yours should be abused."
"If you're my father," Minerva scowled at the switched paternity, "shouldn't you keep my passport, so it won't get like this?"
Butler narrowed his eyes at a cabbie, who met his gaze and nodded. "You are a stubborn child who thinks she is more mature than she actually is, and who won't give me a moments peace unless she has her way. That is why you carry your passport, and because you are completely immature, like all children who think they should be considered adults, you've ruined it."
The cabbie veered across three lanes of traffic, nearly taking off the side mirror of a minuscule hybrid before it braked far too late, the vehicle's innards emitting a dangerous metal-on-metal shriek that would have made Butler wince, but for his stoic training. The car demolished the trash dam before finally stopping, the driver thrown forward in his seat and thumping against his belt, then crashing back. He immediately thrust a finger at the rear passenger door, in case his customers did not know how to enter a simple taxi.
Butler took one large stride and grabbed the door handle, pulling it opening, and waited.
After a few moments of inaction, he sighed and looked behind him, admonishing the girl. "Minerva, please, we have to...oh."
The water had missed him, but the girl's soft white stockings were now nearly covered in brown, which spread quickly, her legs splotched where the long socks had not covered her. Her shoes were completely sodden, and one was covered in a very clingy candy bar wrapper of indeterminate age. She looked up at him, eyes unflinching, though her body shook. No tears had yet fallen, but there was a definite sheen at the bottom lids, and her voice was small as she spoke, half of the words almost lost to the busy street. "Do we? Do we, Butler? Do children..."
He felt his anger leave in one short exhale, and he did his best to smile. It was weak, and he knew she would not be convinced. "Yes, Minerva. Children make mistakes."
"T-then what about Artemis? What if he never comes back?"
"He will," Butler said firmly, repeating it in his head. He will come back. He will come back. He will come back. It was to become his mantra for the next three years.
"It's all my fault!" Minerva sobbed. She looked down, refusing to let him see her eyes as she lost control over her expression.
Butler didn't answer at first. He wanted to reach out to this child—an actual child, despite her genius, and so unlike Artemis in that she retained that essential innocence the Irish boy had lost while growing up in a family of criminals—but he held back. He did not know if she would accept his comfort. So, instead, he said, "It is Kong's fault."
"I had Papa hire Kong," she reasoned. "If it wasn't for me and...oh, merde, what if he doesn't come back?"
"He will," Butler repeated, almost angry. He did not need this girl to question what he knew—desperately needed to believe—was true.
She shook her head, ringlets whipping her face, hands in tight fists before her chest as she finally looked at him again, screaming, "But you will hate me if he doesn't!"
The driver gave them both a sour look, and, even though his fare was not yet in the car, he started the meter, tapping it sharply when the Europeans did not react. Did they not have the English adage about time equaling money? He did not have the patience to sit around for them to finish a family drama!
It took the first tear falling down Minerva's cheek to make Butler respond. He nodded. "I might have...but he will come back."
She stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide, until the driver honked, the proximity to the horn making her scream and jump.
Butler trained his eyes on the cabbie and thought happy thoughts. Happy...for a Butler.
The Taiwanese man paled and snapped his head forward, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
Galvanized by the honk, Minerva made for the door, her feet squishing with each step. Already on the brink for the past few days of terror, this minor inconvenience overburdened her, and she sobbed once more before sliding into the back seat, biting her lower lip to regain some composure.
Butler followed, slamming the door and turning to the driver. He continued to speak in English, though—like most English speakers in a foreign country—he spoke a lot slower and louder, as if that was the key to overcoming the language barrier. "Air...port."
The cabbie nodded and, certain that his fare would not understand—probably one of those ignorant pig Americans—he said very unkind things about Butler as they drove off, all in a very cheerful voice, as if discussing the weather.
Butler had to pause at some of them. The cabbie was creative, he'd give the man that.
Minerva said nothing as they fought their way through traffic. She looked down at her filth-covered legs, breathing steadily to keep from completely bursting into tears. She wasn't normally like this. A weak, tearful girl. It was all just too much.
After a long while, Butler pulled aside one of his suit lapels, reaching into a pocket to bring out a handkerchief, handing it over without a word.
It took several seconds for the French girl to accept it, and then she spent some time looking at the embroidered crest. It depicted a golden phoenix with wings unfurled, a blue over its chest, its talons digging into the throat of a writhing black cat. She imprinted it in her memory for future research, certain this was no name-brand image. Then, folding the handkerchief into a smaller square, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes, then under her nose as she took a deep and somewhat bubbling breath. She examined her darkened legs and barely turned her head to watch Butler's face.
He twitched his fingers at her, brushing off her concerns about his linens.
Just as she was about to wipe herself clean, the girl hesitated. She looked at the handkerchief in one hand, and then the passport on her lap. Almost reluctantly, she opened the document to the middle sheet and pressed it to one of the thicker stains on her stockings, then dragged it up her leg, the dirty water soaking into the paper. She did this several times, going to different pages, until just as much dirt was on her skin as on her passport.
Butler watched her, an eyebrow raised, but said nothing.
Feeling his gaze, Minerva looked at her work and nodded. "Children...do make such a mess of things, don't they?"
After a long wait, Butler shrugged. "Everyone does."
Laughing in a cracked manner, Minerva nodded again. Then, putting the document aside, she moistened the handkerchief in her mouth and began to scrub at the worst of the dirt. She would need to see if they could purchase a few items at the airports stores, though she rather suspected Butler would usher her onto the jet and home as quickly as possible. At least on the jet she could wash her stockings and shoes off.
She offered the handkerchief back to Butler, hoping he would leave it to her, allowing her some more concrete materials for research, but the man took it back without comment, stuffing it into his pocket. He sniffed once at the smell that rose to him from the fine cotton and made a mental note to have both jacket and handkerchief thoroughly laundered.
She waited until they pulled up to the airport and the driver began to snap demands for money to say what was needed. Her three words were obviously never meant to be heard, masked as they were by the loud Mandarin, and Butler allowed them to go without response. Inwardly, though, he found himself losing just a bit of his tension.
"Thank you, Butler."
Well...at least she was polite.
The weathering of the passport was masterfully done, and the addition of mud a stroke of genius, as it turned out. Butler watched the inspection lines carefully before choosing one in particular, where the worker wore gloves and a face mask. When they presented their documents, the agent looked at Butler's with no reaction, but practically screeched at Minerva's. She wasn't even sure he'd read the information on it before handing the filthy item back.
Minerva fell asleep mid-takeoff, and was out for six hours. When she finished a hastily prepared sandwich and over-brewed cup of tea, Butler gave her a five-minute overview of how to fly, then left for the foldout beds at the back of the jet without even asking if she understood. Artemis had always hated being asked if he understood.
Twenty minutes from France, he rose and took the helm again, going through the necessary calls to get a spot on the landing strip.
"I called my father," Minerva said, as if confessing, waving a hand towards the on-board phone.
"Oh?"
"He's in Toulouse. At a hospital. He thinks Kong gave him a concussion." She paused, then hung her head. "He cried when he realized it was me," she whispered.
"He's lucky a bump on the head and you missing for a few days is all that went wrong. He doesn't even realize how lucky."
"Oui. I...did not anticipate him having such a reaction. He has a car waiting on the tarmac. My family's old driver, very trustworthy. You need only be on the ground a few minutes."
"I'll go with you to the hospital," Butler said, but he said it weakly.
"Non," she insisted, curls bouncing as she shook her head. "You have done enough. I will be safe."
He considered protesting, but only for a moment. He was so tired...he just wanted to get back to the Manor and let his old bones have a break. Put aside his duty for just a few more hours. And...maybe, by the time he had the strength to go on without Artemis, the People would call and say he was already back. Perhaps the passage of the moon over Hybras's old dock—hadn't someone said it was off the Irish coast?—would let something align, sending his charge back to his side? Back to where he could be watched and protected, and where Butler could do so without failing him, this time?
When the violent rumbles of the engine ceased, Minerva undid her seat belt, jumping to her feet far earlier than any commercial airliner would have allowed. She seemed to hesitate at Butler's side, a hand clenched to her heart, pink tinging her cheeks. Then she gathered her courage and—in the French style—pressed her cheek to Butler's coming away with a soft "mwah" sound to simulate an actual kiss. Then she was dashing from the cockpit, opening the cabin door on her own. She careened down the stairs that had just been wheeled to the jet, still-soggy (though rinsed) shoes barely touching the ground before she dove into the open door of the town car that awaited her. No sooner had the door closed than it drifted off, it's speed kept low, no doubt despite Minerva's requests to get to the hospital as quickly as possible. Butler applauded the driver's professionalism
Butler only had to idle a few minutes (thanks to a good friend in the control tower, as Butler had good friends everywhere) before he was cleared for takeoff. The flight to Dublin was a mere hop, and the drive to the Manor only took another hour, even in traffic. However, spending that time allowed Butler to think. His job involved a lot more of this than one might assume, and the bodyguard was by no means a dullard. In comparison to his employer, he was a spark against an inferno, but, removed from his service to the Fowl family, he probably could have made a respectable living as a teacher, perhaps even a little-known college professor. Yet, despite the time he had and the calm procession of his thoughts (for Butler had been conditioned to think logically, even in the greatest of crises), he had no idea what to say when he parked the Bentley in front of Fowl Manor and stepped out...alone.
The front door seemed heavier than he remembered. Perhaps it had gone off-balance. He would need to look into that. The entire frame hadn't been the same sine the troll rampage.
Inside, he could feel that comforting sense of the house being occupied. There would be no more waiting. No resting before this final duty. Whatever he said, he said it now.
Butler found Angeline and Artemis Sr. in one of the living rooms. It was the smallest and least expensive, but only "cheap" in comparison with the antique-filled monoliths to the fowl Empire to which business partners were exposed. This was the space the family had staked out for itself and, in the past year, following Mr. Fowl's transformation and his son's slow thawing, they had actually begun to spend evenings after dinner together, talking and laughing (though the second was more an activity enjoyed by the parents, and not their son).
Angeline and Timmy sat together on a cream-and-silver couch, whispering. As Butler walked in, but before he was noticed, Mr. Fowl poked his wife's stomach, making her giggle and lean back against his chest. "Stop," she pouted, turning her head from him, though she still smiled. "You knave."
"Knave am I? Haven't I reformed?" Timmy beseeched as he wrapped his arms about the Manor lady's waist, drawing her tighter against his body, resting his chin on her shoulder. They both gave out little sighs, spending that moment trying to match the cadence of their breaths.
Butler watched them, and felt as the new, sharp ache in his gut was joined by a softer, yet far older one in his chest. It was something he had not felt in years, buried long ago when the old, indisputable Luther Fowl had entered Butler's hospital recovery room and ordered him to finish treatment in time for his grandson's birth. Against the doctor's orders, Butler had stood guard, though his splinted leg had screamed with pain the entire long labor.
Butler forced the memories down and made himself take one stealth-free step into the living room.
Alerted, Artemis Sr. looked up from the private embrace. On recognizing the intruder, he smiled. It was not the polite greeting given to a servant, as he may have once deigned to bestow upon the bodyguard, but instead a far more unveiled grin, as one would share with a cousin or uncle. "Butler," he cheered, bringing his wife's equally joyous attention to the man. "How was the opera? Did Arty over-analyze the performance, of did he actually enjoy himself?"
Butler had no idea what Mr. Fowl was talking about. Kidnappings, guns, demons, Artemis disappearing as he fell to the streets of Taiwan...
"The...opera," he said vaguely.
Angeline failed to catch the man's distraction, though her husband's fading grin showed that he had. She leaned forward, practically bursting with ill-contained emotion. "Where's Arty? Don't tell me he's gone off to bed; we have to see him and tell him the news, right now!"
"Angeline," Mr. Fowl said, taking one arm from about his wife's waist so he could attempt to halt her words with a steady hand on her shoulder. "Wait—"
"Oh, but Timmy, I just can't wait," she babbled, glowing. "Butler, go get Arty! Call up your sister, too! She'll be wild!" The delay for summoning was too much for the woman, and she could not hold her news in for any longer, shrieking it out: "I'm pregnant!"
Butler was silent, even as, several seconds later, he managed to unfreeze and walk to a chair, sitting down slowly, like the aged man he truly was.
Hunched over, hands cradling his head, Butler began to weep.