#was listening to subwoofer lullaby on loop writing this jkfldjfkda

[fowlofprey]

“Where’s Mum?” Myles asks at breakfast while your father sets plates of pancakes in front of the twins and you’re mixing your coffee.

“Oh, ah, she’s just a bit under the weather,” says Artemis Sr, and you feel a chill run through your veins. “A couple days’ bed rest and she’ll be right as rain.”

“Mother is ill?” you try to keep your tone neutral, but you’re afraid the way your spoon clinks too loudly against the mug as you unintentionally drop it gives away your fear.

“Just a cold,” your father says, trying to be reassuring as he meets your gaze. “Really, Arty. She’s just got a common cold. Like I said, she’ll be better again before you even know it.”

“...Might I go see her?” you ask.

“Of course,” answers your father. “Go right on up and see her, you’ll see for yourself that she’s just fine. It’s not like...” last time, is what he doesn’t say, but you hear it anyway. Last time, when you had all thought she had simply caught a cold, which turned out to be a severe case of spelltropy, inflicted upon her by Opal Koboi thanks to your meddling with time travel in an attempt to cure her of that very same affliction. Last time, when you thought you would lose her again, for good this time. Last time, when you had manipulated Holly into helping you cure your mother, using the help she had offered years before against her to convince her that it was her own fault. You do not look upon last time fondly.

You just nod in response, and silently leave the kitchen to go and visit your mother.

“What’s wrong with Artemis?” you hear Beckett ask as you leave.

“Well, uh, when-- when you two were little, your Mum got very ill...” your father starts, and you don’t stick around to hear him finish.

“Come in,” Angeline Fowl calls as you knock on her bedroom door, and you do so. “Timmy, back already? Weren’t you going down to have breakfast with the boys?”

There’s that chill, again. Does she not recognize you? Surely, she can’t be that ill...

“Mother, it’s me, it’s Artemis. Don’t you recognize me?”

“No! Impostor! You’re not my little Arty, you must’ve done something to him! Where is he!? What have you done with my son!?”

“Moth-- Mum, it’s me--” you begin, trying to shake yourself out of the memory, and your mother cuts you off.

“Oh, Arty! I’m sorry, dear, it’s just that you look so much like your father. Looking out the corner of my eye, I thought you might have been him. Come on in, Arty, don’t be shy.”

You release the breath you’d unintentionally been holding as you step further into the room, closing the door behind you. Your mother does look sick, but not horribly so. Just a cold, you tell yourself. Just a cold.

She waves you over towards her. “Come on, come here, oh-- but not too close, of course, I’m contagious, after all.”

“I don’t mind getting a cold,” you say, but stop to sit at the foot of the bed at her behest.

“Of course you don’t; something so small would never keep my brave little Arty down for long.” She laughs, and you manage a weak smile. “And that’s all it is, Arty. Just a small cold. I’ll be better in no time.”

“That’s what Father said,” you reply, unsure what else to say.

“And isn’t he always right? ...Usually, at least,” she adds with another small laugh.

Seeing her like this, you can’t help but be taken back to age fourteen, helplessly watching her wither away before your eyes. She was so, so sick, and you knew it was your fault, even though your theory of the true cause had been incorrect at the time, either way, you were still the culprit.

This time, it’s not your fault, and you know that there’s no way it can be, and she’ll be fine, she said so herself, but... you can’t help but find reasons to blame yourself anyway. You should have washed your hands even more than you already do, you should have gotten sick instead, you should have, you should have...

“...temis? Arty? Are you with me?” your mother calls softly as you come back to yourself, feeling her hand around yours and horrid tears falling down your cheeks.

She’s sat up now, holding your hand and looking at you with extreme worry. You once again try to offer a weak smile, wiping the tears from your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I simply got lost in the past for a moment; that’s all.”

“Well, I’m here in the present, can you stay here with me?”

“...I can try, yes.”