Waking Dreams
by Nancy Brown (nancy@mzac.interlink.net)
copyright 1997
PG

Disney and Buena Vista hold all the rights to the characters and
situations in this story.  I bow to their superior wisdom and legal
resources.  May they take the confusion that follows as testament
to the great series that was "Gargoyles."  Gentle reader, please
note this takes place directly after Merlin's "Consequences: Hill
and Home," and do not attempt to read it before reading that.  It
would be meaningless for you.

This tale is dedicated to the memory of Dr. John M. Stadlbauer, who
knew that being a scientist did not preclude believing in pink
dragons.  It is never "Goodbye," my friend; it is simply "Until
next time."



     There was a gargoyle in front of her.
     It was a female, lavender-grey, dark-haired, no doubt very
lovely by their standards.  She held a recently plumped pillow in
her hands, and seemed to want something.  Yes, for her to sit
forward.
     She folded her arms and stayed stubbornly where she was.  No
gargoyle was going to tell her what to do.  No gargoyle was ...  No
gargoyles were left alive.  They'd all been smashed, hadn't they?
     "Who are you?" she demanded.
     The gargoyle winced.  Slowly, her face worked into a passable
expression of acceptance.  "It's Angela."
     Angela ...  The name rolled around in her mind.  "Gargoyles
don't have names.  Except for Goliath, and he's dead."
     No, that wasn't quite right.  He wasn't dead.  But he wasn't
there, either.  Something had happened to him.  Stone at night, she
thought, but didn't know why.
     "We all have names, now," the gargoyle said.  "You gave them
to us."
     "Don't be absurd," she said quickly.  She would have known if
she'd named all the gargoyles.  There were no gargoyles.  They were
all dead.  They couldn't all be dead.  One stood before her.
"Angela.  You were here yesterday."
     "Yes!" said the gargoyle, her face brightening.  "You
remember."
     "Of course I remember.  I'm not stupid," she snapped.
     Stupid, she thought, I called myself stupid.  She remembered
quite clearly, cursing at herself, as strong arms carried her ...
somewhere.  Why did I do that?
     "What happened?  Why does my leg hurt?"
     "You fell.  You were walking down the stairs, and you
tripped."
     There had been stairs, yes, and she'd lost her footing.
Stupid.  She'd been so very stupid.  Why hadn't she watched her
step?
     "Aye, that would explain it, then."  She touched the place
where it hurt.  "Does the Magus think I broke it?"
     The gargoyle bit her lip.  "Xanatos' doctor said you had.
That's why we brought you home."
     Home.  She tried to fix on the idea, but it moved away before
she could capture it.  She looked at the gargoyle.  Angela, one of
her Eggs.  She smiled.
     "Angela, when did you get so tall?  Wasn't it yesterday that
you and the others were climbing trees to get aloft?"
     Angela returned her smile.  "That was a while ago.  We're all
grown up now."  She looked away, then down at her again.  "In fact,
some of us are carrying eggs of our own."
     "How did that happen?"  She saw the Egg flush, and amended.
"I know about that part, child."  Angela's smile returned, shy.
     "I couldn't tell you before.  I've taken a mate.  Broadway."
     She tried to think.  "One of your rookery brothers?"
     "No.  He's from the clan that you knew when you were young.
I love him."  Recognition of the truth behind her words filled her
eyes as she spoke them.  "I love him," she repeated.
     Carrying eggs ...  She'd carried eggs from the gargoyle
rookery beneath her castle.  They'd been heavy, and warm.  She
curled her hands, feeling the smooth texture of an eggshell beneath
her fingertips.
     The eggs.  She had to get the eggs to her uncle's keep.  They
weren't safe in their home any longer, now that the gargoyles were
dead.
     There was a gargoyle before her, a young female.  She looked
rather like the red-haired mate of Goliath, pretty, but the wrong
colors.
     She tried to sit up, only for sharp pain to shoot through her
leg.  She cried out, and the gargoyle rushed to her.
     "You need to rest, my princess."  She tried to coax her back
against the pillow.  She'd have none of it.
     "I don't have time to rest.  We have to gather the eggs and
take them to my uncle.  Tell the Magus to ready a cart and horse.
I don't want anyone else near them."
     "Princess," the gargoyle said slowly, "you took the eggs to
safety.  We hatched on Avalon.  Remember?"
     She looked askance at the gargoyle.  "Who are you?  I haven't
seen you around the castle."
     The gargoyle said nothing, watched her with sad eyes.  She sat
down on a stool near the bed, her wings folded around her
gracefully.
     "Who are you?" she asked again.
     "A friend," said the gargoyle.



     Her eyes opened.  Two gargoyles were by her bed, a male and a
female.  They didn't seem to notice that she'd awakened, continued
their talk in loud whispers.
     "I knew you'd be upset."
     "I'm not upset."  The pain on his young face belied his words.
"I'm concerned.  What do you know about him?"
     "Everything I need to know.  He's kind, and he's sweet, and he
loves me.  And I love him."
     "But ... "  He trailed into silence.
     "Don't get this way.  Please.  I wanted to tell you as soon as
I was certain, but time got away from me."
     "You're too young."
     "Half our sisters already had mates when I left.  Marc Antony
and Julius have been mates for five years.  Why should I be any
different?"
     Again, silence.  She could read the answer on the male's face,
etched in loneliness that would not be assuaged.  Indeed, most of
the females had taken mates, or soon would.  Ariadne was big with
egg; surely her sisters would follow quickly.  The male and female
before her, she remembered, had been about to become mates, when
the female had gone away, and now she loved another.  He'd lost his
chance with her.  That must have hurt him badly, more so than he
was letting on.  It was surely the worst pain in the world, she
would think.
     A man came into the room, human, and why that should surprise
her she could not say.  His eyes lit when he saw that she was
awake, and he took her hand.  She pulled it away again.
     "An' who might ye be?" she demanded.  There were two gargoyles
in the room with her.  They stared at her, and she pulled her
blanket closer around her, feeling very exposed.
     "Who would you have me be?" he asked her.  She squinted at
him, until his face settled into a familiar form.
     "Wheezer?" she ventured.  He'd come to the castle on his semi-
annual vacation, to talk to her father and perhaps convince him to
wed her to Wheezer's eldest son.  She scowled at him.
     "If that's who you think I am, then that's who I am."
     "Father will no' think kindly on ye if he finds ye've been in
my bedchamber.  Now go!"  She waved him away, and reluctantly, he
walked out of the room, with a glance to the other two.  Gargoyles.
There were gargoyles in her room.  "All of ye, scat!"  She shooed
them out, and lay back against her pillows, very tired.
     The door opened.  Tom poked his head inside, and said
carefully, "My Love?"
     She opened her eyes, and smiled warmly at him.  "Tom!
Where've you been?  Did you find Goliath and the others?"
     "Aye," he said, blinking too much as he took her hand between
him.  "They're just fine.  How do you feel?"
     "Terrible.  My leg hurts, and I'm cold.  Where are the
children?"
     He reached behind her and took another blanket to wrap around
her.  She snuggled into it as he took her hand again.  "They're
outside, causing trouble as usual."  He brushed her hair from her
face.  "You're looking better."
     "Better than what?"  He looked down at her, and she smiled,
hoping he caught her joke.
     "Better than I've ever seen you before.  How do you manage to
get more beautiful with each passing day?"
     "I live on a strict diet of fruit, bread and flattery."
     He chuckled.  Then his face grew serious.  "I love you,
Katharine."
     "Good," she said primly.
     "He was in love with you," said Elisa.  The younger woman
stood beside her, unable to meet her eyes.  She was in her room,
the one she'd slept in since she was a tiny babe, watching an old
woman stare back at her.
     "I know," she said.  "I always knew."
     "You *knew*?  But then ...  I mean, why ... "
     "I wondered that, for a long time.  It seemed like a perfect
thing, he and I.  But he was so shy.  I could tell he wanted to say
it, just didn't know the way, and didn't think he even had the
right.  And I was raised not to say such things.  So we neither of
us spoke, and time went on, and after a while, I fell in love, and
it was no longer a perfect thing, nor anything at all.  That's one
bit of advice I'll tell you, dear.  When you see something you
want, grab onto it with both hands, and don't let it go from you."
     She squeezed her hand to demonstrate.  It was being held.  She
looked up and saw a strange man, watching her with the most
extraordinary blue eyes.  "Who are you?"
     "Someone who loves you."
     "Ah."  He didn't *look* like a suitor.  "Forgive me, good sir.
I think I've seen you about the castle, but I can't recall your
name."
     "It's not important.  Would you like me to read to you?  We
brought back several books from our last trip into the World."
     "I'd like that."  Stories, yes.  Stories were always glad
things to fill the hours.
     "I'll be back in just a moment, then.  Lie still."  He leaned
over and kissed the top of her head.  She didn't move, didn't
react, merely watched him.
     He went out, and she examined her surroundings.  The room was
about the size of her room when she'd been a girl, with an airy
feeling that could not be readily explained.  She saw a fireplace
at the other end, unlit but piled with massive logs.  A wardrobe
stood in the corner, shut tight, with soft-looking quilts folded
atop it.  The floor was stone, obviously, but covered in sweet
smelling rushes.  There was a window, allowing her to see only
darkness outside.  She heard music from beyond it, unlike any she'd
ever heard.  There were voices as well, some singing, most talking.
     A minstrel band had come to Wyvern.  Father had sent her to
bed early, before the music had started in full.  It seemed the
party had moved from the Great Hall to the courtyard.  Surely
Father wouldn't mind if she just peeked outside from her own
window.
     She pulled the blanket from her and swung her legs over the
side of her overlarge bed.  Pain sparked through her right leg as
it touched the floor, and she bit back a cry.  She rubbed it,
wondering what in heaven's name had happened.  With some
embarrassment, she pulled up her gown to see two strips of metal
firmly bound together with what appeared to be cloth, and the whole
mess around her poor leg.  A tug showed she wouldn't be able to
remove it easily, although it seemed to be what was bringing her
such agony.  She worried at one of the straps, found that it was
attached with a buckle, and freed herself.  The pain settled to a
dull but powerful ache.  Again she heard the music from outside,
and longed to see.
     She grasped the bedpost and pulled herself upright, leaning on
her left leg.  It was also weak, and almost collapsed beneath her
weight.  Gritting her teeth together, she forced it to move,
keeping her hold on the bed as long as possible.  She tilted
herself and grabbed the wardrobe.  Her fingers dug into the handle,
but she could not hold onto it.  She tried to put weight on her
right leg to steady herself, felt it twist as she slipped in agony
to the floor.
     She stayed there for a while, her breath hard, fighting tears,
until the pain again subsided to a hot throb.  She pulled her arms
beneath her, and pushed her torso upwards, ignoring the pain,
ignoring everything save the need to see outside for a few precious
seconds.  She hitched herself across the room on her hands, using
her left leg as a push.  She reached the wall.  The window was two
feet above her.  She looked up and out, seeing only the night sky
and the eternal stars.  She set her weight on her left knee, and
stretched up with her hands to grasp hold of the windowledge.
     "Katharine!"
     She turned to the voice, her hold slipping as she did.  Her
left leg gave way, and she fell back to the floor.  Her right leg
screamed at her.
     Strong arms went beneath and around her, sending more pain
through her leg.  She moaned, as he adjusted his touch to avoid
moving it again.
     "Love, what were ye *doing*?"  He sounded angry, hurt, and
absolutely terrified, as he carried her back to her bed.
     She found it hard to speak.  "I wanted to see the minstrels.
Please.  Let me look outside."  He set her down on the coverlet.
     "Katharine, you shouldn't be out of bed."
     "Please?"
     "They're not minstrels,  They're just the damned fay."  She
lowered her head, stared at the odd device on his breastplate, like
the shadow of a great winged beast.  "Only for a moment, all
right?"
     She nodded.  Again, his arms surrounded her, and she made an
effort not to show how much her leg hurt, lest he set her down
again and she miss her chance.  He carried her to the window, and
she happily peered out into the courtyard.
     Strange creatures gamboled before her.  There were snakes, and
manticores, and spiders, and demons beyond measure.  A few normal-
looking people were scattered among them, and a handful of
gargoyles, although the latter seemed to keep to their own.  She
saw a human woman with tapered ears and long dark hair sitting on
a stone bench, holding a golden whistle without playing it, just
watching as if it might yield some secret, or perhaps return to her
something cherished and lost.
     The music was loud, with deeper tones, a primitive beat, and
the creatures danced.  She hid her face against his shoulder in
fear and did not open her eyes again until she was safely in bed
once more.
     "Thank you," she said in a very small voice.
     "Now let's see what you've done to yourself."  The anger
hadn't entirely left him, but it was tempered with concern.  He
took the hem of her gown, and rubbed his hand up her leg.
     She slapped him.
     "Don't touch me, sirrah!"  How dare he, whoever he was!  He
sighed, and reached down again.  She drew back to repeat the
lesson, found her hand held in check by his stronger one.  "Let me
go!"
     "Katharine, you've hurt yourself.  I need to know how badly."
     "Ye're no healer.  My father will have ye strung up when I
tell him what liberties ye'd be takin'!"
     "The next time you see him, you can tell him so."  Again, he
placed his hand on her calve and moved upwards.  She closed her
eyes, and prayed that whatever happened would be over quickly.  She
had heard tales of what soldiers did to young maids, and feared
more than she would let this ruffian know.
     "We'll need to resplint this.  I think it's fractured in
another place.  Why ... ?!"  His face grew red, and she cringed.
He closed his eyes, and waited.  "Katharine, I love you, but you
have to listen.  You can't get out of bed.  You need to rest and
let yourself heal."  He set her hand on her lap.  "I don't want to
lose you."
     "I'm sorry," she said, not sure why she should be.  She had no
idea what he was talking about.  Sick!  She felt perfectly fine.
     "It's all right, Love.  Now, lie still.  I'm only going into
the hallway, and I'm leaving the door open.  I'll have one of the
children come help."
     She closed her eyes and nodded.



     "Tried to get away, did you?"  Constantine stood before her,
a smirk across his features.  She'd once thought him handsome, but
scarcely worth her notice despite the attention he'd paid her since
their arrival.  Finella had certainly thought him good looking, and
her adoration had cost the throne of Scotland.
     She turned her head, stiffly.  Finella struggled uselessly
between two faceless guards.  It had taken three to hold Mary, and
still she looked to do them harm if they did not pay heed.  Only
one held little Tom, a beefy hand wrapped at the boy's tender
throat awaiting one word from the usurping king.
     There was pain, from far away, and she noted he'd struck her,
although for some reason her legs hurt worse than her face.
     "Answer me."
     "Aye."
     "'Aye' what?"
     "Aye," she bit the words, "Your Majesty."
     "Ye're no' the king!"  Tom's shout hadn't enough force to
carry far, but Constantine's face twitched.
     "Kill him."
     Before she could draw breath to yell, beg him to stop, she
heard the awful sound of tiny bones snapping.  Everything happened
slowly, as it did when she moved through water.  Mary screamed, and
one of her guards let loose.  The other two held fast to her,
barely.  Finella slumped, in a faint or simply in defeat, knowing
her own death was near at hand.
     Katharine watched the child's face as he fell limply to the
floor, his blue eyes already looking into Heaven.  An ache formed
around her heart, unnameable, as she somehow recalled looking into
those eyes when they were taller than her own, crinkled in
amusement at the sight of a little boy with wings.
     Constantine's face had gone still.  "I gave you everything,
even offered you a place by my side when I could have easily had
you executed.  You repay me with treason."
     When had the eggs been brought into the room?  Had they always
been there?  Did it matter, as Constantine raised his sceptre above
one and brought it crashing down?  He struck, and the guards
struck, and her own heart shattered with every blow.
     Mary and Finella and Tom's body were gone.  The eggs were
gone, leaving only bits of shell and stone.  She was alone with
Constantine, atop a cliff.  He argued fiercely with someone.  The
Captain of the Guard it was, and not Constantine but Hakon.  She
heard the cries from the camp, knew them to be the screams of men
who learned too late the price of a gargoyle's vengeance.  She saw
Goliath charging up the hill; heard Constantine's voice in her ears
whispering, "There is no escape for you;" saw from very far away a
tow-headed little boy making his way up the cliff behind Goliath,
and her heart cried to him to run, run away before Constantine saw
him.
     "There is one escape," she said, and was surprised to hear
that her voice sounded very old.
     She pulled free of he captor and jumped.



     "How much longer?"
     A man and a woman stood at the foot of her bed.  His face was
pinched, and very tired.
     "Not long," the woman said, sympathy radiating from her like
heat from a fire.  "Tom, a spell of healing won't endanger her
soul.  It will simply make her more comfortable."
     "I know."  He hesitated, then said, "Your Majesty, could you
possibly ... "
     She smiled gently.  "Yes."  She moved beside the bed, and
Katharine could see that she was unlike any other woman she'd ever
seen, even gargoyle.  Her skin was the green of the sea when it
lapped upon the sand, her hair the red of pale sunsets, and her
ears came to delicate points at either side of her lovely face.
"Hello Katharine."
     "Hello."
     "Does your leg still pain you?"
     She shook her head.  Then she tried to move her feet to
demonstrate and cried out in surprise.
     "I can make it feel better.  Would you like that?"
     "Yes, please."  She didn't want to weep.  Little children
wept, not women of thirty summers.
     "Give me your hand."  She placed her hand in the woman's
strong grip.  Warmth flowed through the touch, traveling up her arm
like a candle flame licking inside her bones.  The good feeling
migrated into her stomach, and out her limbs.  When it reached her
leg, she tingled all over, and then the pain was gone.  She flexed
her muscles without a problem.
     "My thanks, kind lady."
     "Not a problem," said the young woman beside her.  Katharine
peered at her face.  She seemed to have some kind of blemish around
her right eye, perhaps a birthmark.  Katharine's shoulders tensed.
She appreciated the fact that the new residents of her castle did
not mind the old coming there to live; at the same time, their
hostess made her uneasy.  She was forever asking questions
Katharine couldn't answer, about things she didn't want to know.
     "Where's that sweet bairn of yours?"  She glanced around,
hoping to catch a glimpse of the wee babe.  He was a pretty child,
to be sure, and yet there was more.  Holding him on her lap and
rocking back and forth with him gave her the sense that all was as
it ought to be.  He seemed to understand, and he allowed her to
hold him quietly for hours without end.  Maybe she was simply
missing the time she'd spent holding her own children.  Amazing,
she thought, how with only three laps and six arms they'd managed
to suitably cuddle thirty-five babies and a bitch pup.
     "He's down for a nap.  Would you like to take another walk
through the castle?  Maybe it'll help you remember things."  She
showed her teeth with her smile, and she looked hungry.
     "No.  I think I'll stay here for now."  The woman seemed
crestfallen.  She stood up quickly and was gone.
     "'My father's family name being Pirrip, and my christian name
Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or
more explicit than Pip.  So, I called myself Pip, and came to be
called Pip.'"  The voice was halting, not suited to reading in the
language it spoke.  It was a low, grating sound, unpleasant for the
listening, and for all that, she strained to hear every nuance,
focusing intently on the rough face above the book as he made out
the words.
     He wasn't handsome.  That was the first thing she observed,
not handsome, and growing old.  Silver streaked through the dark
bronze of his hair, accentuating the lines on his face, the strain
in his eyes.  She turned from him, afraid of seeing a reflection of
her own greater age.  He was getting old, and she was already
there.  Her parents hadn't grown old, and her uncle, while grey-
haired, had been so as long as she'd known him.  The little brother
her mother had died bearing hadn't lived more than an hour after
her.  Her entire family was dead.  The Eggs would be young long
after the three of them had joined her family in Heaven.  Assuming
they made it to Heaven.
     The Bishop had always spoken harsh words against users of
magic, and those who consorted with them.  He would like have been
outraged at her marriage, not only to a commoner, but without the
benefit of the Church's blessing, and never mind that she had sworn
to her lover the same oaths before God any married woman would.
     She saw the man, thin and unsmiling, standing before the gates
to Paradise beside Saint Peter.  He scowled at her, and folded his
arms, denying her passage.  Hot fingers pulled at her feet, her
hands, into the Pit, laughing at her as they went down, down into
darkness, the place of fire reserved for fornicators and the rest
who died outside of God's grace.  They went through the flames, and
her skin burned off, leaving only the remnants of her soul, which
they thrust into a cage and abandoned.  She was blinded, deafened,
cold, and worst, far worst of any punishment, she was alone.  No
one was there with her, no fellow sufferers, no giggling devils, no
angels peering down from far above, no one at all.  For a thousand
miles around her to each side, she was alone, and would be alone
for the rest of eternity for her sins.
     She shouted, and sat up.  Light came in through her window,
casting dancing shadows from the trees outside onto her wall.  A
few stray beams of light played on the face of the man beside her,
resting his head on his arms as he sat, fast asleep, his book
abandoned on the quilt.  She hadn't disturbed him with her shout,
and part of her remarked that he'd always slept soundly, especially
when she'd made an effort to wear him out completely.  Her senses
envisaged the warmth of him, the indefinably masculine scent of his
skin, and she blushed to her feet, wondering where she'd gotten
such libertine thoughts.
     The sunlight caught the few remnants of gold in his hair,
making him sparkle like some toy.  With the lightest touch, she
brushed at his locks as he slept, wondering who he was that he
could sleep so soundly in what was surely an uncomfortable
position.  In repose, there was no strain on his face, allowing a
glimpse of the boy he'd been, taking a nap in the sunshine.
     She chased after Tom, making sure not to run too fast and end
the game too quickly.  He dodged, and she reached out and touched
him.  They fell to the ground, getting caught by the sweet meadow
grasses.
     "Your turn!" she said, and got to her feet, dashing away,
again not too fast.  He chased, and she let him catch her.  He
grinned up at her with all the audacity of nine and scurried off
before she could tag him back.
     Tired for a moment, she stood still, looking back towards the
trees.  The other third of their tiny family had been sitting
against one just minutes ago, fiddling with something or another as
usual.  He'd never been one much for games, but he did enjoy being
with them in the afternoons as they played together.  Often, he
seemed as thrilled to be watching them run as she felt while
running.  It disturbed her, then, to note he'd forsaken his place
by the trees.  Where on earth would he have gone?
     A cloud passed over the sun, chilling her terribly, and for an
instant, she saw a high room beneath a hill, the children gathered
around sadly.  She didn't want to see that place, knew on some
level it was a bad place, and she made the vision go as far away
from her as she could.  She shuddered, her whole body trembling
with the effort of pushing the thought, and with it the knowledge
of an absence so intense it was physical agony to touch, into a
single point deep within her soul and burying the lot so that she
would not hurt any more.
     "Love, are you all right?"  Tom was sitting beside her,
concerned.  Her shivering must have awakened him.  He didn't look
as if he'd slept enough yet.
     "I'm very cold," she said.  She tried to focus on his face,
and failing that, his voice.  She saw the tones as colors.  His
voice was deep, deep forest green, like the leaves on the trees in
high summer, or the ocean on a calm day.  He was warmth and light
inside her chilly darkness, and he was getting further away.  She
tugged at her blanket, barely sensing its fine weave smooth against
her skin.
     "Would you like something to eat?  Julius and Michael brought
apples from the grove for you just before dawn."  He reached over,
and pulled something from the bedside.  A bowl, she thought, filled
with shapes.  He took one and cut it into slices, his hands
trembling.
     "Damn!" he muttered, placing his finger in his mouth.  If she
looked very hard, she could see tears in his eyes, although she
knew him well enough to know it wasn't from pain.  She leaned
forward as he pressed a slice of apple into her hand, and took a
tart bite.  She made herself chew and swallow, watching his face
light as she did.  Such little things could make him happy.  The
poor dear, he'd always tried to please her, since he'd been a lad,
and she had taken his gifts as her due.  She had taken everything
that way, and had never wondered to ask why either of her two
dearest friends would be so kind to her.
     "Thank you," she said, for all that he'd done for her since
the beginning of things.  She tried to make the words come
together, tell him she appreciated all he had made and sacrificed
for her sake, and all he had given freely.
     Her father sat by her side.  "Always," he said kindly.  "Now,
what did you do with your day?"
     "I don't remember.  It was a long day."
     He smiled at her, touching her face.  "Try."
     She thought about it, until the day's events were clear in her
mind.  "Morning.  The bazaar.  There were shops set up in the
courtyard.  You and I walked and walked.  You bought me sweets, and
I wasn't hungry for supper later.  In the afternoon, I had to have
my lessons in Latin.  We're to start the Aeneid soon.  I didn't
want supper, but I was hungry in the evening."
     "It was a good day, wasn't it, my Katie?"  Uncle Kenneth
laughed heartily, and tipped his goblet to her.  "A good day
indeed."  He indicated the young lords scattered about the hall,
many of them trying not to watch her.  She knew most of them by
name and breeding, and a few better.
     Wheezer's son, whose given name was Edward, tilted his head in
her direction.  Like his father, he was on the portly side of fit,
his brown hair already thinning to nothing atop his head.  She
turned her eyes away from him, scanning the dark room for more
pleasant views.  Some of the young men were quite handsome, like
her father had been.  Some were well-endowed; those from lesser
holdings were leaner, sharper.  A few knew their letters, though
not well, while the only truly bookish man she'd ever known was
nowhere to be seen.  Her uncle had suggested casually that she not
mention to potential suitors that she herself could read and write.
While a few might consider it an asset to have an educated wife,
most would think it beneath her station and more befitted of a
postulate nun than a princess.
     In the stories she knew, pretty young maids were carried away
by strong, comely knights.  She didn't spy any knights among the
assembled, and while they were not perhaps all that Scotland had to
offer, they were the closest she would come.  If she did not show
favour towards any of these, her uncle would arrange a match for
her, no doubt to someone whose loyalty he needed reinforced.  She
would find herself wed to Wheezer, or to Findlay, and she would
settle to a life of bearing bairns and wondering what had happened.
     She saw him: tall, striking blue eyes, older but not with the
dusty age of a lord.  He wore a strange coat of arms on his chest,
one she did not know, and his helm was fierce like a gargoyle's
face.  The knight was beside her, sadness on his beautiful
features, touching her hand.  She turned to her uncle, tried to
tell him that this was the one, the right one, her choice of all
suitors, this unhandsome, strong, brave man.  Uncle Kenneth had
left her, though, and she was alone with her knight.
     "Tell me, good sir, what is your name?"  Why was it so hard to
speak?
     "Tom, my princess."
     "Tom."  His given name, then, and not his land.  "And where do
you call your home?"
     "The Isle of Avalon.  We've lived there quite some time."
     She did not know the place, and here she'd thought she'd known
all the holdings in Scotland.  "Is that in England?"
     "No, it's not in England."
     "Ah.  Perhaps my uncle has heard of it.  You should know, you
must speak to him before we can wed."
     "I shall."  He looked away.
     "Thomas," she said, "what in the world is the matter?  You
look like you lost your best friend."  She disliked seeing her love
in such a state, and rubbed his hand, hoping to make him feel
better.
     "Both of them, I think," he said.
     "Don't be daft.  We're all quite fine.  You should probably
talk to the Magus.  He's been spending too much time away from the
palace, and the way he pays heed to things, he's like to hurt
himself, and then we won't know where he's gone."
     "I'll have a word with him when he returns."
     "Do.  And put on a light, would you, Love?  It's very dark
tonight."
     Another candle flared to life.  He was still dim before her,
a dark shape, surrounded by an eerie yellowish haze interspersed
with blue sparks.  Odd candles they had, she thought, but
everything was odd here.
     "Katharine, what are you thinking?"
     "I'm thinking we should make more candles.  We're going to be
running low soon."
     "I'll set the Eggs to it this evening.  They like making the
candles.  Perhaps if you're feeling better, you can come watch."
     "I feel fine."
     He settled into a chair by her bed and said, "Eleven of our
lasses are going to be mothers.  Possibly Boudicca, as well.
Angela has suggested, and I agree, that they spend the time in the
World, and that they keep their eggs there.  The clan is so small,
certainly it would be better to have hatchlings in ten years rather
than two hundred.  What do you think?"
     "Hatchlings?  We're going to be grandparents?"
     "In a few months, yes.  We'll have grandchildren at our knees,
and we can spoil them dreadfully."
     "Good," she said, and turned her head to the window.  It was
open, letting her smell the open blossoms in the meadows outside
the palace gates.  The smell of springtime, she thought, but then,
it's always Spring here.  "Will you read to me, my love?"
     "Of course," he said.  He took the book from where it lay on
the bed, opened it, and continued.  She couldn't recall the
beginning of the story, and really didn't care.  She listened to
his voice, letting her eyes close as she could barely see him
anyway.
     The shock of his lips against hers electrified her.  Tom
pulled away, shyly, a rosy colour to his cheeks as he began to
examine the floor.  She kept watching him, uncertain how to react.
Part of her still saw him, would always see him as a little boy
with fine gold hair and wide blue eyes, small but very determined
in all he tried to do.  He had been playmate to the girl she had
yet been in too many ways, more than ready for games in the
meadows, or hide and seek in the palace.
     His hair had darkened, and his bright round face had been
shaped into a man's.  His eyes shone with the same mirth, and yet
they had seen much during their travels to the World.  By some
means of which she was still uncertain, he was no longer a child.
     Nor was she.
     Part of her had noticed the changes within him, had welcomed
them in an anticipation to which she could not admit even to
herself.  The same hidden facet of her soul had nudged at her, once
upon a time, whispering thoughts she did not want to have about her
oldest friend, reminding her that he was, then, the only other
adult in her world, suggesting he would not be opposed to a life
shared with her.  There had even been one moment, ages past,
sharing a lazy summer afternoon watching the clouds drift by with
him, when she had allowed herself the thought that, were he to make
some defining motion towards her, she would follow suit into ...
     Nothing.  Nothing had come of it.  He had watched her, had not
moved, and she'd felt the fool and turned away.  She'd cursed the
weak place inside of her, had hidden it far from sight, beneath
layers of formality and indifference.  And damn him, he'd done the
same.  Lately, he passed most of his days by himself when he wasn't
attending to the Eggs or spending the proper number of hours with
either of them, and his solitude enforced her own.
     Time had passed for all of them.  She spent much of hers with
the children, and the rest with her remaining friend.  That secret
place inside of her stopped bothering her with its incessant
prattle, and after a while, she fancied it had died altogether.  It
had not.  Despite her efforts to the contrary, it had noticed the
growth of the one before her from childhood to adulthood.  It
remarked to her at odd times how nice it was to be near him,
chatting of his last trip into the World, and it ached when he'd
gone back this last time to search again for the clan.  It had
rejoiced when he'd returned unharmed.
     As he'd kissed her, the bindings she had placed on her own
soul had melted, while his touch reawakened feelings she'd long
denied herself.  The sensible part of her reminded her that he was
many years her junior, that what she was contemplating was
unbefitting one of her breeding, and certainly was immoral in the
extreme.  The unsensible part of her told the sensible part to go
away.
     He waited, still shy, still afraid, until she smiled at him,
leaned over, and kissed him right back.



     "You need rest," said a gargoyle, female.  She leaned over
awkwardly, a comforting hand on the shoulder of a human man who sat
by her bed.
     "I can't leave her alone.  She might hurt herself again."
     "We can watch her," said another voice, a gargoyle, male,
burnt copper and small of frame, his short beak pursed in concern.
He stood to her other side.
     "I need to be here," said the man, pulling away from the touch
though not brusquely.
     "Please, Guardian," said the female.  She was taller than the
male, two horns sweeping to either side of her midnight blue face,
a bulge in her belly that could only be an egg.  "You were here all
last night, and all day.  It's our turn."
     His face was more stony than either of the Eggs' would be by
day.  "I'll stay.  You may stay with us as you please."
     There was a tap on the door, and two more female gargoyles
came into the room, one green with a great ridge about her head,
one lavender, her dark hair a mane behind her.
     "Guardian, why don't you get some sleep?" suggested the green
one, touching his arm.
     "I'll thank ye not to try that again, young miss."  She backed
away.
     The reddish male said, "Guardian, the three of you took care
of us when we were little and needed attention.  Will you not allow
us to offer the same in return?"
     "Besides," said the lavender female, taking his elbow
gingerly, "you don't want to let her see you so tired.  She'll
worry."  He allowed her to lead him to his feet.
     "Tom," she said groggily.  He shook off the restraining arm
and took her hand.
     "Yes, Love?"
     She smiled at him, as brightly as she could, and patted his
hand.  He squeezed gently.  "Go with the children.  I promise not
to wander far."  She leaned forward and whispered in his ear: "I
love you."
     He placed a soft kiss on her cheek.  "I'll be back soon."
     She watched him walk out, accompanied by Ariadne and Michael,
and why hadn't she known Ariadne was carrying?  She couldn't even
offer any advice on how to suffer the pregnancy, although she could
give plenty on the care and feeding of baby gargoyles.
     Two of her babies were in the room with her.  Ophelia sat to
one side, Angela to the other, and they began chatting of the
celebration the fay had held the night before.  She half listened,
half watched her daughters as they spoke.  Lovely young women they
had become, full of thoughts and dreams.  They wouldn't be as she
had when she'd been young, silly and petty.  They would be strong,
and wise, and brave, and their own children would reap the rewards
of that strength, that wisdom, that courage.  The hatchlings would
know what it was to be raised by fellow gargoyles, and more, by the
humans and even the fays who had become inseparable parts of the
clan.  Her grandchildren would grow by moonlight, and in time, they
too would bear young dreamers.
     She wouldn't live to see it, not her great-grandchildren, nor
probably even her grandchildren, and that was all right, too.  It
was the way of the clan, for the elders to give way to the newborn,
that the circle could continue.  The old clan had no names, but now
names were as much a part of them as their stone sleep.  Her own
name, and those of her parents, and her uncle, and Mary and Finella
and her two most beloved friends, would be spoken by the great-
grandchildren of the two gargoyles sitting beside her bed.  Wasn't
that the true definition of immortality?  To ever be part of the
cycle of birth and death and rebirth, as her children were reborn
at each sunset?
     She saw a line stretching before her, vast and unending, of
lavender and green and grey and brown, and humans among them in
their own multitude of hues, and fays beyond her powers of
imagination to guess at their shapes.  She saw the countenances of
friends long gone stamped on newborn faces, heard her father's
comforting heartbeat echoing like a gong from within Angela's
belly, and written in the eyes of a red-haired little boy ...
     She understood.
     "Ophelia," she said, interrupting their tale, "would you
please fetch me some water?"
     "Yes, my princess," she said.  She nodded to her sister and
hurried out the door.
     "Angela," she said, taking her child's hand, "I have to tell
you something."
     "What is it?" asked the girl.
     "You have within you ...  "  She trailed off, unsure of how to
say it without sounding more foolish than they surely already
thought her.  "The egg."
     "Yes," she said eagerly.  "That's good!"
     "Yes.  No.  Listen to me.  It's not the first time.  Your son,
my father."
     Her face fell.  She tucked in the coverlet.  "You'd better
rest.  Conserve your strength."
     "No!"  She pushed the damned blanket away.  "I know!  Angela,
I know.  We don't go away, none of us.  It's just until later."
The words slipped away from her, and she dropped her gaze to the
pattern on the quilt: a starburst, a circle that repeated again and
again over the expanse of fabric.  Yes, she thought, that's the
key.  A different place on the quilt, but always the same, all of
us together.
     She sensed someone else enter the room.  She looked up from
her inspection of the blanket to see her latest visitor.  She knew
before she saw that it would not be Ophelia with the water.
     "Where have you been?" she fussed.  "I've been sick with
worry.  Don't tell me you found another dusty old scroll."
     "Who are you talking to?" asked Angela, glancing around the
room curiously.
     "Another part of the Island?"  She blew out her breath.  "I
tell you, ever since Oberon and his Children came home, this island
has gone through more changes.  Just a few days ago, I tried to
walk up a staircase, and found myself in the dungeon!  It's enough
to drive one mad."
     Angela perked up as she asked, "What else do you remember?"
     "Hush, child.  I can hardly hear.  Say that again?  Why, it
does sound lovely, and I would like to see.  Is it far?  That's a
good journey, and neither of us are young anymore.  Are you certain
one or two of the Eggs oughtn't come with us?"
     She thought about it, noticed in the meantime that the room
was getting darker.  "Angela, put on another candle.  That's a good
lass.  Now, as to this little trip of ours, we won't be gone long?
I wouldn't want Tom and the children to worry.  Good.  Then I
shan't tell them we're going.  As you say, we'll be home before
they even know we've left."
     He smiled at her, and she could not recall having seen
anything so luminous in all her days.  She felt the warmth of his
hand as he took hers and wrapped their fingers together.  With the
least help from him, she stood.  Angela remained sitting, watching
something that lay still on the bed, and did not turn to see them
walk, hand in hand, through the doorway.

The End