Author's Note: Hey a timely update! Yays! Just to say mention this one last time, 'gargoyles_watch', the Gargoyles rewatch community on LiveJournal is in full swing. We had a great success with “Awakening” parts 1 and 2 last week and this week we're watching “Awakening” part 3. I hope you'll join us. Other than that, enjoy and please review!

Chapter 7

Expedition

Macbeth was late.

He was supposed to be there last night, but humans, even on horseback, were nowhere near as fast as a gargoyle in flight. Demona had a vague idea of his travels from their previous rendezvous and the very few times they had traveled together, but there was no way of knowing just how far away he was coming from this time. Unlike Macbeth, who had spent decades at a time mainly in Western European countries, she rarely remained in any one place for long. Instead Demona meticulously combed all of Europe and northern Asia from the Atlantic to what people in later centuries would recognize as the shore of the Pacific.

Nothing.

She had not seen another gargoyles in over two hundred years. The loneliness was so all-consuming that she gladly traded it for the guilt and sadness that came with returning to Wyvern and seeing Goliath and the others. Lonely still, but just a little less so. Again unlike her human companion, she did not feel the need to share her experiences over the centuries. There was little to speak of. Just being in their company again was enough, and the silence was mutual.

She broke from the stone sleep in a roar, eyes blazing, ready for attack. Vigilance was the gargoyle way, after all. Demona had expected to see Macbeth. She did not expect to see him in the company of a human male less than a quarter of a century old whose wide blue eyes stared at her in a mixture of fascination and disbelief. She ignored him and turned her own hard onyx gaze to the former king.

“Explain,” she demanded. “Now.”

Macbeth cleared his throat. “Demona, this is...”

The boy snapped out of his earlier astonishment, stepped forward with more excitement than sense, and uttered a praise she did not quote catch. “I can't believe it's you!”

“Am I expected to recognize you, human?” she asked dispassionately.

“Well, no,” he was somewhat embarrassed, but apparently undeterred. “I was but a lad at Castle Wyvern the night the Vikings destroyed your clan. Remember?”

“No.”

He looked flustered and glanced at Macbeth for support. The king just waved his hand.

“She's like this, lad. Don't take it personally.”

The newcomer, who Demona was growing more and more impatient with, quickly wracked his brain for something to say to make her remember him. “I'm Tom. I was in the group of refuges Princess Katharine gave shelter to the night before the first attack. I was fascinated with the gargoyles and started asking all sorts of questions, but my mother was afraid for me and threw a stick at the red one that's up there on the tower now. You came to their defense.”

Macbeth, who had known her for long enough to read even the smallest flickers of emotion, saw that that indeed sparked something. Not enough that any other person would have taken note, but Macbeth realized that she did indeed recognize the boy. Tom continued.

“You were Goliath's second-in-command. You... terrified us,” he admitted a little sheepishly.

At this Demona smiled, and Macbeth thought that if he were anyone else, he would be terrified by that smile alone as well. Trust Demona to be pleased at scaring someone, especially a human. Tom did tense up more than slightly.

“What of it?” she asked, not really admitting that she knew the boy but no longer denying it.

“I...” he seemed at a loss. “I came to see if the others had awakened. I ran into your friend and told him my story. He said I should speak to you.”

“What could you possibly have to say that I would be interested in hearing?”

Macbeth was utterly relieved that she did not ask why he should think that the gargoyles atop Castle Wyvern would suddenly awaken. She also did not look terribly surprised that she was standing across from yet another man who should have been dead centuries ago, but that was more likely than not just another thing she hid well. After all he had seen in his long life, Macbeth himself was not a man easily impressed, but Tom had not told him everything, therefore the next words out of his mouth did take him by surprise.

“I thought I would tell you of your children.”

* * * * * * * * * *

“They have passed beyond our sight. There can only be one explanation.”

“Avalon.”

“This is... unplanned.”

“Should we stop them?”

“Why bother? We do not care about what happens between now and then.”

“What they do in the meantime is their own affair. We will let them go but watch for their return.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The magic that bound Macbeth and Demona did not go as far as to transfer emotion, but at the moment the old king almost believed it did. Surely the chill that gripped him could could not be coming from him. Then again it could just be the dampness of the air on the ocean.

No one was surprised to see the six gargoyles atop Wyvern's tallest tower still encased in stone when they returned to the top. Tom gave a little disappointed sigh and lead them to the skiff. He and Macbeth made their way down the steep and jagged cliffs while Demona glided directly to the boat. It was not as if she could not have carried them down one at a time, but she had not offered, and Macbeth was not inclined to ask her. He was not certain he even trusted her state of mind at the moment.

Tom spoke a string of Latin – an incantation to be sure – just before the mist surrounded them. Macbeth knew the language, of course, but had not payed attention. After that silence descended. Tom was in front, pushing the skiff along through the ever thickening fog, while Demona sat in the middle, wings folded about her shoulders, and Macbeth remained on the other end. He did not know how she could stand the silence when he had about a million questions running through his mind and was fighting to curbed his curiosity.

“I'll take you to see them,” Tom had said to a dead silent Demona, and she had not uttered a single word since.

Macbeth, however, did want to talk. The subject of the Wyvern clan's children – the Eggs as Tom called them – was obviously off limits, but there were other things he wanted to know as the skiff sailed into the mist.

“If you're from Demona's time,” he said, “how did you come to be here?”

“My journey had been a long and strange one,” the young man replied.

He began to tell of things before Macbeth's time. Of the struggles of a group of refuge humans to reach the castle of King Kenneth II, Macbeth's great grandfather, who carried with them thirty-six precious gargoyle eggs. Of the murder of the king by the usurper Constantine and how they fled to the island of Avalon that he had only heard legends about. Tom explained that an hour spent there was equivalent to a day in the real world. That was what he meant when he said he was only twenty-two despite being born before Macbeth himself. When he reached the part about their confrontation with the guardians of the island, Macbeth held up a hand to stop him.

“You said there were three of them?” he asked. “Three... witches?”

“Aye,” Tom nodded. “Alike in all things save their hair color. One black, one white, one yellow. Why do you ask?”

Macbeth looked at Demona but her expression had not changed even with the mention of the Weird Sisters.

“No reason. Please go on.”

But there was not much left to tell. The mist that had surrounded the skiff began to part just as quickly as it had come upon them, and Macbeth saw the light of a burning signal fire on a not too distant hillside. He felt a wave of magic sweep across him, magic unlike he had ever felt before. Everything here was saturated with it, and they had not yet set foot on the island itself.

Macbeth was utterly in awe.

“Do you see this?” he whispered and reached out to put a hand on Demona's shoulder. Even in her state of shock she should not miss this.

His hand touched nothing but cool stone. He blinked, surprised. Somehow between Tom's tale and his first glance of the mystic isle, Macbeth had missed the sunrise. But how can that be? he thought, bewildered. It was sunset only hours ago. He looked to their guide for an explanation, but Tom only shrugged a little.

“I did tell you time works in funny ways here,” he said, then, as if realizing he might have forgotten something vital, gave Macbeth a concerned look. “Are you worried about leaving someone behind? I should have asked before we left.”

“No,” Macbeth smiled a little. “Everything I have is here.”

That was not entirely true. He did acquire some dwellings and even a few possessions in various parts of Europe, but some have stood empty for many decades. However much time they would spend on Avalon, Macbeth was certain that everything would be right where he left it.

They pulled up to the sandy beach, and together he and Tom tugged the skiff ashore. Macbeth stood looking around. Physically it did not look particularly different from any place he had been in the real world, but he could not deny the magic that saturated the place. It was not enough to bother him, but if he concentrated, Macbeth could almost swear that he could reach out and touch it. Tom seemed undisturbed by it, possibly because he lived here and was used to it the way someone eventually got used to a humid climate.

Or is it because I've been touched by magic before? Macbeth wondered. Did the spell that bind him and Demona also somehow make them more sensitive to the presence of magic? It was certainly a possibility, especially since Tom had said that the Sisters apparently came from this place. He would have to ask Demona what feeling she had from the island when she awoke.

“We can go ahead to the castle,” Tom pointed at the far away structure Macbeth had not noticed before, “to see Princess Katharine and Magus. This island is deserted. No harm will come to your companion.”

Macbeth shook his head. “I will wait here till dusk,” he said. “I do not doubt you, but this is a strange land to me. I will not leave her unprotected.”

Tom did not argue but he was clearly impatient to get back to his home. He looked at the castle somewhat longingly.

“Then I will go fetch someone,” he decided. “It is safe here, but one of us always remains with the Eggs.”

“I'd like to speak to the Magus, if you don't mind.” As eager as Macbeth was to meet his kinswoman, he thought it was more crucial for every human on the island if he spoke to the wizard first and found out as much as he could about the spell the remainder of the Wyvern clan was under before Demona awakened. Not to mention he also needed to warn them not to speak of it in her presence.

“I'll fetch him,” Tom nodded and ran off, and Macbeth settled in to wait.

He returned within the hour followed by a pale man in white robes. Even his hair was white, an unnatural color for someone his age. Tom, meanwhile, kept glancing anxiously at the castle as if he wanted to get back as soon as possible. Macbeth was obviously not the only one who noticed because the Magus sighed and told the young man to go back. He was more than happy to comply. The wizard himself glanced at Demona's stone form, instantly recognizing her, and turned to Macbeth.

“Your companion I know,” he said, “but Tom told us a little of yourself. I am the Magus.”

“I'm called Macbeth,” he clasped the man's outstretched hand, “and I believe we have much to talk about. You are the sorcerer who cursed the Wyvern clan?”

A wave of guilt washed over the man's face, but he did not deny it. “To my shame, I am.”

“I'm not here to shame you,” Macbeth said, “but to tell you that under no circumstances must she,” he pointed to Demona, “know of this. The lives of every human on this island are forfeit if she finds out.”

Magus looked bewildered at this. “I took what was left of her clan, and now you wish for me to lie to her about it? I know she will be angry but...”

“You don't know her,” the former king assured him. “Believe me when I say that if you tell her what you've done, she will kill you and Tom and the princess. I will tell her. Later. When we are far away from this island.” The Magus gave him a puzzled look, but Macbeth only shrugged a little. “Don't worry. She likes me. Relatively speaking, of course.”

“As you say,” the wizard still looked a little confused. “May I ask a question in turn?”

“You may ask.”

“How is it that you are still alive? Both of you. I know that gargoyles have longer lifespans than those of humans, but three centuries is a long time. And Tom told us you come from not too far after the fall of Castle Wyvern.”

“About a decade after to be more precise. I was born in ten o four,” Macbeth had been waiting for that question. “We made a bargain, Demona and I, one which, I admit, I did not fully understand at the time. It bound us together by magic and makes it impossible for us to die by anyone else's hands but our own. Lucky we're such great friends, eh Demona?” he tossed the statue a lopsided grin.

“So you are immortal?”

“Near as we can tell. I am two hundred and ninety-four years now and counting. She is even older than that, though I do not know exactly how much older.”

The Magus nodded thoughtfully. “It has been a while since I've wielded magic myself, but that is a very powerful spell. Who cursed you?”

“Fate,” Macbeth said simply, “that worked its sorcery though our mutual desire for vengeance among other things. I believe you can be trusted, but I would prefer to speak to Demona first before I say too much. What concerns me usually concerns her, and the opposite is true as well.”

Magus nodded in acceptance. “Did you name her?” he asked, changing the topic.

“Aye,” Macbeth laughed. “It seemed to suit.”

“It does,” the other man agreed. “More so than what Goliath called her.”

“His 'angel of the night',” Macbeth remembered her saying that once. “I don't know how he came up with that one. She's anything but angelic.”

Magus nodded. “I will not lie to you. I know she is your friend and...,” he looked like h was searching for the right word, “and rookery mother to the Eggs, but frankly I would have preferred to see Goliath. Anyone else from the clan, really. Much less time passed here than in the real world, but as I recall, she was quite... aggressive. Unless something changed.”

“No,” Macbeth said almost cheerfully. Apparently Demona's sunny disposition was well known. “But she did promise me once,” well, sort of promised, “not to kill needlessly. Don't make her feel like she needs to and don't assume I have any control over her, because I don't. I doubt she'll be terribly thrilled to see you, but as long as you do not mention the spell, you should be safe enough. Now, before the sun goes down, what else can you tell me about it?”

The sorcerer looked at a loss. “It is a rather simple sleep spell,” he said. “On a human, it would most assuredly be fatal unless broken quickly. Our bodies still require nourishment and age in sleep, but gargoyles are different. They can remain stone indefinitely and not perish.”

“So if someone were to break the spell,” Macbeth reasoned, “even centuries after it was cast, they would be alright.”

“Correct,” Magus agreed. “That is why Tom took it upon himself to go back to Wyvern Hill every hundred years by your time; to see if someone had broken it.”

“And without the counter spell that you say was burnt, the only way for them to awaken is for the castle to rise above the clouds?”

The wizard nodded. “I had considered levitation spells, but I do not have anything nearly so powerful. I doubt any such spell even exists.”

Macbeth looked at the sky above and blew out a short breath. “Well,” he said, “at least time is on our side.”