GARGOYLES: Re-Awakening

Stone Walls: 3

Ailith darted across the courtyard to the barrels at the east wall. She slid in behind and peered through the cracks. Demona was hot on her trail. She watched intently. It was a busy night inside the castle. Some traders had arrived during the day and the lieutenants had spent all afternoon bargaining loudly with them. Now they were busy inventorying their acquisitions. Mostly they had made a large investment in weapons, particularly bows and crossbows. Security had worsened over the month, and the Prince had decided to strengthen Castle Wyvern's defensive capabilities, particularly for the archers.

Demona wouldn't risk crossing the courtyard with so many humans about, Ailith reckoned. Things had been a little tense between them and the Gargoyles over the security issue. Prince Macolm and his men were very concerned about the raiding parties that seemed to be growing ever bolder throughout the Fiefdom, and he wanted the Gargoyles to strike out during the night, track them down, and eliminate them before they became emboldened enough to attack the castle. The Gargoyles had not been accommodating. Demona told Ailith it was because the destiny of a Gargoyle is to guard the castle, not to fly into the countryside and wage war. At least, that was what she had overheard the elder say to his second one evening after an especially testy exchange between the Prince and the Gargoyles. Demona could explain the first part to Ailith—it had been ingrained in her practically since the day she hatched. A Gargoyle must guard the castle, as sure as she must breath the air. As for the waging of war, well, that was for the elders to understand. War had no meaning for her, yet.

Suddenly, Ailith felt a shadow fall over her. She looked up just in time to see Demona reaching down from atop the barrels to tag her. She must have glided over from one of the walls. To avoid being tagged, Ailith lurched to the side and attemped to spin her shoulder out of the way. Unfortunately the space was a bit too narrow. She banged against the barrel next to her which rocked Demona off her balance. In a sudden rush of creaking and banging the barrels toppled, sending Demona back-first into the center of the courtyard, directly into the midst of the men. Several of them drew their swords automatically, turning their heads furiously from side to side, looking for their assailants. When they realized Demona had caused the ruckus, their faces turned sour.

"It's that damned Gargoyle spawn," a particularly large, nasty looking one said. He stepped over to where she was sprawled in the dirt and towered over her. He glared down at her. "Maybe we should test the new bows," he said. He raised a crossbow and pointed it at Demona's forehead.

In an instant, Ailith snapped out of her shock and sprang over to her friend. The rest happened quickly, and in a blur. The man with the crossbow pushed Ailith, which caused Demona to grab onto his other arm. The rest of the men rushed into the tussle, which drew the attention of the Gargoyles perched above the castle walls. As soon as they saw the men attempting to strip Demona off their comrade's arm, they let out a cry and glided down into the mix. Soon, there was general Malay. Gargoyles were snatching weapons from humans hands, humans were shoving back. In the frenzy of it all, Demona was tossed from her assailant's arm into the thick of the shoving. Small as she was, panic set in. She swung wildly with her arms and let out a shrill cry, reminiscent of a threatened cat. In that instant, a spatter of blood whipped through the crowd of pushing and shoving men, painting several of them across the face with a thin streak of red. Suddenly, everything stopped.

Demona seemed to realize it last, but when she did, she quickly understood that all eyes were on her. She looked down at her hand and saw that it was covered in blood. At first she thought she had been injured. She examined both sides to see if she had been cut, or if an arrow was stuck in her. There was nothing. Then she glanced over at Ailith who was standing, staring blankly. Unlike the soldiers who were red-faced and flushed from the fighting, she was candle-stick white and holding her arm which had three, bone-deep lacerations across the back of the forearm. The wound was hideous and blood was flowing rapidly out of it, through her fingers and then in tiny, raining droplets to the ground.

"My love."

The sound of Goliath's voice ripped Demona out of that horrifying moment and back into the present. The year was 995, fourteen years after the brawl. Demona was fully grown, and beautiful. Goliath, her mate, had been watching her as she stared out from the castle wall into the distance. He loved to watch her ruby red hair in the night breeze. It was her most striking feature. He only wished that it was just that, a striking feature, rather than what it all too often seemed—the physical manifestation of her inner anger.

"We should be out there Goliath," Demona said without turning. "We should find them and crush them. Then we would have peace from the humans, out there and in here!"

Goliath let out a small sigh. Always the hard way, he thought to himself. Always the angry way.

He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders. He felt the three long bumps across her right shoulder, evenly stacked, one over the other, like the little earthen mounds the farmers used for their irrigation. Feeling them brought his empathy out. Some scars run deep, he understood.

"War does not bring peace," he said softly. "It sows the seeds of fresh strife, of further conflict."

Demona turned and flashed, for an instant, a face hardened by such strife, but quickly allowed a delicate smile to replace it.

"Goliath," she said, almost warily. "Your poet's heart is too good for these humans, and for their castle."

"Our castle," he replied.

In that moment, their attention was caught by the sound of a bucket falling to the ground, accompanied by a quiet curse. Ailith, now also a young woman, had dropped a pale of water she was carrying, which had splashed onto the bottom of her dress. But Demona's eyes fixated nearly instantly on the three long, jagged, pink scars across the back of her arm. Unconsciously her hand rose to her right shoulder and the three long scars of her own. Immediately, she was back to that night, back to herself as a small, scared Gargoyle who did not yet fully understand how things worked.

"Hold her steady!" one of the men shouted. "She's going to kick like hell."

The tiny Demona was splayed across the top of the Blacksmith's anvil, being held down by four men, two at her legs and one at each arm. Nearly an hour had elapsed since Ailith had been lacerated by her. The blood on Demona's hand was dry now, crusty and dark. It flaked slightly as she attempted to squirm loose.

"Prince," the elder of the Gargoyles was saying, with dignity, but also with urgency. "Surely there is another way."

The Prince did not avert his gaze. He paused for only moment, then nodded to his men. The one who had shouted returned the nod. Then he pulled a glowing, white-hot poker from the blacksmith's kiln. He walked to the anvil and exchanged a quick glance with the men. Confident that they had her, the man pressed the poker against Demona's shoulder. She let out the same feral cry she had earlier and writhed bitterly. The poker came off, revealing a smoldering line that bubbled up. Another quick glance and then the poker came down a second time, slightly below the first spot. Again, a feral cry. The poker came off and a second, bubbling line was revealed. The men holding Demona were sweating, but their grips remained tight. The man with the poker glanced around, then brought it down a third and final time. No sound. Demona's eyes, wet with pain, darted from man to man, filled with hatred for the first, and far from the last time.

"I'm sorry old friend," The Prince said to the elder of the Gargoyles. "An eye for an eye. You understand."

As he walked away the old Gargoyle reached up and felt the scar that ran vertically down through his left eye, leaving it a slightly discolored yellow in comparison to his good eye. Without a word he walked over to the anvil, shooed the humans back, scooped up Demona in his arms, and carried her away.