In Vino Veritas*
Summary: Set pre-series. Demona/Macbeth friendship with maybe a hint of romance. Vaguely related to my "When You Hurt" story, although it's not necessary to read that one to understand this one. Another, more humorous glimpse into a time when they weren't enemies.
"The night is won!"
He shouted it as she swooped down from the sky. Landing, Demona grinned at him, and before he knew what was happening, his friend had enveloped him in a crushing hug. Fortunately, their magical bond caused her to relax her grip before the embrace got too painful. She pulled back, seeming slightly embarrassed.
"Sorry about that."
He smiled at her. "Don't apologize. It's good to see you happy. Come, you and your warriors must celebrate with us!"
Demona looked hesitant. Even after all this time, she was still wary of humans, himself being the exception rather than the rule, and the rest of the gargoyles tended to follow her lead. But he was undeterred, and was always trying to subtly nudge her – and them – to interact more with his people. Sometimes he could coax her into it, and sometimes he couldn't.
He wasn't sure which one of those times this night would turn out to be. He knew she was in high spirits, enjoying the rush of their victory. Even so, the battle had been hard, and the Hunter had made an appearance, a reminder that there were many humans who still considered her kind monsters.
"I don't know," she demurred. "We really should –"
"Please," he interjected. "It would mean a great deal to me, my lady."
She sighed. "All right, fine, your highness. We'll put in an appearance. But I can't promise we'll stay long." Looking above, she signaled to her clan, who were hovering overhead, and they landed next to her.
"Good enough, I suppose. But as long as you're here, please, come and partake of our food and drink. All of you."
The other gargoyles gave her questioning looks, and she nodded. Macbeth turned towards the camp, and they followed after him.
A few hours later, Macbeth talking with some of his soldiers when Demona's Second ran up to him, looking worried.
"Macbeth!"
A few of the men grumbled that it was rude for "the creature" to address their king in so informal a fashion, but Macbeth silenced them with a look.
"What is it?"
"It's Demona!"
"What's wrong? Is she hurt?" He asked the question before he could stop himself, concern overriding common sense. Of course, if she was really hurt, he'd be feeling it.
"I … I don't know," the gargoyle said. "I've never seen her like this. It's like she's … sick or something."
Macbeth's brow furrowed. "Sick?" He'd known Demona for years, and ever since she'd had her youth restored to her by their agreement, she'd been perfectly healthy. Of course, she'd been wounded in battle on more than one occasion, but like all her kind, she'd always been healed by her stone sleep. "Do gargoyles even get sick?"
But her Second was not listening. "Please just come with me … your majesty," he added, no doubt catching sight of a disapproving look from one of Macbeth's companions.
He nodded. "Of course. Lead the way."
As they approached, Macbeth saw that Demona was surrounded by her clan. The looked up at his arrival and then backed away, giving him a full view of his friend. She sat on a large, mossy stone, holding her head in hands. Immediately, he was by her side.
"Demona? What's wrong?"
She looked up at him with glazed eyes, and when she spoke, her speech was slightly slurred. "I don't know. I just feel … funny." And then she actually – Lord help him – giggled. "That's funny. It's funny that I feel funny … isn't it?" She looked somewhat confused. "I don't think that came out right …" she giggled again. Macbeth looked down and noticed that, among the remains of the food they'd shared with the gargoyles, there were several empty jugs as well.
Macbeth chuckled in relief. He looked up into the concerned faces of her clan. "It's alright my friends, she's not sick. She's just a little … it appears she may have had … rather a bit too much to drink."
Demona glared at him blearily. "Are you implying I'm drunk?"
"What's 'drunk?'" One of the other gargoyles blurted out. Macbeth hadn't realized the clan didn't have any experience with alcohol.
"Well, uh, it's …"
"And how can you drink too much?" Another gargoyle asked.
"Yeah, wouldn't you just stop when you're not thirsty anymore? Just like you stop eating when you're full?"
"Well, some kinds of drink are different than others. Like wine, for example. It's a bit more appealing than say, water, so sometimes there's a tendency to … overindulge …"
"Oh," said another one of the gargoyles. "Like the time I ate all that sweet bread because it tasted so good, and then I wound up with a stomach ache."
Macbeth nodded. "Yes, like that, except with drink. But when you drink too much wine, you don't get a stomach ache. You get …"
"Drunk," one of the gargoyles supplied helpfully.
"I am not drunk!" Demona snapped.
Macbeth was trying very hard not to laugh. "Of course you're not," he said, patting her hand.
Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not," she insisted stubbornly. Then suddenly, she was standing up, unfurling her wings. "Here, I'll show you!"
"I don't think that's a good idea –"
But before he could protest further, she was in the air, managing to look graceful despite her obvious intoxication. Her clan looked on, seeming fascinated as she looked down triumphantly at Macbeth.
"See, I'm not – whoa!" Apparently, she hadn't been sober enough to talk and glide at the same time, because no sooner had she opened her mouth than she fell back to the earth with a thud. Macbeth winced as she landed ... if you could call it a landing.
For a moment, there was complete silence. And then he just couldn't help it – the laughter bubbled up in his throat and spilled out.
"Macbeth, this isn't funny!" Demona snapped, but he only laughed harder. After a moment, the rest of the gargoyles joined him, and then even Demona herself was laughing.
"Thunk!" One of the gargoyles exclaimed, miming Demona's rapid descent, and they all laughed louder.
A short while later, he and Demona sat alone. The clan had gone to mingle among the human soldiers, and for once, she hadn't protested. He'd like to think it was progress in her attitude towards humans, but he had to admit to himself that it was probably due to her inebriation.
"I can't believe I let this happen."
"Demona, it's no matter –"
"I made a fool of myself, Macbeth! And in front of my clan! I'm supposed to be their leader, how can I expect them to follow me if –"
"Demona, stop! They trust you, and they respect you. All you did was drink a little more than you should have. They were probably just happy to hear you laugh." Without thinking, he put his arm her. "I know I was."
She sighed. "A leader should always conduct himself with the utmost dignity at all times," she said in a mock-stern voice.
Macbeth frowned. "Who said that?"
"I think you did … when you were lecturing Luach." Demona giggled again.
"Did I? Well, perhaps I should have added that even leaders are allowed to be human."
"I'm not human."
"Gargoyle, then. You know what I mean. Don't be so hard on yourself, my friend. We won the battle, and both our clans are safe. That's all that matters."
"You … you make me feel that." Demona said softly.
"Feel what?"
She laid her head on his shoulder. "Safe," she said simply.
"I wouldn't expect you to say that … about a human."
"You're no ordinary human, Macbeth of Moray."
"Thanks to you I'm not. Do you know what you make me feel, Demona?"
She lifted her head and looked up at him. She seemed much more lucid suddenly. Her eyes were wide, her gaze almost fearful.
"What?" She asked in a whisper.
He smiled at her. "Hope."
*Latin, meaning "Wine will bring out the truth."