Author's note: Gargoyles does not belong to me. Owen Burnett does not belong to me (pity). Neither does Xanatos, Alexander or Castle Wyvern. And anything else I'm forgetting. This little story does belong to me however, so please don't snatch it away from me. And reviews are always nice!
There were times when Owen Burnett, always dependable and calm, wanted to scream. It did not happen often. Xanatos kept him busy most hours of the day, and there was always Alexander to teach.
It was often after those lessons with Alexander that he was most restless, for those lessons were the times when he could be who he really was.
It was not that he was unhappy as Owen. He felt a strange sort of satisfaction in being that man. But he wondered sometimes if he had made a mistake. If maybe he should have returned to Avalon with the rest of Oberon's Children when he was supposed to. He could have been free then, free to be himself. Of course, being Puck to Oberon was much the same as being Owen to Xanatos. He would be doing someone's work in either case.
But as much as he told himself he did not want to be on Avalon, indeed, how he did not even like Avalon, he knew it to be untrue. There were parts of Avalon he almost hated. It could get so boring after a few centuries.
But there were parts that he loved. The stars in Avalon could shine brighter than all the lights of New York. The parties could not be beat. And the weather was never bad. Even storms caused by Oberon and Titania's quarrels had been enjoyable to Puck.
Owen missed it. Some days, when no one needed him, he would stand high up on Castle Wyvern, imagining that it was a fortress on Avalon. Closing his eyes he would lean into the wind, remembering what it was to fly on the breezes of Avalon. He would lift his face to the sun, reveling in the warmth, although he knew that the sun on Avalon was warmer and friendlier than the one that shone on New York. Breathing in the air, he would try to imagine that it tasted of the sea and the earth and pure magic. But when he opened his eyes he was in New York, surrounded by concrete and steel and people who had no room for magic in their lives. He ached for Avalon then, always surprised by how much he missed it, how much he missed its magic. The longing, held inside for so long, made him want to scream.
But he would tell no one. As much as the Puck in him raged about the unfairness of it all, practical Owen pushed aside the thoughts as foolish.
And if anyone would chance to come upon Owen, closing his eyes to New York and dreaming of Avalon, he would straighten quickly and hide any emotion he had been displaying. Once again unflappable Owen, he would turn his back to both worlds and return to his work, always dependable, always calm.
And underneath it all, missing Avalon.