Gargoyles, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company.
Special thanks, as always, to Gryphinwrym7, Masterdramon, GregX and BookwyrmPendragon13 for providing beta-reading and feedback.
Undisclosed Location, August 16th, 1999 A.D.
Geraldine FitzGerald slowly shuffled through the cold grey corridor, head hanging low as though in a funeral procession. The metal cuffs about her wrists and ankles, as well as the two guards marching either side of her, did little to lift her spirits.
"Arrêt," One of the guards spoke in clipped French, as they came to a blank stainless steel door. He passed his key-card over the electronic lock. "You have ten minutes."
She squinted as she stepped across the threshold, cold light stinging her eyes. All was silent save for the mechanical wheezing of an artificial respirator and the unmistakable steady beat of an electrocardiograph. The room's walls were a pure, almost anti-septic, white.
At the room's center was a hospital bed, where lay an emaciated figure.
"Father...?" she whispered.
The elder FitzGerald's only response was to shift his watery eyes weakly in her direction. The mass of plastic tubing hanging from his mouth and nostrils left him incapable of speech.
She sat herself quietly upon the small stool by the side of his bed, struggling to raise her gaze from her lap. When she finally did, she found her father's own eyes returning her stare.
"I..." She began before the words dried up in her throat under the weight of his withering yet pleading eyes.
"I know I'm not what you always wanted in an heir. I know I've never been able to live up to the standards you've set. I've failed you at every turn," she sobbed softly. "But I can do this for you..."
She leaned forward to whisper in her father's ear. "Lig ár n-anamacha a mhalartú."
[-]
The bank of security monitors bathed the control room in a blue haze as two shadow-draped figures watched the screens expectantly.
"Is this wise, Sir?" An accented voice asked. It belonged to a dark-skinned woman with the build and facial expression of a brick wall.
"Do you have children, Dolores?" a pale grey-haired man asked.
Dolores paused for a moment. "No, Sir."
"Then I don't expect you to understand," the Director answered curtly, turning his attention back towards the screen.
He cocked an eyebrow as he watched the young woman on the screen seem to sway, falling to the floor by her father's bed in a swoon.
[-]
The Director and Dolores entered the pale-white ward only to be greeted by the dull monotone of a flat-lining electrocardiograph. As doctors swarmed about the elder FitzGerald, his daughter sat upon an adjacent stool, face buried in her hands.
A sallow faced doctor checked the body's pulse, before shaking her head in resignation.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. FitzGerald," the Director intoned.
The girl was silent for a moment before rising from her stool, legs trembling with uncertainty as she stepped towards the bed.
"Poor creature gave me everything..." She cooed, leaning down to kiss the cooling form's wrinkled forehead. "Thank you, luv."
"I'm afraid we'll need you to return to your cell for the time being," The Director interjected, signaling the guards.
"Naturally," the girl replied laconically as she was led away
The Director's eyes narrowed as he watched the doctors pull up the pure white sheet over the body's face. He was so lost in thought, that he barely noticed the words the FitzGerald girl sung softly to herself as she was led away...
"Curse and swear, Lord Kildare. Fiach will do what Fiach will dare. Now FitzWilliam, have a care. Fallen is your star, low."
Never The End