Author's Note: Yeah, I know. It's been a while. I got pretty wrapped up in my Bad Guys fanfics – still am – but I promised I'd never forget this and I haven't. So here starts the next arc of this little what-if fic. There's a 200 year gap between this and the last chapter. Lots of stuff happened, but for the sake of time and sanity we're going to gloss over them. I'll come back and fill in the blanks with side fics if need be.

Also I wanted to let you guys know about a cool thing going on at LiveJournal. I go by "silverspidertm2" over there and I've recently put together a community for a Gargoyles rewatch marathon. The idea is that every week we pick an episode – in order – to rewatch and discuss in hopes of rekindling our love for the show and maybe get new people to watch it. The community is "gargoyles_watch" so please check it out. We're nearly 40 members strong already and just starting with "Awakening" parts 1 and 2 this Friday, so it should be fun.

Thank you for reading and please review!

Chapter 6

A Place In Time

Wyvern Hill, Scotland, 1294 A.D.

A decade short of three hundred years old.

Macbeth still could not quite believe it, would not have believed it except that he had lived it. Much had changed, but in those centuries change came slowly. John de Balliol was now King of Scots, but from what Macbeth understood, he was not likely to last long. Already there was trouble between him and Edward I or England concerning a planned invasion of France. He was glad politics were no longer his concern.

Two hundred and ninety years of age, and it had been two centuries since the last person from his past – what he still considered his real life – had been put in the ground. Demona did not understand how he could feel anything but contempt for Canmore, parts of Macbeth could not understand it either, but the man had been family and born into a conflict he did not begin even if he felt compelled to end it. None of it mattered now. Even that dynasty had come to an end. The rule of Scotland was given to lesser men.

Macbeth kept up with news from his country, but this was also the first time he had spent any significant amount of time there in many decades. He had traveled to France, Spain, and as far to the south-east as Italy, which he had taken a liking to during his pilgrimage there in 1050 when he was still king. Europe in the middle ages was not the safest of places, but Macbeth knew how to stay invisible when need be. One in a while he would travel in company, listen to people tell stories, and share a few of his own. Some were less than true than others, but his audience never complained.

Still no matter how good he got at creating new identities for himself, the tedium of lying to everyone at every turn was never ceased to exhaust him. He supposed he could use his real name. Macbeth may have become a figure of history with the date of his supposed death nearly two hundred and fifty years away, but it was a perfectly valid name.

Son of life.

The irony was not lost on him. But using the same name was hardly a comfort as he would have to come up with an entirely different history than the one he actually experienced. Even as a human, immortality was a lonely and tiering existence. He could not even imagine what it was like for Demona. She did not have to pretend, but that was only because she did not let herself be seen by humans and there were no gargoyles left in existence that he was aware of. Macbeth was looking forward to seeing her again and shedding his pretense if only for a little while.

Except that he had arrived late. Or early, depending on the point of view.

He glanced sight of the castle as the first rays of the sun touched the horizon. No point in pushing the horse harder when there was no way he would reach it in time. He was at the cliff-side within the hour and soon found Demona in stone form crouched in one of the many caves. He was amused to see a slight hint of annoyance on her concrete face, no doubt at the fact that he had arrived late. Ah, well, it didn't matter. Macbeth had the whole day now.

"You don't mind if I check on your friends, do you?" he asked the statue. Predictable no reply came, and the former king nodded. "I thought not. Don't go anywhere, Demona. I'll be back before sunset."

He left his horse tied in what little remained of Castle Wyvern's stables and made his way to the tower where the six gargoyle statues still stood after three hundred years. He was more than a little impressed that neither man nor nature had destroyed them yet but was not about to share that thought with Demona lest she forget just how hazardous killing him was to her own health. Walking around the tower to make sure all the statues were truly in one piece, he settled himself on the parapet between the old gargoyle with the Viking sword and the one with a beak-like mouth and unwrapped the bread and cheese he had taken with him.

"That's one thing to miss about Spain," he told the gargoyles, "Italy, too. Southern countries always have better food. Fresh, not like here. By the time anything makes its way this far north, its well on its way to being a piece of rock. No offense meant, of course."

The stone figure showed only slightly less interest in his tale than an awake Demona would have. Alright, that was unfair. She did listen somewhat. It was probably fair to say that he was her favorite human in the world even if it was not much of a statement considering what she thought of humans as a species. And she spoke to him of her own travels on a few rare occasions. Macbeth had to remember that no matter how hard he was finding his own immortality to bare, hers was far more difficult on account of being so entirely isolated.

" 'Tis her own fault, you know," he said. "Surely we humans are not so bad that she would rather be alone than have a conversation with another sentient being. As if I don't offer to accompany her. Was she so stubborn when she was a part of your clan?"

He lapsed into an easy sort of one-sided conversation with the statues, only briefly wondering if he was crazy for doing so. The only rocks people ever talked to were gravestones, and the comparison chilled him. After the two and a half centuries that he had known of them, it was hard to remember that these were still living creatures. Possibly so, at least. Even Demona did not really know if they were still alive. He pushed the thought aside. It was not as if there was anyone else there to talk to.

By mid-day, Macbeth covered most of his adventures in Europe and was about to go down to the cave again to check on Demona, when a disturbance of the regular rhythm of the waves caught his attention. He came around the tower so that he could see the ocean and what was causing the strange sound. Few details could be made out from a hight, but Macbeth saw a blond haired man lightly armored dragging a strange skiff to the shore so that it would not be swept away by the tide.

As he watched, the man fixed his sword belt, looked up at the castle, and then started for the winding path up the sharp cliffs. Macbeth drew his bushy brows together. Hypothetically, it was not that strange a sight. Perhaps the stranger crossed the water from Ireland, though his boat looked far too small to survive such a journey. What was odd was the fact that instead of walking the shoreline to a place where the beach was not hindered by cliffs, he chose instead a much more rigorous and dangerous path straight to the castle.

"Well, well," Macbeth said, half to himself half to the nearest stone gargoyle, "what do we make of that?"

Now that the man was closer, he determined that he could not be more than a score of years in age. Carefully remaining out of the youth's range of vision, the former king watched as he made his way into the castle. Macbeth could not fathom what he could possibly want there. Locals considered the area haunted and would not go near Wyvern Hill at all, though if he was from Ireland, the boy would not know it. Did he mean to loot the treasury? He was sure to be sorely disappointed; Vikings were not known for leaving valuables behind. If it was precious metals or jewels he wanted, he would check bellow and be on his way. Still, Macbeth decided as his eyes followed the newcomer, no sense in taking chances. Better stay up here until he leaves.

To his surprise, however, the youth did not head for the treasury or even the armory to check for weapons. His path lead clearly and directly to the tower with the gargoyles and Macbeth himself. From the door that lead to and from the second to last circuit, the immortal watched as the young man passed by on his way to the top. Macbeth's hand was already on the hilt of his sword as he followed soundlessly only steps behind him. Once they were at the roof, he remained in door frame while the young man walked over to the statue of Goliath. When he reached out a hand to touch the gargoyle, Macbeth decided the time for hiding was over.

"That's far enough," the former king emerged from the shadows, sword half way out of its scabbard. "Let's have a talk you and I."

The young man whirled drawing his own sword with little elegance and held it out in front of him, the tip pointed squarely at Macbeth. Having learned to read people many ages ago, the immortal saw confusion flash across the boy's face before it settled in defensive anger.

"Who are you?"

Not Irish, Macbeth thought. A fellow Scotsman. But what is he doing here?

"I'll be asking the questions here, laddie. What are you doing at Castle Wyvern?"

"That's none of your concern, old man," he snapped back. "And I asked you first."

"I am Macbeth mac Findlaích," for some reason his instincts told him to give the boy his real name. When he got a blank stare in reply, Macbeth rose an eyebrow. "That name means nothing to you?"

"Should it?" the youth scowled.

"Clearly you've never been taught proper history," the king commented, but to himself he thought Though it may not be your fault if Canmore erased every mention of my name from the books. "Why don't we go back to the ground and discuss it?"

"I have a better idea," the man advanced a step. "You go down alone. Directly from this tower, if need be."

He came at him, but Macbeth easily dodged the blow again and again. There was no reason to even cross swords. In theory the boy had potential, but anyone who ever wielded a sword in true combat could see that he had never been properly trained. Macbeth let him think he was making a few good moves before he grew bored of the fight and knocked the boy flat on his back.

"Once more," he repeated, the point of his own sword at the hollow of the pale haired boy's throat, "what are you doing at this castle?"

The youth looked both afraid and frustrated, his eyes darting between the point of the sword and Macbeth's arm to see just how close he was to death. "I'm Tom!" he finally blurted.

"My name means nothing to you," Macbeth laughed, "yet you expect me to recognize yours?"

"No, you wouldn't," the boy said hurriedly, then nodded his head in the direction of Goliath's stone form as much as the sword point allowed, "but they would."

"They?" Macbeth's face betrayed none of the surprise he felt at the discovery that this Tom apparently knew about the gargoyles. "You're telling me your friends, the talking rocks, will vouch for you?"

"They're not rocks!" anger flashed over the boy's face. "They're gargoyles."

Instantly Tom knew he had said too much. He stared at Macbeth for some reaction, but again the king hid it well. This was getting more and more intriguing. He doubted the youth meant harm but was also really curious to know how someone in that day and age would have known that the statues that adorned Castle Wyvern were more than just well-carved stone. Or maybe he does not really know, Macbeth considered. Maybe it's just a legend he heard and he's here to see what truth there is to it.

"Tom, is it?" he looked down at him thoughtfully and used the same trick he'd often used on Luach and other children he had worked on since to coax them into giving away more information than they meant to. "And I suppose you'd named these creatures as well."

The youth blinked and opened his mouth to say something before shutting it again.

"Their kind doesn't have names," he said at last, "but that one," he pointed at the still form with his back to them, "is called Goliath."

The answer was enough for Macbeth to sheath his sword and extend a hand to help the youth off the stone floor. Tom gripped his forearm for support, as perplexed as ever, and rose. Macbeth studied him for a long moment before speaking again.

"How do you know of this clan, lad?"

The youth bristled at that. "I'm not a lad."

"You're certainly younger than I," the king pointed out reasonably. There was no need to add that there was a good probability that everyone in the world with the exception of Demona was younger than him. "A score at most."

"A score and two," Tom corrected, but he did not look certain.

That is strange, Macbeth thought. How can he not know his own age? Even as an Immortal Macbeth knew precisely how old he was, no matter how fruitless the exercise of keeping track was.

"A score and two," he agreed. "That still puts you at well over thirty my junior. Don't be defensive. I mean you no harm. I would simply like to know what you know of these creatures and how you came about that knowledge."

"I..." he was clearly considering what to say, "I knew them. When they were still flesh."

This time Macbeth could not hide his surprise. "That would make you over three hundred years of age."

He knew the precision of the number was a tell on his part, but at that point he did not care. Something was going on here. Something Macbeth knew he should figure out and preferably sooner rather than later. It did not matter much because Tom did not seem to have noticed.

"I am twenty-two," he said looking a bit uncomfortable. "I was there... here... back in nine ninety-four, but I'm only twenty-two. Don't ask me how. I won't tell you."

"Fair enough," Macbeth knew better then to press. "What are you doing here now, Tom?"

"I came to see if they'd awakened," he replied. "If somehow someone broke the spell. Though, I guess there's no way to tell now in the middle of the day."

"Spell?" the king's eyes flashed. "They're under a spell?"

Tom had that I-said-too-much look on his face again, and Macbeth could just tell this was going to be a long day.

"This is what I know," he said, deciding to take the high road and save them both some time. "In nine ninety-four there was a Viking attack on this castle. Most of the gargoyle clan that guarded it was destroyed, and these six ended up like this. Now you tell me they're under a spell, which, at the very least, tells me that they are still alive. I have a friend who would be very interested in hearing what else you know, but you must come with me to see her. If you truly knew the clan, she will recognize you."

"Who...?" the youth trailed off.

"Someone else who was there," Macbeth replied, already heading down the steps. "In the meantime, you can tell me what you know about this spell and how all of this came to be."

By the time they were nearing the mouth of the cave Demona had taken as shelter during the day, Macbeth was cursing and shaking his head. So three hundred years ago a misguided magician had cast the six surviving members of the Wyvern clan under a spell to make them sleep until something impossible happened. Wonderful, he thought sarcastically. Demona is going to love this. The last of her clan, not to mention her mate, taken from her by a human.

A different thought suddenly struck him, and the king frowned. Speaking of Demona, where had she been during all of this? He did not have much time to contemplate that because they had reached the cave, and the sun was well on its way to setting.

"Listen," he told Tom before they entered, "tell her everything you know, but do not mention how the others came to be cast in stone. Say that you do not know. Believe me, 'tis for your own safety."

"Who do you mean?" the young man asked, but his question was answered the instant they set foot in the cave and he came face to face with Demona's sleeping form. Macbeth knew he did not need to elaborate.