A/N This takes place later. (Timeline Note: The Gargoyles live with Xanatos again and Macbeth is a neutral "ally".) Something has happened to Brooklyn to make him very, very angry with someone...(Evil Music).

Brooklyn Learns a Lesson

"That's strange…" Macbeth muttered to himself as Brooklyn stormed through his front door without bothering to knock or even take out the security camera sitting right next to him in plain sight. "Why on earth is a gargoyle coming to me? And alone at that!" He sat back. He figured he wouldn't have to wait long to find out, and he was right.

"I know you're in here, Macbeth! Come on out, I want to talk with you." Brooklyn called into the house. Macbeth laughed softly as the mirror slid aside, revealing a hidden corridor. "You are astute as always, Master Brooklyn! Make yourself at home and I'll be right with you!"

When he arrived in his personal living room Brooklyn was already there. Instead of taking a seat at the small table he had chosen to stand framed by the fireplace with his hands resting on the mantelpiece. Macbeth took a moment to study him. He seemed… different somehow, as though someone had taken a sculptor's knife and chiseled his once soft edges into sharper points. There was no longer even a hint of youth. The gargoyle had grown.

He frowned, but spoke cordially. "To what do I owe the pleasure, young gargoyle?"

Brooklyn turned, keeping his wings folded tightly around him. There was something menacing in the way he moved, as though a spring had been added to his step. Macbeth moved easily across the room to sit down in his own chair, even putting his feet up on the table to show that he was still at ease in the gargoyle's presence.

"Is something bothering you, my friend?" He asked at last.

Brooklyn closed his eyes for a moment. "If you'll forgive me, I'll get straight to the point. Last night, Broadway and Angela lost their egg because I couldn't protect it."

"Pity, I heard that Goliath had been quite pleased." Macbeth allowed a hint of sympathy into his voice. "But what does this have to do with me, if you don't mind me asking?"

Brooklyn opened his eyes with a growl. "I want you to help me get it back."

"Hm…No offense, Brooklyn but I know there's more to it than that. If all you wanted was to retrieve it you would have asked your real friends for help."

Brooklyn took a deep breath. "I want revenge. I want it so badly it hurts. But I can't get it without you."

Macbeth narrowed his eyes. "Demona…"

Brooklyn sighed. "I know that I can't kill her. And I realize that if you help me it will be the death of you, too, right?"

"That is correct." Macbeth's eyes narrowed as he stared at Brooklyn's wings. He had a feeling he knew what Brooklyn was hiding.

"So I wanted to ask you to help me kill her. And if you won't kill her I want help to find another way to do it. My quarrel isn't with you, Macbeth, but I have to do this."

Macbeth sighed this time. "No you don't, laddie. You only think you do."

Brooklyn stared at him. "What do you…?"

"Come with me, my friend. And I'll show you why death doesn't solve anything."

A/N: Macbeth's story is still in progress (meaning I can't find it ANYWHERE). I'll just say there was one and within a few hours they are back in the living room and Brooklyn is ready to give up.

"Believe me, Brooklyn. I have been there. There is nothing you are feeling right now that I haven't felt a thousand times over. My hair isn't naturally white like yours. I've earned a few of these grey hairs!"

"But look." Brooklyn whispered, extending his wings. "Look what she did to me."

Long, jagged scars were carved into Brooklyn's wings so deeply that even weeks of healing could not erase them. On closer examination, Macbeth noticed hairline scrathes covered his face and chest, as well. A particularily nasty one stretched along the inside of his wing down his side. Brooklyn waited for Macbeth's response.

Macbeth laughed. "That's a nice set of battle scars, my friend. I'd show you mine, but I don't think we have the time."

Frustrated and on the verge of tears, Brooklyn wheeled away from his best hope.

"FINE." He growled. "I'll deal with her myself...somehow..." Biting his tongue with the corner of his beak Brooklyn crouched in front of the fire, letting the heat coax the tears out at last.

Macbeth was silent for a long time. For a moment Brooklyn thought he'd left him there, alone…weak. Then a strong hand was placed gently on his shoulder and he looked up into one of the oldest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Macbeth smiled gently.

"I'll help you, Brooklyn. I'm ready to die."

Brooklyn took his hands into his own. "Thank you." He whispered. "Friend."

Macbeth nodded. "Aye, that's what we are from now on. Friends." He turned to stare out the window. "It's been far too long since I've had a friend."

A/N Okay, I hope I did Macbeth properly. He's one of my very favorite characters, so this story is kind of part of my tribute to him.

So, who wants to know what happened? Please review!!! (PS: I will double my efforts to find Macbeth's tale. It's here somewhere!!!)