new fic (Fumbling Towards the Light) (Gargoyles) #73 light
Disclaimer: Gargoyles: the Animated Series belongs to Disney, Buena Vista Television, etc. as do the characters of Demona and Macbeth and any others who appear here or are mentioned; they are not mine. Originally written for betareject's request in the Yuletide 2009 New Year Resolutions Challenge.
"Fumbling Towards the Light" by Karen
Sustaining the level of rage and anger that she has harbored for her enemies is a very difficult task. It takes more than determination and stubbornness and strength of will; it takes the slow but relentless will that erodes mountains.
However, like the works of both mankind and others time is both her ally and her enemy. Demona has had over ten centuries to contemplate this rather grim reality and has come to one conclusion; You can't outrun Time or even Death, but you can make the bastard work for it.
Where she picked up that particular quote she can not quite recall; she finds it particularly fitting and somewhat bitterly poignant. And in a back corner of her mind she wondered if it might have been a trace fragment of better days, when she and Goliath led their clan as partners, equals, and even in the rare moments that she allowed herself to feel anything but anger at him; Goliath would have found the phrase, bitterly romantic.
“Oh, it had been somewhat amusing to play with the affections of Goliath’s clone, Thailog and even the naïve fool, Macbeth; but in the end the end objective was all that mattered; all that should matter to me,” mused Demona as she sat down in the chair.
From the very beginning it was easy to be angry, she had time on her side, youth, and strength, and willing allies, and over the course of the years, using a page torn out of the the Grimourm Acranorum: a spell book that had once belonged to the Archmage, she had used it to stymie her own mortality; and when she stopped to think overly much about it, shedding the old unwanted life, along with all of its trappings of love, comradeship, loyalties, it was much akin to that of a snake shedding its old unwanted skin.
Demona stood at the edge of a bank of windows of the office building, that had plans worked out, had onetime been the headquarters of Nightstone Unlimited. She stared out in the glimmering firefly-like lights of Manhattan skyline wondering if the flaw in her various schemes of late lay not in the tools that had come willingly or not so willingly into her hand as in herself; was she slipping in her resolve? Was she becoming soft?
At that last wayward thought she clenched her fist and cursed under her breath. No! Once more No!"
She thought about it as the sun, in the distance, dipped down below the tree-line. The pain of the transformation from her human semblance to that of true gargoyle nature blocked out further thought on the subject that had been preoccupying her thoughts of late. Without consciously being aware of the fact; she had moved away from the window and into the center of the sparsely furnished office.
One desk sat in the middle of the room; onto of the sat a computer, several disks, stacks of paper. In front of the desk was a chair and a torch-style floor lamp with a hexagonal shade.
Demona draped her wings so that they came down to the floor much in the manner of a cape and heaved a sigh. "No. Yes. I am becoming as a uncertain and unsure of myself as a hatchling a season or two out of the rookery. For my plan to succeed I must not allow anything or anyone to thwart me. Do you hear me Goliath! Not even you!”
Gargoyle hearing was much more acute than that of humans so the soft scuffle of bare foot coming down on the lintel of the bank of windows immediately caught her attention.
In the seconds that had elapsed between her detecting the noise and filing into one of several categories: wind and rain, the building undergoing maintained of the windows, or perhaps it was Thailog reconsidering the ultimatum she had given him a week prior to their rather stormy split.
With any of the above scenarios Demona had an equally prepared response, weather and repair crew were a minor annoyance, a nocturnal visitor be it either friend or foe, and under the present circumstances perhaps she should not classify Thailog or Macbeth as a friend; and ally perhaps, she was prepared to act, and swiftly.
“Mother?” said a soft, but firm feminine voice.
Demona stood up from her chair, startled, irritated, and but equally prepared to handle the situation. The fact that Angela had come alone indicated that either Goliath and the remaining members of the Manhattan Clan either were out patrolling the city, and had not noticed Angela slip away, or he had sent her. And knowing Goliath as well as she did, she would not put much in the way of naïve and potentially boneheaded moves past him for all his skill in leadership, fighting and tactics, but when it came to sending Angela to her; well that had to be one move she could not have seen him make. Angela must have come alone.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Demona harshly.
“I am not certain why I have come,” replied Angela only half turning towards Demona with her wings draped one over the other much as her mother’s did.
While Angela still had not stirred from that erect and studied position Demona took the opportunity to study her daughter; Yes, they had met before this, fought each other and had left both bitter and perhaps unwilling or even unable to understand each other’s reasons and drive.
‘Her cheek bones ands sweep of dark brown hair she got from me. The fiery determination and stubbornness, is from the both of us. On the surface, and perhaps only on the surface, we are very much alike, but there, the resemblance ends.’
Angela turned to face Demona once more. “I had to come. You understand that, perhaps better than anyone else ever would.”
“Yes, I do.”
“My father does not. He seeks to protect from you.”
“One of his more admirable qualities.” Demona offered a small grimace that could have passed for a smile and then offered, “However, it does become grating on one after a while. Perhaps you have tired of his way; and would now like to try mine?”
“Hardly, Mother,” said Angela, this time with certainty. “In fact, I wish to tell you, that despite everything you’ve done, everything you’ve done to the Clan, and even were you tell me the half it, I would still believe the best of you; it’s not too late to come back.”
Demona sneered. “Come back. Do you have any idea of the horror I’ve seen, of the extent of human cruelty and greed. I am certain Goliath has told you of them. Some you have seen with your own eyes, young one!”
Angela nodded. “Yes. I realize how this must sound, how entrenched you must be after all these centuries, but I felt it had to be done. Deny it, deride it all you like, Mother. The fact remains, your are my Mother and you are, and always will be one of the Clan.”
Demona sneered once more and crossed her arms over chest. “A pretty speech. Did you rehearse in front of a looking glass?”
Angela colored and held her ground. “I said what I came to say. The next move is yours. Good Night, Mother…..” With that Angela turned around and moved towards the bank of windows, and darted a swift, searching glance back over his shoulder only to see Demona refusing to acknowledge her departure. Sighing, Angela heaved open the window she had used to gain access to the office and spreading her wings, caught the rising evening thermals and soared out into the darkening Manhattan night.
**
Macbeth, sat in front of his fireplace wrapped in a sweater and had set down the novel by one of the Russian masters whose names he could never quite give the correct pronunciation to no matter how hard he tried mainly because his Scottish burr kept making the vowels somewhat mushy.
He had been about three-fourths of the way through the novel and listening without appearing to be aware of it of the electronic receptors that connected him to the bugging devices he had long ago planted in Demona’s office of Nightstone Unlimited.
If he still harbored any lingering affections for her, even when they had both under a spell that bond them together; a few nights of listening on her ranting and raging had quickly cured him of that. Allies, even reluctant ones could only afford to trust each so father, and he certainly counted himself as no fool.
The ranting and raving on this particular night came to end more quickly than on any other previous to this and the novel hit the floor with a thud as he realized he was now listening on a conversation between mother and daughter.
The conclusion of the conversation was apparently not what either he, Demona had expected. It was a very long stretch of time before he managed to sift through what he been said or perhaps more importantly what had not been said and file it away for future reference where it might benefit him; before he bent down to pick up the fallen book and sat down once more in his armchair in front of the fireplace.
"Fumbling Towards the Light" by Karen
Sustaining the level of rage and anger that she has harbored for her enemies is a very difficult task. It takes more than determination and stubbornness and strength of will; it takes the slow but relentless will that erodes mountains.
However, like the works of both mankind and others time is both her ally and her enemy. Demona has had over ten centuries to contemplate this rather grim reality and has come to one conclusion; You can't outrun Time or even Death, but you can make the bastard work for it.
Where she picked up that particular quote she can not quite recall; she finds it particularly fitting and somewhat bitterly poignant. And in a back corner of her mind she wondered if it might have been a trace fragment of better days, when she and Goliath led their clan as partners, equals, and even in the rare moments that she allowed herself to feel anything but anger at him; Goliath would have found the phrase, bitterly romantic.
“Oh, it had been somewhat amusing to play with the affections of Goliath’s clone, Thailog and even the naïve fool, Macbeth; but in the end the end objective was all that mattered; all that should matter to me,” mused Demona as she sat down in the chair.
From the very beginning it was easy to be angry, she had time on her side, youth, and strength, and willing allies, and over the course of the years, using a page torn out of the the Grimourm Acranorum: a spell book that had once belonged to the Archmage, she had used it to stymie her own mortality; and when she stopped to think overly much about it, shedding the old unwanted life, along with all of its trappings of love, comradeship, loyalties, it was much akin to that of a snake shedding its old unwanted skin.
Demona stood at the edge of a bank of windows of the office building, that had plans worked out, had onetime been the headquarters of Nightstone Unlimited. She stared out in the glimmering firefly-like lights of Manhattan skyline wondering if the flaw in her various schemes of late lay not in the tools that had come willingly or not so willingly into her hand as in herself; was she slipping in her resolve? Was she becoming soft?
At that last wayward thought she clenched her fist and cursed under her breath. No! Once more No!"
She thought about it as the sun, in the distance, dipped down below the tree-line. The pain of the transformation from her human semblance to that of true gargoyle nature blocked out further thought on the subject that had been preoccupying her thoughts of late. Without consciously being aware of the fact; she had moved away from the window and into the center of the sparsely furnished office.
One desk sat in the middle of the room; onto of the sat a computer, several disks, stacks of paper. In front of the desk was a chair and a torch-style floor lamp with a hexagonal shade.
Demona draped her wings so that they came down to the floor much in the manner of a cape and heaved a sigh. "No. Yes. I am becoming as a uncertain and unsure of myself as a hatchling a season or two out of the rookery. For my plan to succeed I must not allow anything or anyone to thwart me. Do you hear me Goliath! Not even you!”
Gargoyle hearing was much more acute than that of humans so the soft scuffle of bare foot coming down on the lintel of the bank of windows immediately caught her attention.
In the seconds that had elapsed between her detecting the noise and filing into one of several categories: wind and rain, the building undergoing maintained of the windows, or perhaps it was Thailog reconsidering the ultimatum she had given him a week prior to their rather stormy split.
With any of the above scenarios Demona had an equally prepared response, weather and repair crew were a minor annoyance, a nocturnal visitor be it either friend or foe, and under the present circumstances perhaps she should not classify Thailog or Macbeth as a friend; and ally perhaps, she was prepared to act, and swiftly.
“Mother?” said a soft, but firm feminine voice.
Demona stood up from her chair, startled, irritated, and but equally prepared to handle the situation. The fact that Angela had come alone indicated that either Goliath and the remaining members of the Manhattan Clan either were out patrolling the city, and had not noticed Angela slip away, or he had sent her. And knowing Goliath as well as she did, she would not put much in the way of naïve and potentially boneheaded moves past him for all his skill in leadership, fighting and tactics, but when it came to sending Angela to her; well that had to be one move she could not have seen him make. Angela must have come alone.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Demona harshly.
“I am not certain why I have come,” replied Angela only half turning towards Demona with her wings draped one over the other much as her mother’s did.
While Angela still had not stirred from that erect and studied position Demona took the opportunity to study her daughter; Yes, they had met before this, fought each other and had left both bitter and perhaps unwilling or even unable to understand each other’s reasons and drive.
‘Her cheek bones ands sweep of dark brown hair she got from me. The fiery determination and stubbornness, is from the both of us. On the surface, and perhaps only on the surface, we are very much alike, but there, the resemblance ends.’
Angela turned to face Demona once more. “I had to come. You understand that, perhaps better than anyone else ever would.”
“Yes, I do.”
“My father does not. He seeks to protect from you.”
“One of his more admirable qualities.” Demona offered a small grimace that could have passed for a smile and then offered, “However, it does become grating on one after a while. Perhaps you have tired of his way; and would now like to try mine?”
“Hardly, Mother,” said Angela, this time with certainty. “In fact, I wish to tell you, that despite everything you’ve done, everything you’ve done to the Clan, and even were you tell me the half it, I would still believe the best of you; it’s not too late to come back.”
Demona sneered. “Come back. Do you have any idea of the horror I’ve seen, of the extent of human cruelty and greed. I am certain Goliath has told you of them. Some you have seen with your own eyes, young one!”
Angela nodded. “Yes. I realize how this must sound, how entrenched you must be after all these centuries, but I felt it had to be done. Deny it, deride it all you like, Mother. The fact remains, your are my Mother and you are, and always will be one of the Clan.”
Demona sneered once more and crossed her arms over chest. “A pretty speech. Did you rehearse in front of a looking glass?”
Angela colored and held her ground. “I said what I came to say. The next move is yours. Good Night, Mother…..” With that Angela turned around and moved towards the bank of windows, and darted a swift, searching glance back over his shoulder only to see Demona refusing to acknowledge her departure. Sighing, Angela heaved open the window she had used to gain access to the office and spreading her wings, caught the rising evening thermals and soared out into the darkening Manhattan night.
**
Macbeth, sat in front of his fireplace wrapped in a sweater and had set down the novel by one of the Russian masters whose names he could never quite give the correct pronunciation to no matter how hard he tried mainly because his Scottish burr kept making the vowels somewhat mushy.
He had been about three-fourths of the way through the novel and listening without appearing to be aware of it of the electronic receptors that connected him to the bugging devices he had long ago planted in Demona’s office of Nightstone Unlimited.
If he still harbored any lingering affections for her, even when they had both under a spell that bond them together; a few nights of listening on her ranting and raging had quickly cured him of that. Allies, even reluctant ones could only afford to trust each so father, and he certainly counted himself as no fool.
The ranting and raving on this particular night came to end more quickly than on any other previous to this and the novel hit the floor with a thud as he realized he was now listening on a conversation between mother and daughter.
The conclusion of the conversation was apparently not what either he, Demona had expected. It was a very long stretch of time before he managed to sift through what he been said or perhaps more importantly what had not been said and file it away for future reference where it might benefit him; before he bent down to pick up the fallen book and sat down once more in his armchair in front of the fireplace.