July Prompt #1: What's the worst that could happen?
Title: Superstition and the Sword
Author: Pompey
Universe: AU-ACD with a crossover.
Warnings: touch of crackiness, AU
Word count: 781
Summary: As any good horror show can tell you, never read out loud from a magic book. Part 1/?
Prompt: July 1 “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Author’s note: Did you know Disney put almost every episode of “Gargoyles” on youtube in the U.S.?
It is said that a man reaps that which he sows. Certainly it was not Watson’s fault that our train back to London was delayed for repairs, but it was his idea that we idle away our last few hours in Scotland with some sight-seeing at Castle Wyvern. Likewise, it was he who struck up a conversation with a commonplace mannequin by the name of Owen Burnett, who, despite his lack of a Scottish accent, seemed to be what passed for curator at the castle. And it was Watson who listened with polite interest to Burnett’s story, delivered in a painful monotone, of how the “gargoyles” of Castle Wyvern were once creatures of flesh and blood by night and slept as stone by day. Unfortunately, a Viking invasion had destroyed most of them as they slept and the few remaining ones had been cursed to be stone until the castle itself rose above the clouds.
“They say,” Burnett concluded, “that the book of spells kept here under glass is the very one the Magus used to place the curse.” He gestured to a small display case now clouded over by scratches and dust.
“That is,” I replied, my patience at an end, “more likely than not a Renaissance herbalist manuscript.”
The irritating, unflappable man scarcely raised an eyebrow. “I do not dispute there are incantations for health in the book. The book is open to one such spell, meant to heal wounds. If one were a man who knew how to read Old Gaelic, one might just be able to prove you wrong, Mr. Holmes.”
I was about to retort that while I might not know Old Gaelic, I could at least tell the difference between a gargoyle rain gutter and a grotesque, which is more than he could say. However, Watson stepped up to the decrepit glass case before I could utter a word.
“I am only slightly familiar with Scotch Gaelic,” he admitted, “but I do not mind having a go of it. The worst that could happen is I sound foolish for a minute or two.”
Foolish is precisely how I would have described his actions, but though his words were hesitant, they seemed to echo slightly through the crumbling stone hall in which we stood. Even Burnett appeared impressed, if the scant fraction of a smile was any indication. “That was nicely done,” said he, “although with such an English accent, and with a book of magic so deteriorated, who knows what it is you might have wrought.”
Watson merely laughed at that. I was inclined to take a more irritated reaction to Burnett, had the light not suddenly glinted off his eyes in a peculiar way. I am not a fanciful man but at that moment, I swear there was a green, unearthly glow to his gaze.
*******************************************************************************
“Thank heavens the train was not a minute later or we should have met the maid beginning the day’s duties,” Watson commented almost as soon as we set foot in our sitting room. “I suppose it is no use in saying ‘good night’ when daybreak is scarcely an hour away.”
“Be it good night or good morning, the arms of Morpheus beckon regardless,” I replied. With some concern I noted how stiffly he held his shoulder and how his limp had become noticeable again, both signs he was overly tired or in pain. “I see that healing spell you recited early today - or yesterday, I suppose - was utterly useless. Would you care for some brandy first?”
“No, no. I shall be fine after a good sleep.” Watson gave a half-hearted wave at me and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom. I went to my own bed, but only after leaving a note for Mrs. Hudson that Watson was on no account to be disturbed.
Thus I was the one to make the horrifying discovery that afternoon, after I had determined that Watson had slept longer than even his previous exhaustion could account for.
The form in the bed was the correct size for my friend, although I was startled to see how the bed sank under its weight. Then, too, the back of the form’s head was entirely grey whereas Watson’s hair had certainly not aged to that point. When I touched the shoulder beneath the bedclothes, my fingers found a frightening, cold hardness. I could not roll him over despite my effort.
My heart thudded wildly as I walked around to the other side of the bed. It was Watson’s face that met mine, of that I had no doubt.
But it was his face, his body, sleeping in stone, like the gargoyles of Castle Wyvern.
Author: Pompey
Universe: AU-ACD with a crossover.
Warnings: touch of crackiness, AU
Word count: 781
Summary: As any good horror show can tell you, never read out loud from a magic book. Part 1/?
Prompt: July 1 “What’s the worst that could happen?”
Author’s note: Did you know Disney put almost every episode of “Gargoyles” on youtube in the U.S.?
It is said that a man reaps that which he sows. Certainly it was not Watson’s fault that our train back to London was delayed for repairs, but it was his idea that we idle away our last few hours in Scotland with some sight-seeing at Castle Wyvern. Likewise, it was he who struck up a conversation with a commonplace mannequin by the name of Owen Burnett, who, despite his lack of a Scottish accent, seemed to be what passed for curator at the castle. And it was Watson who listened with polite interest to Burnett’s story, delivered in a painful monotone, of how the “gargoyles” of Castle Wyvern were once creatures of flesh and blood by night and slept as stone by day. Unfortunately, a Viking invasion had destroyed most of them as they slept and the few remaining ones had been cursed to be stone until the castle itself rose above the clouds.
“They say,” Burnett concluded, “that the book of spells kept here under glass is the very one the Magus used to place the curse.” He gestured to a small display case now clouded over by scratches and dust.
“That is,” I replied, my patience at an end, “more likely than not a Renaissance herbalist manuscript.”
The irritating, unflappable man scarcely raised an eyebrow. “I do not dispute there are incantations for health in the book. The book is open to one such spell, meant to heal wounds. If one were a man who knew how to read Old Gaelic, one might just be able to prove you wrong, Mr. Holmes.”
I was about to retort that while I might not know Old Gaelic, I could at least tell the difference between a gargoyle rain gutter and a grotesque, which is more than he could say. However, Watson stepped up to the decrepit glass case before I could utter a word.
“I am only slightly familiar with Scotch Gaelic,” he admitted, “but I do not mind having a go of it. The worst that could happen is I sound foolish for a minute or two.”
Foolish is precisely how I would have described his actions, but though his words were hesitant, they seemed to echo slightly through the crumbling stone hall in which we stood. Even Burnett appeared impressed, if the scant fraction of a smile was any indication. “That was nicely done,” said he, “although with such an English accent, and with a book of magic so deteriorated, who knows what it is you might have wrought.”
Watson merely laughed at that. I was inclined to take a more irritated reaction to Burnett, had the light not suddenly glinted off his eyes in a peculiar way. I am not a fanciful man but at that moment, I swear there was a green, unearthly glow to his gaze.
*******************************************************************************
“Thank heavens the train was not a minute later or we should have met the maid beginning the day’s duties,” Watson commented almost as soon as we set foot in our sitting room. “I suppose it is no use in saying ‘good night’ when daybreak is scarcely an hour away.”
“Be it good night or good morning, the arms of Morpheus beckon regardless,” I replied. With some concern I noted how stiffly he held his shoulder and how his limp had become noticeable again, both signs he was overly tired or in pain. “I see that healing spell you recited early today - or yesterday, I suppose - was utterly useless. Would you care for some brandy first?”
“No, no. I shall be fine after a good sleep.” Watson gave a half-hearted wave at me and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom. I went to my own bed, but only after leaving a note for Mrs. Hudson that Watson was on no account to be disturbed.
Thus I was the one to make the horrifying discovery that afternoon, after I had determined that Watson had slept longer than even his previous exhaustion could account for.
The form in the bed was the correct size for my friend, although I was startled to see how the bed sank under its weight. Then, too, the back of the form’s head was entirely grey whereas Watson’s hair had certainly not aged to that point. When I touched the shoulder beneath the bedclothes, my fingers found a frightening, cold hardness. I could not roll him over despite my effort.
My heart thudded wildly as I walked around to the other side of the bed. It was Watson’s face that met mine, of that I had no doubt.
But it was his face, his body, sleeping in stone, like the gargoyles of Castle Wyvern.