Archive of Our Own

For the first time since they'd left the castle, Goliath started to feel at home. Not much of his millennium had survived the years he'd spent sleeping, but he felt a mixture of joy and relief that libraries were one of the things that had. Say what you would about the merits of thin squares of plastic called 'discs' (weren't discs supposed to be round?) that held hundreds upon hundreds of spells. Nothing compared to holding a book in his hands, smelling the printer's ink, turning the pages, feeling the paper that was smooth and more delicate than any he'd ever felt.

But even that was a bit off-putting, and some of his glow began to fade.

The parchment of Wyvern had been rough, thick stuff, pulpy and crude when it was actual paper at all. Most things, save for the most revered spellbooks or Bibles, were scrawled on vellum or even untreated sheepskin. Not at all fancy, but durable, and not much risk of damage.. These slick, smooth, fragile things were clearly meant for small, soft human hands that didn't end in steely claws. Now he was afraid of ruining the books he'd been so glad to see, accidentally bending a spine or punching a hole in a thin page.

Still, he was willing to be as gentle and patient as necessary, until they told him what he wanted to know.

Nobody needed to tell Goliath that times had changed. He was painfully aware of that, constantly. It was a strange feeling, like being eternally slightly off-balance. Like something was off in his equilibrium, and he hadn't felt his feet connect with solid ground since the Magus cast his spell that one last time.

He'd fully expected not to wake up.

"Until the castle rose above the clouds." Absurd. It meant forever. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have thought that asking for that was anything less than assisted suicide. He'd gone willingly. His clan was dead. His mate, so much rubble and dust. His entire life, gone up in smoke and cut bowstrings and hammers that gleamed in bright sunlight.

And now, his mentor and oldest friend, three still-living, precious young ones, and their faithful beast, were gone as well. Cold stone at night, never to move again.

So he moved them gently back into the places they'd held in life atop the castle walls, forever to guard its battlements until the wind and rain wore away their edges, and bit by bit returned them to smooth rock and dust, over an eternity.

And then he followed. Where there was no clan, there was nothing. His old leader had said many times the old familiar adage - that a gargoyle could no longer stop defending the castle than breathing the air.

Well, the castle was still here. They weren't. And without them, Goliath couldn't breathe.

Nobody had been more surprised than he that oblivion hadn't been forever. ("You're awake. You're alive! We're together again!") A second chance. A miracle. A new life, after his old one had ended along with so many others. He would not waste this gift they'd been given, of more time together, and a new castle to protect, with endless wonders to discover. New friends.

Still, it came at a price. And it was the little things that reminded him when he was so close to forgetting even for a moment. Things like the smoothness of paper reminded him of everything they'd gained and lost, and exactly how alien this new world was. Or maybe they were the strange ones now. Strangers in a strange land, as one of these new books so well put it.

He realized he hadn't actually turned a page in nearly an hour, and smiled to himself. He'd come down here to read, and instead just done a lot of thinking. He still wasn't sure to exactly what conclusion he'd come, just that his old friend with the new name Hudson was right again - "home is the six of us, wherever we're together."

Goliath looked up as the door opened, and the smile grew. It was seven, now.

"Thank you, Elisa."

"Don't mention it. Find everything you needed?"

"That and more."