Gargoyles, co-created by Greg Weisman, is the property of the Walt Disney Company. Please don't sue me, Mousey Overlords. :(

The story is told, though who can say if it be true…

Of an isle where time stands still and summer never ends, where the gods themselves revel amid unchanging majesty and splendour.

The Britons knew it as Avalon, the Welsh called it Ynys Afallach, but the Gaels of ancient Éire named it the land of the ever young.

They named it…

Tír na nÓg

Somewhere, deep in the somber forest that covered much of the island, lay a sacred oak grove that was old before the ocean drank Atlantis. It was here that the Dagda, High King of the Sídhe, held court.

If by 'held court', one meant 'threw a great big honkin' party'.

At the center of the clearing stood an enormous bronze cauldron bubbling over with warm honey-scented mead. Hardly a moment passed when less than a dozen tankards, goblets, and drinking horns weren't greedily dipping into it. Yet, the level of the sweet golden froth never once dipped below the cauldron's lip.

Virtually all the surviving gods and fae of ancient Éire were in attendance. A goblin plucked merrily upon a golden harp as he sang, the sonorous beauty of his voice contrasting sharply with his grotesque outer form. Elsewhere, a woman with blood-crimson hair and finely scaled serpentine skin brooded silently over her chalice, a red ring-like scar about the third finger of her left hand.

There were also exalted guests from among the Sídhe's sister pantheons. The corpulent spider-god Anansi refused to be drawn from the endlessly replenishing buffet table. Coyote of the Kachinas was chatting up a lady in black, who held her own disembodied head in the crook of her arm.

Meanwhile, the cow-goddess Hathor lapped lazily from a golden dish filled with a dark-red liquid most onlookers assumed (or hoped) was wine. Elsewhere, a woman clad in the robes of a Mayan noble refilled her goblet from the great cauldron, chanting softly as the golden liquid turned a creamy cocoa brown. Of all the tribes of the Third Race, only the Aesir were conspicuous by the absence of a representative.

Above all, upon a rough-hewed stone throne bestrewn with animal furs, presided the Dagda himself. His rotund, red-gold maned form was clad in an anachronistic mishmash of biking leather, fur and bronze armor that made him look like something betwixt an ancient Celtic chieftain and a Hell's Angel.

"Drink up, ye lads and lassies! Drink up, ye who are both and neither!" bellowed the Dagda, brandishing twin barrel-like tankards. "For we've still got a millennium of merriment to be catching up on!"

All in attendance cheered in response as the Dagda leaped from his throne with a grace that belied his voluminous bulk. He dunked the twin tankards deep within the golden abundance of his magic cauldron.

He withdrew the frothy tankards, before turning to a throne of yew that stood alone and apart; carved with the symbol of a shining spear.

"Here's one fer you, lad," the Dagda sighed sadly, placing a tankard upon the throne's armrest. "Wherever or whoever ye might be."

"Assuming you don't drink it yerself?" a soft ethereal voice chided lightly.

The Dagda spun nimbly on his heels to be greeted by a man and woman locked arm in arm. They were clad in elegant black funeral wear trimmed with purple and white, with matching black top hats and dark-tinted glasses.

The man was tall, slender and dark-skinned save for the bone-white skull painted upon his face. His dark-tinted glasses were missing a single lens. His lips curled in a rakish grin as he chomped down on a cigar.

The woman was fair, with shimmering red-gold hair not unlike the Dagda's own. Upon her lapel was pinned a small reed-woven cross. A black rooster feather was tucked into the band of her top hat. Behind dark-tinted glasses, eyes of green flame crackled warmly like hearth-fires after a long cold journey.

"Brigid?" the Dagda whispered softly.

She smiled. "Hello, father."

"BRIGID!?" the Dagda roared with unconstrained joy, sweeping up his daughter in a spinning bear-hug before finally turning to her companion. "And ye must be the new hubby, eh? Well, lad, ye can only be an improvement over the last one!"

"Enchanté, my good Dagda. It's easy to see where my Brigitte gets her grace and charm," Brigid's husband spoke, tipping his top hat before his lips curled up in a smirk. "Bondye knows where she found her looks."

The Dagda threw back his head in a howl of laughter. "Oh, I like you!"

"Oh, course you do. He reminds you too much of yourself," Brigid teased, glancing about the assembly. "Cú Roí not here?"

The Dagda shook his wild red-gold mane. "Had to duck out, business at the Big House."

"Ahem," a voice coughed wetly.

The Dagda peered over his shoulder at a figure standing in the shadow of an ancient oak. "Ah, lad! Come say hello to yer sister and her new beau!"

The figure who stepped forth was as unlike his sister as water was unlike fire. Where she radiated warmth, he brought a clammy chill with every step. Where her eyes were bright hearth-fires, his were dark brackish pools.

Like his father, he was clad mostly in biking leather, a long dark coat draped about him. His skin was pale and sallow, with blue-tinted lips like a drowned corpse. His long green-black hair clung wetly to his shoulders like algae on a river stone.

"Brigid," he spoke with as much warmth as he could muster.

"Midir," she answered in kind.

"Ample Father, might I request an audience," Midir spoke. "In private?"

"Come, Sam. Let's mingle," spoke Brigid, leading her husband away.

"Now, lad, what's so important that it requires dragging me away from me favorite daughter?" asked the Dagda.

"Ample Father," Midir answered. "I humbly request your permission to take leave of Tír na nÓg?"

"Now you know the rules, lad," the Dagda answered. "We all stay put 'til the Big Man gives the all clear."

"A temporary leave," Midir pleaded. "Just enough time to retrieve… something precious I was forced to abandon in the mortal world. Surely so small a favour is as nothing to your boundless generosity?"

The Dagda stroked his vast red-gold beard, absently picking out a half-chewed chicken bone before tossing it in his wide mouth and munching thoughtfully.

"Tell ya what, lad," he spoke finally, summoning an oak-framed hourglass filled with slowly trickling gold dust. "I'll give ye two hours, two days by mortal reckoning, and not one second more."

"Thank you, Ample Father, you wo-" Midir began to enthuse before the Dagda's broad hand landed heavily upon his shoulder.

"I mean it, boy," the Dagda whispered low, his eyes hardening. "Not one second more."

"Of… of course, father," Midir stammered before turning to leave.

"And one more thing, lad?"

"Yes, father?"

"Pick me up a bottle of Dalriada Each-Whiskey on yer way back," the Dagda beamed. "The conjured stuff just ain't the same."

[-]

Knight's Spur, London

December 26th, 2000 A.D.

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE! EX-TER-MIN-"

Flick

"Champs Elisa, as the French say."

Flick

"You are the weakest link, goodbye."

Flick

Molly lay upon a battered sofa in the common room, absently flipping through channels. Just beyond the window, the last embers of sunset were sinking behind the forest, quickly followed by the distant rumble of over two hundred gargoyles awakening from stone sleep.

Not that Molly really noticed. Her mind had been in a funk ever since Rory had decided to join King Arthur and his First Knight on their quest for the Holy Grail, leaving her alone with the local gargoyle clan.

"Making the most of the holidays, I see?" drawled Sean Dugan as he entered.

Well, almost alone.

Rory's father had already zipped up his winter coat and was now winding a thick woolly scarf about his neck.

Where are you going? Molly signed in Irish Sign Language.

"Leo recommended a good night-time walking tour along the Thames. Cab's already on the way," said Sean, checking he had his wallet. "You're welcome to come if the excitement here getting too much for you?"

Pass

"Suit yourself," grunted Sean. Taking his leave. He'd been gone almost a whole minute before Rory's last words to Molly came bubbling up to the surface of her consciousness.

Take care of my da for me, please.

Molly wished she could groan in frustration as she tore herself from the couch, chasing after Sean.

She caught up with him in the manor's foyer speaking with Una, the London Clan's angel-winged unicorn-like Leader. By her side stood Constance, her porcine featured second in command.

"I'd feel more comfortable if one of us kept on eye on you," spoke Una.

"Sure I don't see what trouble I could get into on a tour group?" Sean replied, before spotting Molly. "Changed your mind, I see?"

Molly kept her hands firmly in her pockets.

"Nonetheless, Sir Dugan entrusted us with your safety," spoke Una. "And we take such responsibilities very seriously."

Molly bristled slightly at hearing Rory referred to as 'Sir Dugan',

"Perhaps young Tyger?" Una said thoughtfully. "He's always eager to chip in."

"He should take Kelps too," Constance added. "Griff, Arthur, and Rory aren't due to leave Avalon for another night. She's just twiddling her talons 'til then."

"I don't think I've met 'young Tyger' yet," mused Sean. "What's he like?"

Una pursed her lips for a moment.

"Tyger is very... dedicated."

[-]

Tower Bridge, the Thames

"Construction of the Tower Bridge began in eighteen eighty-six and took eight years, five major contractors and over four hundred workers to complete," the tour guide droned monotonously as she led Molly, Sean and a handful of other tourists across the snow-dusted walkway that hung over forty meters above the ice-crusted waters of the Thames.

She was somewhere in her mid-twenties, not much older than Molly (well not much older than how Molly appeared), with an olive-complexion and powder-blue suit. Her eyes were haggard and bloodshot, like some who'd had far too much caffeine and not nearly enough sleep.

"The bridge's color scheme dates from eighteen seventy-seven," the guide continued. "When it was painted red, white and blue for Queen Elizabeth's Silver Jubilee."

"You mean nineteen seventy-seven?" asked a French-accented teenager.

The guide blinked blearily. "Wot?"

"You said the bridge didn't start construction until eighteen eighty-six, so how could it have been painted in eighteen seventy-seven?" asked the French teen.

"Right… yeah? That was a test to make sure you all were paying attention. Top marks you!" the guide spoke through a forced grin, before gesturing to the panorama of the dark river winding its way through the glimmering city. "Bril view, innit?"

Molly clenched her teeth. She'd only come to keep Sean safe, but right now the only seeming danger was that he might fling himself off the bridge out of sheer boredom.

[-]

Kelpie: Bored now! :(

Liam: Wrking on crab mac n cheese.

Kelpie: Thnx, now bored n hungry.

Liam: N banana parfait for dessert. :P

Kelpie: Sadist.

Liam is typing…

"Oi!?" an equine-featured gargoyle with deep-blue manta-wings protested as the LexPhone was unceremoniously plucked from her webbed talons.

"I'm sorry," replied her comrade, a red-brown furred gargoyle. "I do hope your vital conversation with Liam isn't being unduly impinged upon by all this silly safeguarding the family of one of King Arthur's Knights?"

"They're on a walking tour, Ty, not storming the beaches of Normandy," drawled Kelpie in a thick Scottish brogue. "Yuir acting like the entire Luftwaffe is aboot to come swooping out of the sky."

"That's no excuse for doing a half-arsed job," protested Tyger, peering out from his and Kelpie's hiding place in the upper reaches of the Tower Bridge.

Despite his name, Tyger bore little resemblance to an actual tiger. His lean red-brown furred body was more lupine than feline, save for a leonine tail and beak-like snout. Raptor-like feathered wings, typical of his clan, rose from slightly hunched shoulders. He was clad minimally in blue-black leather leggings and a bronze chest-plate that covered most of his upper torso.

"What if they get mugged, or hit by a drunk driver, or slip on an icy patch and cracked their skulls?" Tyger fretted. "What would Griff think?"

"I'm sure he winnea blame you personally," Kelpie reassured, retrieving her LexPhone.

"I would," answered Tyger flatly.

"Ty, ya need to relax," said Kelpie. "This an easy escort mission, fella! A piece of-"

Kelpie's voice was abruptly drowned out by a sound like a shooting geyser, as a living column of river water snaked its way up the bridge's pylon like some titanic anaconda.

"Alright," sighed Kelpie. "That one's on me."

[-]

Molly pushed Sean aside as a wave of oily water came crashing over the railing. The polluted liquid flowed upward, coalescing into the form of a pale elven-featured man wielding a five-pointed spear and riding astride a green-black emaciated steed.

Molly's eyes went wide. Midir?

The river god ignored her, Sean, and the already fleeing tourists; turning his full attention upon the tour guide.

She stared at him like he'd walked straight out of a nightmare.

"No," she whispered breathlessly. "You can't be real."

"Etain, my love," spoke Midir, his skeletal steed pawing the oily puddles that formed about its hooves as chill mist rose from its nostrils. "I have crossed oceans of time to find you."

"NO! STAY BACK!" screamed the guide, slipping on an icy patch and scrabbling backward on all fours.

"No matter," he hissed, reaching out. "You will understand once we return to Tír na nÓg."

"Oi, lavvy heid!" a Scot's voice cried out harshly. "No means no!"

Midir turned just as Tyger and Kelpie swooped down upon him, eyes blazing crimson. They tackled him from his steed, pinning him to the walkway.

The gargoyles attempted to restrain their captive only for him to dissolve into a slick flowing puddle that swiftly reformed atop his steed.

"I feel vaguely offended," said Kelpie, eyeing the demonic water-horse.

"Step aside, Fir Bolg," spoke Midir coldly. "I have no quarrel with your kind."

"You have a quarrel with anyone in this city, then you have a quarrel with us, mate," said Tyger. "Besides don't you lot have rules against mucking about in mortal affairs?"

"You are the ones who interfere. I only reclaim that which was promised to me millennia ago," snarled Midir. "Now, once more... stand aside."

Ty flared his wings. "No."

"THEN BE FORCED ASIDE!" Midir shrieked, his arms morphing into watery tendrils that lashed out at the gargoyles like hungry serpents.

Sean took advantage of the distraction to race to the fallen guide's side, over Molly's silent protests. "You alright, luv?"

"I... I think I twisted my ankle," she replied.

"Come on," said Sean, helping her upright. "Lean on me."

Midir's watery tendrils slammed the gargoyles down hard against the walkway, momentarily stunning them before turning back to his original quarry. "Give me the girl, old fool."

"In a pig's eye!" snapped Sean.

"On your own head by it," spoke Midir coldly, raising his five-pointed spear, clutched in a liquid fist.

Which was the exact moment Molly chose to leap between Midir and his target. A flash of blue faery light and in her place floated a phantasmal queen-like figure with long-flowing hair, clad in shimmering emerald gossamer.

"Morrigan?" Midir whispered fearfully, allowing his five-pointed spear to clatter harmlessly to the ground.

The Phantom Queen's eyes shone with eldritch radiance as they bored balefully into the river god's own.

That was about all Midir could take. His demon steed reeled back in terror as it leaped back over the railing, taking him with it. Rider and mount both dissolved into silty water as they hit the river's surface.

No sooner had they departed than Molly had reverted to human form. Sean and the guide stared blankly at her.

"Uuugh," groaned Kelpie as Tyger helped her to her feet. "My head hannae hurt this bad since that time I swam too close to Nessie and got a flipper to the face."

"I... I can't believe it," the guide panted. "You're the Soho Griffins!? You saved my life!"

Molly shot her a stink eye.

"Tried to anyway, but you're welcome," grumbled Tyger, nursing his head. "Not to be rude, Ms. but... Who are you?"

[-]

Into the Mystic, Soho

"My name is Vanessa Clarke, and I guess it all started around the twenty-sixth of January back in ninety-six," she spoke, nursing a cup of hot tea as Kelpie bound her ankle. Around her stood or sat Una, Constance, Tyger, Molly, and Sean, listening attentively.

"There was... an accident. All the docs said I shoulda died then and there. Mum said it was a miracle," Vanessa continued. "That's when the dreams started."

Una tilted her head. "Dreams?"

"They're like... I'm not me. I'm in a forest, or by a river, places I've never been or seen. But no matter where I am or where I go... he's there too. He wants me to go with him... somewhere," spoke Vanessa, voice cracking. "Somewhere people don't come back from."

"He called you something on the Bridge... 'Etain'?" said Kelpie, looking up. "Does that mean anything to you?"

Vanessa shook her head.

"My God," Sean swore quietly. "Midir and Etain."

"What?" asked Constance.

"It's an old Irish tale," spoke Sean somberly. "Midir was a prince of the Sídhe, a race of demigods that once ruled Ireland, who fell madly in love with a mortal woman named Etain. There was just one problem; Midir was already married."

Vanessa rolled her eyes. "Bloody typical."

"In a jealous fury, Midir's wife called upon her magics to transform Etain into a butterfly then summoned a wind that blew the poor creature back and forth across the island for over fourteen years.

"Eventually the butterfly landed in the goblet of a noblewoman, who swallowed the insect as she drank. Nine months later, Etain was reborn as the noblewoman's daughter.

"When she came of age, the reborn Etain was married to the High King. One day, a stranger came to Tara, challenging the High King to three games of Fidchell."

"Fidwhat?" asked Kelpie.

"It's sorta like chess," answered Sean. "Anyhow, the stranger and the High King wagered that for each game, the loser would grant the winner's request. Twice the High King won. Twice the stranger granted his wish; fifty chestnut brown horses, and to build a causeway over a deep bog.

"But at the third game, the stranger won. His only request; to wrap his arms about the High King's wife and place a single kiss upon her lips. A month passed before the High King finally assented and the stranger was brought before the Queen, in full view of all the High King's warriors

"The moment their lips touched, the two were swept up in a pillar of wind and that was the last mortal eyes ever beheld of Midir and Etain."

Everyone went silent for a few minutes once Sean finished his tale.

"No," said Vanessa finally. "NO! I am not some reincarnated Irish princess! I've never even been to Ireland! My mum's from the West Indies for God's sake! I'm not Etain!"

"Vanessa," Tyger spoke softly, kneeling down to meet her eyes. "You are whoever you say you are!"

"Well whoever she is, we can't risk bringing her back to our roost," said Constance."

Una nodded. "Agreed."

"We can't send her home," protested Tyger. "If Midir knows where she works then he probably knows where she lives."

"Tyger, there's a difference between protecting the people of this city and offering them free room and board," sighed Una, pinching what would have been the bridge of her nose had she been human. "She can kip down in the shop 'til the end of the holidays, or until she makes alternate arrangements; whichever comes first."

"Molly and I will stay to keep her company," offered Sean. "Right, lass?"

Molly simply glared in response.

"Very well," spoke Una. "Tyger and Kelpie can stand watch over you for tonight. We'll send someone to relieve them tomorrow evening. In the meantime, Constance and I will return home and see if we can find anything on this 'Midir' in the clan library."

Una stepped out onto the upper balcony, followed by Constance.

"Be careful, all of you," the Clan Leader spoke, unfurling her wings. "The shop is mystically warded against uninvited incursions by the Third Race, but there's no ward a devious or desperate enough mind can't think their way around."

[-]

Battle of Britain War Memorial, the Thames

Everyone called him 'Frank the Cabbie', even other cab drivers. His job had formed such an integral part of his identity that he'd already deferred retirement twice.

But for now, Frank was content to sit down with a ploughman's sandwich and a Nightstone coffee after ferrying a couple of Irish tourists back and forth across the city.

"Evenin', gents," he spoke, doffing his cap to the sculpted winged figures that stood silent sentinel over the memorial. He'd just been about to take his first bite when a shadow fell over him.

He looked up into the pallid face of a long-haired youth clad in biker leather. The youth's dark eyes were fixed upon the memorial.

"Everything alright, lad?" Frank asked.

"What do you know of these creatures?" asked the youth in an Irish brogue, eyes never leaving the memorial.

Now, this was the part where Frank would usually spin a yarn 'bout gremlins, followed by a trip to a certain shop in Soho. It usually gave the tourists a kick. Yet something in the youth's eyes gave him pause.

"Sorry, lad," said Frank with a shrug. "Never seen this thing before in my life."

"Do not take me for a fool!" The youth grabbed Frank by the collar, yanking him to his feet. "A Fir Bolg clan could not hide in a city of this size without leaving some trace! You must know something!?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking about," gasped Frank. "I swear."

"There was a time I would be well within my rights to kill you where you stood," the youth hissed before dropping Frank. "Fortunately for you, the current regime frowns on such things."

The youth turned towards the river, letting loose a high-pitch whistle. It was followed by a splash and revving motor as something tore its way up the embankment.

A vicious looking motorcycle, spotted with rust and mounted with a horse's skull upon the handlebars, came roaring over the embankment. It skidded to a stop before the youth it had a mind of its own.

The youth fixed the memorial with one last hateful glare as he mounted his steed, before screeching off into the night.

To Be Concluded...