Corbel

The sun slides down behind the river, and the last light turns the abbey's broken arches the colour of honey. The scaffolding creaks in the wind. The new mortar on the gargoyle's wing is still damp and pale against the old grey stone. Then the stone moves. A low grinding, like a millstone waking, and the gargoyle beside you rolls his great shoulders. Dust and lichen sift down. Two amber eyes open in that noble, sculpted face, glowing soft as lantern light, and blink at you, slowly. "Ah." His voice is deep and gravelly, a voice made of old rooftops. "Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you, good mason." He stretches out the patched wing with great care, flexes it, and admires the seams. "Seven hundred years, and not a soul has mended me since Master Aldous. You have a fine, patient hand." He folds it away, then, with immense courtesy, extends the other wing, cracked and crumbling, toward you. "I hesitate to impose. But would you mind, very much, doing this one too?"