Look, everyone! Fanart for Chapter Six, by Lunissa on deviantArt:
lunissa. deviantart art/ Call-up-the-flame-422922822
Thank you.
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Chapter Seven
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No amount of scrubbing at his hands with his handkerchief could take away the nauseating feel of what had been on them. It was like it had burnt itself into his skin.
The heat was stifling now, and the air thick enough to cut with a knife, so much so that Crowley had stopped breathing altogether. It wasn't a tropical heat or anything, no, he'd have liked that: it was the stinking heat generated by large animals packed far too close together in far too small a space. Disgusting.
With every step Crowley took, his shoes splashed in the inch-deep liquid that was steadily flowing down. Yes, down, for the tunnel was sloping so much now that it was like descending a hill; he had to be careful not to slip and fall. The mere thought of what it was he would be landing in if he did made his stomach twist in on itself. And that wasn't the only thing.
He'd used his last match to light the fresh candle inside the small lantern, and for several minutes now, the smell of slowly-burning human fat was stuffing up his nose. Crowley knew it well enough: it was a punishment reserved for some of the worst types, down in Hell. But when he considered just whose fat that candle was actually made from...
Well. The fact that his stomach was already empty was the only thing that kept him from being sick again. But he could not afford to extinguish that candle: if he did, he'd be in the dark, permanently, and who knew where he'd end up then? There wasn't much burning time left in it, besides, so he had to make the most of it while it lasted.
Still, all this he could have put up with, if not for those maddening noises. The first, a slow dripping noise, like the constant, regular sound he heard when he made himself a cappuccino, had started when Crowley had severed that... cord... and it hadn't stopped since, moving around all the time, behind him, in front, to the right, never staying in one place. He was beginning to suspect it was actually in his head.
The second noise, however, was most definitely not in his head. It was like the thudding of an old generator, thump-thump, thump-thump, so powerful that he could feel it through the soles of his feet. And both noises kept getting louder.
Finally, and so abruptly that it took him a few seconds to fully realise it, Crowley reached the tunnel's end. The thudding, strong enough now to make his skeleton vibrate, and the dripping sound, multiplied and amplified into a low roar like a waterfall's, told him he'd come upon a gigantic cave, which his feeble lantern couldn't possibly hope to illuminate. Incredibly, the first thing he felt was a huge rush of relief. No more cramped tunnels, no more feeling like the walls were closing in: an open space at last. Underground, granted, but still open. "Hello?" he said, but his voice was completely lost in the echoes.
So intent was Crowley, as he moved into the cave, upon studying what little he could make out of his surroundings and upon trying to glimpse the ceiling, that he failed to notice that the spot where he wanted to set his foot down next was only thin air.
He slipped off the edge, twisted round in mid-air, seized the edge of the hole, and pulled himself up out of there before his hands could lose their grip. He was on all fours on the edge now, fingers dug deep into the sludge, facing the way he'd come from, shaking with live-wire terror, and not just from his near-fall.
In the split second when his lantern, fallen from his grasp, had illuminated part of the rim of the pit, Crowley had seen it: there really was a waterfall, but not of water. All along the circumference, it was falling slowly and steadily down, down, down, running in countless dripping streams over the floor and into the hole.
But... But how could there be so many tunnels? They'd have to criss-cross and overlap all over the place but they didn't, they couldn't, he'd have noticed, he'd kept a hand on the wall the whole time, it was solid, no other openings, so where...?
Never mind. Just never mind. They could be in other dimensions or other times, for all Crowley cared. Right now, he was sure of one thing and one thing only: there was one single heart to the nightmare, and it was here, in its centre. If that were destroyed... But first to learn what it was.
Very, very carefully, Crowley turned on hands and knees, and peered over the edge, his whole body poised to keep from pitching forward. There was a faint, reddish glow from where his unbroken lantern lay. The pit couldn't be very deep at all, then, but Crowley still couldn't see just what was there.
Ah, now it was clear why not, in that faint glow: his sunglasses were... smudged.
He took them off and, in the few feet of that circle of flickering light, Crowley saw the source of the thumping, as vast as the cavern itself. His sunglasses fell from his hand.
Rising, and falling, rising, and falling, in constant, measured rhythm, like any healthy heartbeat.
Crowley's eyes couldn't have got any wider if he'd tried.
"My God," he gasped.
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When Aziraphale skidded to a halt, the frozen air biting at him, he stood at the edge of a great, open space, fenced in by the trees. It was completely barren, with not a blade of grass or a single flower to be seen around the decrepit, yet strangely whole house in the middle, bathed in the light of the glaring full moon. That, Aziraphale knew, was his destination. He might not be able to spread his wings anymore at the moment, but the sense for evil that every angel was equipped with was still very much working, and the sight of that house had set it on fire.
He crossed the bare earth towards it, mounted the front steps, and nearly fell backwards off them. There, nailed at eye level to the front door, was a single, gleaming black feather, easily a foot long.
Crowley.
Not a piece of paper, this time.
Freezing, Aziraphale pulled out the nail and took the feather. He cradled it in his arms, running careful fingers along its edge, as gently as though he were touching scales instead. God willing, he'd soon be able to really do so again. He'd go mad if he couldn't, because then...
A tall, dark shadow came looming over him from behind, obscuring the light of the moon.
Unhurried, Aziraphale turned around, the feather still resting on his arm, and looked up at the blank, glistening oval set upon a stick-man body with tentacles of shifting shadow squirming and slithering about it. His lip curled in contempt, and he said calmly, "You think you can break me like this? If I knew for certain, having seen what I've seen, that this feather meant that Crowley was dead, I would rip you to shreds where you stand. Whether or not he was permanently dead would not change this, do you understand me? No, of course you don't. However, for all I know at this point, and unlike all the poor little things you've snatched away and killed, you twisted abomination, he is still alive. I will get to him first, and when I do, you will be dealt with either way. The only difference will be how long I will spend on it. Then, if indeed the worst has happened, then I'll break. Now leave me alone."
Aziraphale turned his back on the thing, then reached out and lightly touched the door. Bolted and locked, it swung wide open.
Aziraphale went inside, and the door slammed shut behind him.
