A/N: To anyone confused by the ending of Chapter 5, it has now been slightly amended; PM me if there's still misunderstanding :)
8/12/11:Okay, I'm really sorry, but due to some insane personal issues this week I won't be updating tomorrow as usual. I really wanted to! But I've barely looked at it all week, so I'd rather wait. I do apologise! I'll have Chapter 9 up next Friday and I will do my utmost to make it doubly better, or something, I don't know.
To anyone who is actually still reading it, know that I really appreciate that, and would like to hug you all, especially you kind reviewers :) You can't imagine how cheering even the smallest little comment is to me right now.
- CHAPTER EIGHT -
Orders
For the second time that day – surely a record – Crowley blinked. And then, more deliberately, again.
But Asmodeus remained where he stood, perfectly perfect and real. Steam was curling off his suit, and the blazing redness in his eyes was dimming back to its regular burgundy.
Crowley found his voice.
"Suicides," he said flatly, his voice not quite raw, but close. "That's how you do it. You move through suicides."
Asmodeus smiled again, so tenderly and lovingly. "That's right," he said, then rolled his shoulders in an elegant shrug. "It's a lot quicker than flying... and so much more enjoyable."
Crowley was still dumbstruck. He could barely believe it, even after seeing it with his own eyes. It was sickeningly ingenious. Get people to kill themselves, then climb across their descending souls as they pass from Earth to Hell. It was almost the sort of thing a human would think up. Eventually he thought of something to say to this.
"Nice idea."
"Why thank you, Crowley," smiled Asmodeus, most likely plagiarising the work of some other demon. "Poison's the best way to go about it, though. So neat. Jumpers are ever so messy, and fire... Well," he indicated his smouldering ankle, which ceased immediately. "It's far from ideal. But it's fast. And I needed to see you again, Crowley, as soon as possible."
Crowley's unnecessary heart began to pound. "Oh?" he swallowed. Tried to keep casual. "How come?"
The Archduke craned his neck to see around the other demon; see the oblivious workers, and their machines, and their fires.
"It's much too loud in here," he said in distaste. Then his eyes flicked back to Crowley, and he smiled, shortly and slyly, at him, as though struck by some horrid idea. "I know."
And then, effortlessly, he raised a hand, until the palm was parallel with his body; as though he was calling for silence, perhaps.
The stokers dropped like flies to the floor. Every furnace door slammed shut. The intrusive whistle of steam died down.
Asmodeus surveyed the now much darker and much quieter room with a self-satisfied smirk.
"Mm. That's better."
Crowley stared at one of the stokers behind the other demon. The man's eyes were wide open – unnaturally wide – but curiously unfocused, as though he was not seeing here, the boiler room, but elsewhere. He twitched and jerked, but made no sound. He was trapped in a nightmare.
"Now," said Asmodeus, beginning.
Crowley raised his eyebrows in expectation, trying to look interested and not horrified.
"The Council of Darkness has reached their decision," said the higher demon. "And they have some exceptionally specific orders for you. Of the utmost importance."
Asmodeus came towards him now, taking each footstep slowly, unhurriedly: making him wait. His every movement emanated pleasure and satisfaction, both of the sinful kind.
"You'll just love this. It's so ambitious."
They were face to face now, mere inches between them, so that Crowley could feel the dying heat still radiating from that body; smell sulphur and cinders, and something unquestionably unhealthy but nonetheless intriguing – the way glue or petroleum tempt their inhalers to linger and breathe just that little bit deeper. The Archduke leaned even closer, lustful eyes pausing for a moment on Crowley's lips, drawing out the suspense for those few tense moments further. Yet more seconds passed before he spoke softly into the lesser demon's ear. The words were hot against his skin and filled with wicked delight as he uttered that final, fateful verdict.
"Sink the Titanic."
Crowley felt himself go cold. "What?" he said.
"Sink her," repeated Asmodeus, luxuriating at the words the way a wine connoisseur will swill a fine vintage round his glass to admire its colour. "Banish her to the deepest abyss. Lead her by the neck to her slaughter. Dye the Atlantic red with her blood. Use your imagination."
"But... But..." Crowley stumbled for coherency in his panic and horror. "But she's unsinkable! She's the most unsinkable ship to ever not be sunk!"
Asmodeus regarded him with patronising fondness. "Crowley. So modest all of a sudden. As I recall in your report, that Thomas Andrews called it 'practically unsinkable'; and you neglected to inform the media of that rather crucial little adjective. Very clever of you."
"But she's a den of iniquity!" said Crowley desperately, grabbing at straws now. "It's all... all unparalleled luxury and all-you-can-smoke after-parties and... and feeding your gluttony and greed and covetousness. And lust," he added, for good measure, remembering the Archduke's speciality. "And then, then, there's all the inequality, with first class and –"
"Again with the modesty, Crowley. It's most unlike you." Asmodeus gently cut through him as though dismissing the reasoning of a child. "Isn't most of the civilised world now capital-ruled and driven by self-interest? Your efforts have not gone unnoticed these past few centuries."
"But sinking her will unite the Western world in their tragedy!" Crowley tried again despairingly. "They'll set aside their differences and light Candles of Forgiveness and –"
Asmodeus, who had been theatrically mock-sighing, now cut him off again. "When Adam and Eve first mourned the taste of your accursèd apple, sweet Serpent, did you witness a unity, a consolidation?"
Crowley, startled by this change to a subject so long unthought-of, was momentarily caught off guard.
"Of course not," the Archduke answered for him smoothly. "Instead of accepting their sins and transgression, they cast blame unto each other. You remember? And then they bickered amongst themselves, in that delightful eloquent tongue of theirs: Man's first argument," he smirked to himself, no doubt recalling with pleasure the images the demons of Pandæmonium had drawn from Crowley's mind upon return from this sorrowful scene. "Oh, yes," Asmodeus continued, nodding to himself. "Yes, Titanic shall bring forth such woe unto the hearts of Men." He was now looking at Crowley directly, eyes turned dark by this talk of essential demonic business, and under the full force of his gaze – no longer diluted by tender condescension, or lustful desire – Crowley was suddenly and acutely aware of just exactly what their differences in rank signified; of the power this great demon held, momentarily unemployed; of what he could do if he chose to exercise it.
"The ship they say God himself cannot sink shall be sunk in the name of Satan Our Master," said Asmodeus, with terrible finality. "Man shall rue their optimism, their hope... their faith," he hissed the word in disgust, as though it offended him to utter it. "They shall question what kind of a God allows His people to be so randomly massacred. They shall raise their flags on this night for a century to come –"
"Wait, this night?" interrupted Crowley, unable to contain himself. "You mean, on this voyage, the maiden voyage?"
"Yes, Crowley, when else?" said Asmodeus, with a touch of impatience. The infernal fires in his eyes had died back at being cut off mid-flow, and he sighed in annoyance. "Look, just get it done, yes? This is kind of a big deal. Lucifer himself has expressed an interest in the scheme, though he's leaving it under the command of Beëlzebub for now." Name-dropping. Subtly letting Crowley know just how high this went; the type of consequences there would be at failure. "I know we can all rely on you, Crowley," said Asmodeus, the warmth now restored in his voice. "I know that you, of all demons, will understand the importance of this."
Crowley stared.
"I know, Crowley," continued the fiend, so soft and alluring and superficially lovely, "that you will get this done."
Aziraphale awoke to something prodding him, hard, in his soft abdomen. With a groan he opened his eyes a crack.
Then promptly shot upright.
"Y'orwight, mista?"
Aziraphale jumped again; stared at the glowering face of a stoker barely inches from his own.
"Am I... Am I what?" he asked in total confusion, rubbing the back of his disturbingly aching head. He looked around him, then down. Gosh. He was covered in soot.
"'E said are you aw'ight," translated another fellow, his Cockney accent so thick he too was barely understandable.
Aziraphale stared.
"Er," he said, eloquently.
"I fink 'e 'it 'is 'ead."
"Fink you're right."
Aziraphale pulled himself to his feet, miracling away the head rush.
"I'm terribly sorry to dash off so soon," he said politely, bringing his hands elegantly together. "But have either of you fine fellows seen my friend around here?"
The stokers stared.
"Black hair? Tinted glasses? Good cheekbones?"
Two heads shook in unison.
Aziraphale frowned. "Right."
How odd, he thought, as the stokers left him be. Most definitely alarming indeed.
He searched the boiler room. And the next. He stopped searching once he realised how gigantic those rooms actually were.
Wherever could that blessed demon have got to?
Perhaps, having lost him, Crowley had gone back to his suite? Yes. Yes, of course, that would be it. Aziraphale nodded to himself, starting up the ladder that would (or at least, theoretically, should – Aziraphale knowing as much about the layout of the Titanic as he did the Kama Sutra) lead back to their starting point.
Or perhaps it was a game? he thought, on finding the suite empty. That was the sort of tomfoolery the demon tended to play at, wasn't it?
Aziraphale sat forlornly on his absentee lover's bed.
No. No, that wasn't it, either.
Ismay had left a message. With a sigh the angel picked it up; skim-read its none-too-pleased content whilst chewing cold and rather slimy eel.
Perhaps Hell –
Then every lamp in the room went out.
Aziraphale yelped in alarm and jumped to his feet, standing in a plate of what felt like the remains of devilled oysters. Immediately a shaft of electric blue light fell down from the ceiling and illuminated him in a brilliant ethereal spotlight.
"Good God!" he exclaimed in shock, raising an arm to shield himself from that blinding brightness.
"Not quite," said a disembodied voice from above.
Aziraphale, one foot still uncomfortably in sushi, froze.
The voice was one that hinted simultaneously of both immense beauty and immense power; a voice whose soft musical lilt contradicted the strength with which its words were delivered; the mocking dryness they were layered with. It was the voice of a great leader, a voice that drew respect – reverence – without question.
That voice... That light...
Oh, dear.
"Greetings, Aziraphale," said the cool voice of the Metatron, the Voice of God.
"Gosh, has it really been—"
"Five thousand, nine hundred and sixteen years, yes," said the great seraph, brushing aside the small talk with impatience. "Aziraphale, I am afraid this is not a social visit. There is a matter that has been brought to our attention, on which we require further information immediately."
Aziraphale swallowed, and hoped his discomfort wasn't readable on his face. "Oh, yes?" he said to the light.
"Claims by a source have recently fortified suspicions of ours that regard you, Aziraphale, and a particular demon with whom you have been acquainted with since the birth of humanity. A demon that has been referred to by some as your 'infernal counterpart'; your 'Equal and Opposite'; the..." There was a pause, as though the Metatron was shuffling through some notes, "... 'Yang to your Yin'..."
Aziraphale couldn't help it – he let out a short, quiet laugh.
"You find this amusing, do you, Aziraphale?" asked the Metatron sharply.
"Oh, no! No of course not," Aziraphale fought to bring himself under control. "It's merely the philosophical Chinese euphemism that threw me, Your Resplendence."
The seraph went on as though uninterrupted. "The demon's name is Crowley," he said. There was a terrible pause. "And we have been informed that he is your friend."
Aziraphale caught his breath. Any humour left in his body took flight on swift wings, leaving him cold and fearful. This was it. It had been inevitable, really. They were bound to figure it out eventually.
The harsh blue light was intensifying at his silence. Light travels in straight lines, but here the Metatron's seemed to be curving; coiling insidiously around its subject like creeping incorporeal vines. A gasp caught in Aziraphale's throat as the binds tightened ever so slightly; pushed phantom feathers against the back of his head; constricted around soft waistline. Not enough to hurt – only to notice.
The Metatron's voice came as cold and pitiless as ever; as cold and pitiless as an ocean.
"Do you deny this, Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale couldn't lie. Not under the gaze of the greatest of the four seraphim. It would be lying to God. He took a deep breath, as best he could with so restricted a ribcage. All around him the light-binds held him tight in place – trapped – but now he held no fear. For, when the truth was all you had to give – all you loved and believed in – how could you fear it?
And so he looked proudly into the light, and when he spoke, his voice betrayed not a quiver. He stared straight up into Heaven, bold and resolute and incorruptible. "No, Your Resplendence," he told the Metatron – told God. "I do not."
There was no way he was sinking the Titanic.
Crowley's feet were moving, but he was only vaguely aware of this.
There was no way he was sinking the Titanic.
His footsteps sounded loud on the polished wooden deck.
Sink the Titanic! Sink her! Why now? Why this ship? Out of every ship!
Sink her.
How could he sink her? He'd spent a whole two years watching her be slowly willed into reality, channelled from blueprinted dreams into solid iron and woodwork. He loved the Titanic. She was the one material possession that he cherished above all others – even his Stradivarius. He knew her inside out – he'd even influenced her design – and he'd put some bloody hard work into making her as luxurious and self-indulging and hedonistic as possible. And he'd succeeded. He hadn't been exaggerating to Asmodeus when he'd cited her many iniquities. Titanic was a modern masterpiece of pure, delicious sin, and whilst Crowley hadn't quite been expecting a commendation for his efforts – he'd more been investing for his own enjoyment – the last thing he'd been prepared for was this.
Sink the Titanic?
Well, he just wouldn't. He wouldn't. He'd sink a fleet of smaller ones – a bloody armada if he had to – and maybe be more diligent with his damning of souls in future if that was what it took to save Titanic. That would work, right? That would keep Hell happy?
Wrong, thought Crowley miserably. There was something heavy settling on his heart, dragging him down: as though all the gold of the day's joy and buoyancy had reverse-alchemised into a lead balloon.
Despair.
Because Hell would never accept that. Hell would sink Titanic itself just to mock his attachment, and spite him. Hell offered no choice. He was a demon. There was no getting out of this one. It was sink or be sunk. There was no 'swim' option to be had – and if there was, then it was swimming in temperatures a degree over freezing as the ship disappeared into the abyss.
Sink the Titanic.
Crowley's feet pulled him on. He had no idea where he was going. A small part of his mind was aware that Aziraphale must be worried sick about him. And a small part of him was worried sick about Aziraphale in turn.
But he had a ship to sink. He had to sink the Titanic.
Sink the Titanic.
Hell offered no choice. He was a demon. There was no getting out of this one.
He had no choice.
Crowley's hands met cool railings. His body met cool metal that curved around his body. His mind met only cool numbness; hopelessness. He leaned far over, breathed in; let the fresh salt sting his nostrils.
He was a demon. There was no getting out of this one.
He had to sink the Titanic.
Aziraphale's search, by default, eventually brought him to the bow of the ship. It was dark tonight, the black sky moonless; a blindfold pushing against his eyes, heavy and oppressive.
He had to find Crowley. He had to tell him. He had to warn him.
There was a figure right up there at the nose, silhouetted against inky stillness of the sea: someone slender, with dark shiny hair, in an angularly cut suit.
That was all Aziraphale needed.
"Crowley!" he called, starting into a jog. "Crowley!"
He was only metres from the demon now – for it was him, he was certain – but Crowley still had not turned to greet him.
"Crowley –"
Aziraphale stopped short as the demon's side profile came into view, and caught his breath in horror.
Crowley was stood perfectly still, gripping the railings so hard his knuckles were white and trembling. His skin was wan and grey, and he was gritting his teeth with concentration.
But the most alarming part of all was his eyes: from behind his sunglasses there came a terrible and completely ungodly crimson glow, illuminating his grave face with blood red.
Aziraphale felt himself lose his colour.
"Crowley, what are you – Are you – What –"
Crowley's head moved slightly – convulsively – as though he was trying to look at the angel but was unable to.
"'Zira—phale," he panted, through clenched teeth. "Go – you – don't need to – see this."
"Crowley, what's going on?" Aziraphale was frightened. "Crowley, what are you doing?"
Crowley let out a terrible moan that was somewhere between a gasp of pain and a sob of frustration.
"I can't!" he cried, filled with such despair that Aziraphale felt it as a physical tug at his own heart. "Please! I have to!"
"Have to what?"
Crowley jerkily shook his head, and gasped again. "No – I have to – have to –"
"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed in alarm, half-reaching out to touch him before pulling back as biospatial static shot up his fingers. "Crowley –"
"I have to sink it!"
Aziraphale froze.
Crowley was panting now, air rasping through his teeth. His eyes were like the mouths of Hell. "I have – to sink – Titanic," he repeated, seeming to push all the energy he had into those words. He moaned in misery. "I – have to. Hell – demon – orders – ship..."
Silence descended. Cold, biting wind whipped their hair about their faces. Stung their skin.
Aziraphale still hadn't moved. Then, without caring about the consequences, he reached out and took Crowley's face in his hands. He almost recoiled at the acute prickling that shot across his skin, worse than nettle stings, but held fast. Forced himself to hold those blazing crimson eyes with his own; to hold his fear within his own.
"Crowley," Aziraphale said, calmly enough, panic only hastily concealed below the surface. "Crowley – please – let go. You have to let me help you. Just... let go."
There was one long moment filled with only the rush of the roaring ocean below, when the angel and the demon stared into each other's eyes – blue meeting red; the summer rains that douse the forest fire. Then, giving up and letting go with one great sigh of anguish and shame, Crowley slowly came back. His face relaxed; the fearsome fire behind his eyes began to dim; Aziraphale felt the stinging in his hands lose its edge.
Barely breathing, he slowly brought his hands down to the demon's own, still wrapped tightly around the railings as a downed pilot will grasp his severed joystick even as the plane plummets to Earth. He gently prised the fingers away, one by one, until Crowley stood with his hands by his side, his head bowed. He was trembling all over from his exertions.
Aziraphale let out a shaky breath. "My dear," he whispered. It wasn't quite a question, but there was an imploring note to it; inquiring.
Crowley laid his head on the angel's shoulder.
"I have to do it, angel," he mumbled, and Aziraphale could feel him convulsing in his chest, like a spasm of fear and despair; a sob without tears. "I don't have a choice. 'M a demon. I have to do it."
Aziraphale wrapped his arms around him; wordlessly soothed him.
"But I can't do it," Crowley sounded terrified and triumphant at the same time. "It doesn't matter how hard I summon it, I'm just unconsciously repelling it as I do. I can't make it come."
He'd been trying to summon an iceberg, Aziraphale realised. The immediate instinctive horror he had felt at Crowley's words was replaced by a sudden surge of empathetic pity, understanding only too well the cause of his suffering. Of being a foot soldier; of following orders. Of hating yourself for it.
"I don't know what to do, Aziraphale," Crowley was saying from against his shoulder. "I love this bloody ship. I'm damned if I do – damned if I don't. Damned already anyway."
Aziraphale tightened his hold and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could somehow squeeze out Crowley's troubles. Then he froze.
"Or maybe not." An idea was unfurling in his mind.
"Huh?"
Aziraphale drew back from their embrace and felt excitement growing within him. "Well, I'm an angel, aren't I?"
Crowley gave him a blank impatient stare. Aziraphale went on quickly.
"Well, I'm The Enemy. The Opposition. It's my job to thwart your infernal wiles and orders."
Crowley stared at him blankly.
"So why not let us simply pretend I've thwarted your sink-the-Titanic plot? Explain to your superiors that there was an angel on board and you were powerless to stop him – say you did everything you could. I'm sure there shall still be retributions to be had, of course, but far less severe. And Titanic will sail another day."
Crowley smiled, slowly and sadly. "'S not that simple," he shrugged listlessly. "But it's not a bad idea. Guess it could buy us time."
Aziraphale gave him a tremulous little smile. He wanted to tell him that it was going to be alright – that they were going to be alright – but he knew already that they wouldn't be. There could be no happy ending for them. He thought of what he had been going to tell Crowley – what the Metatron had told him must come to pass – but right now, with the demon in such uncharacteristic despair, he couldn't do it. His own news would make the sinking of the Titanic seem, to them, like the sinking of a toy boat on St. James's duck pond.
One problem at a time, thought Aziraphale, pulling his lover in closer; feeling himself be pulled in closer. Perhaps we can fix this. All great truths begin as blasphemies, after all.
He supposed it would help if he could have faith in his own words.
Regardless. For now, whatever lay ahead in their hazy future, they could just hold each other on the night of the fourteenth of April, 1912, and pretend they were free; pretend that this could last; that they were any other pair of lovers embracing together under a starry sky. Who knew how much time they had left to do this? Who knew if, once they were separated – and they would be: of that there was no question – they would ever be allowed to see each other again? In any case, there was still a good week left of the voyage; surely they could come up with a plan in that time. And at least there was time. It wasn't like this was the last night they would ever be together, or anything.
Crowley, holding so tight and being held so tight, opened his eyes to the star-strewn Heavens. Couldn't stop the sigh from escaping him.
Then he felt his mouth fall open in horror.
Directly in his line of vision was the top of the Crow's Nest, where he'd sensed the presence of two half-frozen young men stationed on look-out as he'd gone past earlier. He'd heard them talking about him, as he'd blindly walked by, numb with purpose. But now the two figures had become three.
Demons can see in the dark, and they can see far. And Crowley could see that Asmodeus was stood inches from one of the men, and he was whispering in his ear.
Then he felt Aziraphale stiffen in his embrace as he noticed something over Crowley's shoulder; something that Crowley couldn't see; something in the ocean. He pulled back, and turned around.
The iceberg was gargantuan; angular, razor-sharp, terrifying. It was at least three times the width of the ship, if not more, and easily fifty feet high. It was one bright shape in the otherwise darkness of the night. It was coming straight for them.
Crowley looked back over his shoulder at the look-outs. They were staring into space; Asmodeus had them bewitched. They hadn't seen it. They wouldn't see it.
He turned again; met Aziraphale's wide, petrified eyes. They stared one to another, for one tenth of a second that stretched on forever.
Then they turned, and they ran.
