16. A shattered mirror
Musdur understands now. They wish they didn't. It's a bit too much to take in at once. Makes one question things. Makes one unsure about themselves. They look at Zadkiel as if it was the angel's fault.
The angel looks so out of place in Hell with his white clothes and vulnerable expression.
A tape screeches in the video recorder and Musdur presses the stop button. They take out the full VHS tape and put another in. Then they press the red record button.
"It will be a miracle if any device in Heaven can play that," Zadkiel murmurs.
"Not my problem, egg."
"Why would you call me egg?"
Musdur rolls their eyes. "You're too naive to be a fledgeling."
"Also your head looks like an egg," mantis adds helpfully.
Zadkiel reaches for the tape, but Musdur withdraws it and holds it at their arm's reach, away from the angel. "Do you want it, egghead?" they ask.
Zadkiel looks confused. "Of course I do. We made a deal, didn't we?"
Musdur doesn't reply, momentarily distracted by the screen. It seems Crowley is having trouble keeping the coffee down. It should be funny. Only it isn't. It makes them sick, too, because they understand now.
Zadkiel follows their look. He watches both the screen and the demon.
"What are you going to do?" he asks quietly, but with insistence in his voice. As if saying that now, when they understand, they are obliged to do something.
Musdur doesn't like that tone. They turn towards the angel sharply and press the tape into his hands.
Zadkiel almost drops it, not expecting the move.
But Musdur's hands are free now. And just a second later, something long and sharp glistens in one of them. "Hold him," they hiss.
The mantis has been waiting for that. She is taking the angel's hands before Musdur finishes the sentence. The others are slower to follow, but join her quickly. The tape falls from Zadkiel's grip, but Musdur catches it with their free hand. They put it down on an empty chair.
"It's yours," they whisper. "But nobody said anything about a free passage from Hell. I wonder if you will scream and alert everyone down here about your presence or if you will keep this between us. Let's find out, shall we?"
Aziraphale is thinking about hot drinks. Crowley liked coffee, poor dear. When they went out for a meal, it was often the only thing he actually finished without sliding it to Aziraphale. But now he can't imagine him liking it any longer. It's quite probable that just the thought of coffee will make him sick. So Aziraphale is thinking of alternatives.
There's always tea, of course. But besides Pu Erh, Crowley has never ordered or made tea for himself. So, Pu Erh is one option. Then there is that drink from orchid tubers that used to be considered an aphrodisiac, a fact that Crowley might find funny. The Romans called it satyrion and nowadays it's known as salep, by its turkish name. It is not an aphrodisiac, of course, that was just the phase when humans thought that God coded the use of each plant into its looks, and the two round tubers of this one look like… well. It actually tastes rather nice and he remembers seeing it on the menu of a tearoom in London, so they are still making it.
But Aziraphale feels Pu Erh and salep are just weak substitutes. Coffee is passion and mystery, a dark bitterness that very few appreciate without adjusting it to their taste. Crowley likes to brag about drinking it without adding anything, but Aziraphale knows he puts one spoon of sugar in it if he can do it secretly, and that's how he prepares it for Crowley as well. Strong and dark with one spoon of sugar, because Crowley is like coffee, and secretly a romantic.
And Satan is stripping him of that, making him feel disgust for himself.
They don't have much time, Aziraphale thinks, and his pain underlines the urgency of the thought. How long until Crowley breaks completely? All he wanted was to spare Aziraphale the pain, but the cost to himself was too much. It could be seen in his eyes.
And then there is the thing that made Aziraphale look away from them. It's hiding in his mind like a wild beast in its den. It makes him fear Crowley. It makes him fear Crowley, and there is no reasoning with it. It's primitive and bestial and does not understand words, does not understand that Crowley is doing it for Aziraphale's sake. It connects pain with fear. If Crowley tried to touch him now, it would make him flinch. He's afraid of that. He's afraid that Crowley will see it, he's afraid it will be the last blow that finally shatters him.
They don't have much time. The pain is clouding his mind where he needs to be alert. And so he's thinking about hot drinks. He's trying to hold on to the hope that someday, they will go to a tearoom again and drink salep together.
He feels it slipping away from his grasp as Satan announces the end of the coffee break and then looks at him like a scientist studying a lab rat.
o
The coffee he somehow managed to swallow feels like tar in Crowley's stomach. Like betrayal. He did what Satan asked of him, and Satan was supposed to leave. He was supposed to give them a reprieve, a little time for themselves. But he never said he would leave, did he? Crowley just assumed. He said he wouldn't do anything based on an assumption, and yet he assumed. And now he's sitting here in a cheap black suit like a used car salesman, like someone working with Satan while he's going to torture his angel.
And he won't do anything. That's the worst part. He is not restrained, but he will just sit here like the useless shit he is, because he knows that he can't do anything that would help in any way. If he speaks, he will be silenced. If he tries to stop Satan, he will just bring more pain to Aziraphale. And so he sits, because that's what Satan told him to do and he has gotten no other instructions since then. He sits and watches.
"You might think I'm being unoriginal," Satan proclaims, "but I'm quite proud of the idea, so I'm going to use it again, with improved aesthetics. It's so nicely symbolic."
Crowley's heart sinks into the tar pit of coffee.
Satan raises his hands dramatically, like a conductor of an orchestra. He snaps both fingers and the room dims. The only light is given off by nine burning braziers placed in a circle around Aziraphale. In the mirrors, they look like countless stars and the angel is the center of their galaxy. He's always been the center of Crowley's world. But now, his focus is shifted.
It is pulled to the brazier closest to him, the one that stands directly between him and Aziraphale.
A coiled snake is waiting there, ready to strike.
He is holding the handle of the branding iron. The wood under his hand is warm and blackened by the fire it has been close to. His sweaty palm sticks to it. On the other end, the sigil is glowing orange. He feels the searing heat that's coming from it on his fingers.
He can hear the sickening sizzling as it is pressed to pale skin, smell the scent of burnt flesh, feel the unyielding press of clawed fingers on his hand, not allowing him to drop the branding iron.
He feels the tremors running through the angel's body, carried through the hot metal and wood right into his hand. He feels Aziraphale's eyes on him, clouded with pain. Aziraphale's lips are parted and bloody, drained of all screams… accusing him with their silence.
He can hear and feel and smell it all. The sizzling flesh. The sickening smell of roasting. A tortured scream. But there has been no scream.
He looks at his hand.
It's empty.
There is no branding iron in it. The snake is still waiting in the brazier in front of him, basking in the flames. He avoids looking at it.
Instead, he sees the sigil of the Adversary burnt into the tender skin where Aziraphale's shoulder connects to his neck like a morbid love bite. The branding iron in Satan's hand is smoking as pieces of skin that got stuck to it burn to ashes.
Crowley closes his eyes, like the coward he is.
Destroyer of Kings.
He can still hear the screams and smell the burning. But if he looks, he knows he will see his own hand holding the branding iron. He keeps his eyes closed and counts the screams.
Angel of the Bottomless Pit.
Between the screams, he can hear Aziraphale's breath. It is loud and desperate like that of a woman giving birth who's trying to breathe through unbearable pain, an inhale merged with a sob and a moan encompassed in the exhale. No pleas yet. Those will come later, when the screams die down.
Great Beast that is called Dragon.
He has heard many of Aziraphale's screams and moans by now, and also did a fair share of screaming himself. He can hear the nuances, the difference between a mindless scream and an alert one. He can hear Aziraphale's presence in each of them. He's not trying to hide in reciting poetry or reliving memories. He is keeping himself alert, focused on what's going on. Why? Why won't he retreat into any solace his mind can offer? For Crowley's sake?
Prince of This World.
He feels guilt eating at him, but he doesn't open his eyes. Even so, he can still see the burning snake sigil on the backside of his eyelids. He can see his hand holding its handle, feel Satan's sharp claws digging into his fingers without doing any damage.
Father of Lies.
The realities intersect. His angel is hurting. He is hurting his angel.
Spawn of Satan.
Aziraphale is hurting and Crowley dreads the moment that will come soon, the moment when he gets to choose between the two realities.
Lord of Darkness.
The scream echoes there, in the darkness behind Crowley's eyelids. It subsides into labored breathing.
"Come here," Satan commands.
Crowley finally opens his eyes. He's not looking at the branding iron in front of him. He's avoiding the fresh burns on the angel's body. He seeks the only safe place he can look - Aziraphale's eyes. Even so, he sees the fiery snake biting into Aziraphale's heart. His legs threaten to buckle as he stands up, but he obeys. He comes closer. The brazier is right next to him. He can feel the heat it emanates. But he's only looking at Aziraphale's eyes.
They are alert. He can see the conscious effort keeping them so, fighting the haze that threatens to cloud their presence. His brave angel...
The cracked lips form a word.
No, Aziraphale mouths noiselessly while Satan's attention is on Crowley. The word is clear and certain on his lips, in his eyes. No.
"Your turn," Satan says. "One for…"
Crowley tears his eyes away from Aziraphale and looks at him as the sentence is left unfinished. "One for what?" he asks hoarsely.
Satan smiles. "A day."
Crowley looks at him in confusion.
"One brand and I'll leave you alone for a day."
Crowley clenches his teeth. He finally looks at the waiting brand. The images and smells and sounds flood him immediately. His breathing gets just as labored as that of the angel. He can see his hand reaching for the handle and he can't discern if it's happening in reality or just in his mind. He feels the wood in his hand. The heat is rising to his fingers. It must be real.
No.
But one day. One day of being left alone, of being able to soothe the pain.
No.
His knees are trembling. He feels like he will topple over at any moment. But he has to… one day…
No.
It's not just his legs that feel like jelly. It's his mind, too. He can't think, he doesn't know what to do. And so he lets himself be led by Aziraphale.
The sigil falls to the ground.
"No."
Satan watches him intently. "As you wish," he says finally.
Then he turns to Aziraphale. "We have been neglecting your wings until now, haven't we? Time to change that."
Crowley staggers under the weight of what he just did with a single word.
Satan points towards him and chains appear and wind themselves around the demon's neck, nearly choking him.
"I'll unlock your bonds so that you can manifest them." Satan says to Aziraphale menacingly. "One wrong move or a miracle and the chains tighten fully."
Aziraphale's eyes turn from Crowley to Satan, wary and still alert. He nods faintly.
Crowley is digging his fingers into the unyielding chains, gasping for breath and hating himself.
Satan takes out a silver key from the breast pocket of his suit. He touches one of the manacles with it and a little keyhole appears. There he turns the key and takes down the open silverish circle. Aziraphale's hand sags to his side with a weak cry from the angel as the charred skin on his shoulder cracks.
The other manacle is opened and nothing supports Aziraphale now. He remains standing.
Satan regards him with a slight surprise as he returns the key into his pocket and shifts the open bonds so that he is holding one in each hand.
"Wings. Now," he snarls.
Aziraphale is trembling, but still remains upright. He takes a deep breath.
A pair of pristine angelic wings unfurls from his bloody back like drifts of fresh snow covering a murder scene, like white sheets pulled over the massared corpses.
Crowley weeps.
And then Aziraphale staggers, as if the wings unbalanced him - or his strength simply gave out. He takes a step trying to steady himself but fails. His knees buckle and he staggers towards Crowley. He extends his hands and Crowley lets go of the choking chain and takes a step closer, offering support.
But in the last moment, Aziraphale turns away from him. There is something in his eyes, something wild and panicked. Fear. Aziraphale is afraid of him.
Crowley's heart sinks with the angel as he falls. In a last attempt to steady himself, Aziraphale reaches out.
He reaches out to where Satan is standing.
There is a moment of breathless silence as Aziraphale clutches the stylish dark suit. In that silence, Satan smiles slowly and looks at Crowley. He steadies the angel for a heartbeat, giving his wing a little caress.
Crowley falls to his knees.
Then Satan lets the angel fall as well.
Aziraphale hits the ground with a cry of pain, his hands clenched.
Satan leans down and clicks the bonds around his wrists closed.
Aziraphale tries to curl into himself, but as soon as the bonds are in place, the chains connect to them and drag him back to the middle of the room. His wings are stretched into their full span.
Satan gives one more look of malicious amusement to Crowley and then cleans His suit of blood with a snap of fingers. He turns towards the angel. "We have some catching up to do, I believe," he says and summons his whip.
Crowley remains kneeling where he fell. He feels unreal, his spirit screaming behind the dull expression of his eyes.
He watches the whip savaging the purity of angelic wings. Satan pays attention to both sides of them now. He's not being methodical anymore. He's taking out his fury on them. Bloody white feathers are falling... falling... falling... Like snow, like ashes of Crowley's heart. Aziraphale's screams are instinctive now. The wave of pain swept the presence of his mind. He's reduced to pain and fear. Fear of Crowley. Is he afraid of Crowley more than of Satan now?
Bloody feathers and a fiery snake. They merge into one picture, one distorted reality. One day, something hisses in Crowley's mind. You could have one day, if you weren't a coward. Now you have nothing. Everything you care for is crumbling to dust under your hands. Even the angel fears you now.
Time passes, measured by the cracks of a fiery whip. It passes, accompanied by those whispers in his mind.
The screams die down, replaced by pleas. To God… To Satan. Not to Crowley.
Then the cracks of the whip silence, too.
Satan is looking at him. He's saying something.
Crowley blinks, trying to focus.
"A last chance," Satan repeats, "because I'm feeling generous. One brand and I will leave you alone for a day."
Crowley grits his teeth. He feels a sting in his eyes, but no tears come out anymore. He nods.
Satan helps him rise to his feet and presses the branding iron into his hand.
Crowley closes his eyes.
Satan guides his hand gently, giving direction but not forcing it. And Crowley follows.
He feels the branding iron meeting something soft. He feels the tremble transferred into his hand. He smells the burning flesh. He keeps his eyes closed.
Then the branding iron is removed from his hand and something heavy is slowly lowered to the ground next to him.
His mind feels like a stream during a flood, full of dirt and mud and driftwood, swirling and roaring and incapable of clear thought.
Slowly, the flood subsides and the mud settles on the bottom. He dares to open his eyes.
Satan is gone, as he promised. They are alone.
Aziraphale's features are twisted in pain. His mouth is open, the upper lip bloody and swollen from the gash that runs across his cheek. The breaths that come out of it are hitching, accompanied by quiet moans. His hands are clenched, his whole body tense. And his eyes are open.
Aziraphale is awake. Awake and in agony.
Crowley is still frozen, unable to react.
Aziraphale meets his eyes and then looks away, pleading.
Crowley follows his look. It leads him to Aziraphale's hand. The fingers twitch a little.
It's the only part of the angel's body that's unhurt. Crowley reaches for it, hoping he can give some comfort with the touch. He's ready to withdraw immediately, as soon as a flicker of fear appears in Aziraphale's eyes.
It doesn't. He feels the clenched fingers opening under his touch. There's something hard and small under them, pressed into Aziraphale's palm.
The touch sends a jolt through his whole essence. It spreads instantly like an electric shock. It is hope.
Crowley's breath catches in his throat. He brings his wings around them, hiding them in their embrace. Only then does he dare to look. There is a key in Aziraphale's hand and it glimmers like silver.
"Angel… is that… Oh God, you did it! How? You… Aziraphale?"
Aziraphale's eyes are closed now.
Only then does Crowley register a reddish glow tinting the inside of his wings. A terrible realisation lurks at the edge of his mind.
He doesn't want to look there. He doesn't want to look, but the snake draws his attention. Its body seems to be coiling in hypnotic patterns, twisting posessively above Aziraphale's heart. The flesh underneath is still smoldering, glowing like embers in a fireplace.
Crowley presses his hand to the burn, trying to put it out.
It doesn't go out.
The realisation looms over his thoughts like a dark shadow.
No. No. Not now. Please, no.
He stares at the burn, his mind refusing to take it in. He can't take it in or he will shatter completely.
It sinks in with a fatal inevitability.
Hellfire.
