Chapter 6: The son

Behald was still there. She was drinking hydromel, and seemed in deep thought. That, or maybe had she drunk enough and now she was on the verge of delirium. Hydromel was strong enough. It was a drink for warriors, for gods, and for heated celebrations, it was intended to be drunk before a battle or in bed with a passionate lover.

Rare were those who drank it in other situations, but Behald was far away on her way to self-indulgence, she had always been stubborn anyway, and she didn't like to be told what to do.

Therefore, Harold did not comment.

When she heard him enter the room, she offered him her glass. Harold refused it and sat in front of her. He passed a hand through his red mane.

- Is he sleeping now? - she asked after a moment of silence. The Jarl nodded, and Behald sighed. She seemed a bit tired too. Maybe she was. He couldn't forget that she had nearly been killed.

- What do you think about this whole situation? -

- I think that if I had known that a few weeks abroad would cause this much chaos, I would not have left! This must be Loki's doing. - the redhead let himself fall into the chair and passed a hand over his face. Suddenly he was so tired- I know Red is impulsive and can barely control herself, but from Fenris? This is disappointing -

- It always amazes me, that you five are siblings - she commented.

-Only have the same mother - the Crow mumbled as if Behald didn't know already. He closed his eyes, and the image of the Slavic prince passed behind his lids. He had seemed so broken. Once again, he felt quite guilty. He shouldn't. The prince was resting now.

- Well I am glad it was your father that owned this place - Beelzebub commented. -Red is insufferable. I can barely stand her -

Harold looked at her.

- ...-

- What?- asked Behald.

- You know she is in love with you, don't you? - asked Harold. He didn't even try to be suave about it. He saw Behald turn red.

- Nonsense -

Harold just waved his hand.
- Okay, think whatever you like. - there was silence, as Harold was searching for words. How are you feeling? he wanted to ask, Instead, he stayed silent, and Behald insisted.

- So now, you haven't answered my question. What do you think? -she asked- About Zdravko -

Harold adjusted in his seat.

- I think it must be confusing, to be in his place. I think that I can feel lucky he hadn't laid a single finger on you- there was a brief moment of discomfort, neither of them was good at expressing their feelings, so he hoped she understood he cared - I think that you did well locking him up in that cell. And I think...that we cannot do anything more. We have to wait -

-Wah. You really have thought a lot about it in the little time you spent escorting the dainty prince -she commented, quite surprised. -I am glad you agree with me about freeing him -

Harold nodded.

- Of course I am. But Behald - Harold looked at her, his golden eyes slightly sparkling - you were attacked. It should have been your decision. - he voice was as warm as he could manage to be.

It was awkward.

- I couldn't let him rot in that cage -

- In this particular case, I agree. However, I thought you knew better than to pity your enemies. -

Behald looked at him like he had sprouted another head.

- Oh please! You are not patronizing me about that. - she said disbelievingly -

Harold seemed a bit uncomfortable.

- Do you realize that he is a Rus? - he asked.

- Yes. A Rus of house Kiev. I know -

- They are not our allies -

- They are not our enemies either. My family were your enemies not two generations ago - her voice was steady - and I pray to the Gods that peace can be maintained, but we could be enemies tomorrow, and you know it as well as I -

-Yes. But we are Vikings. That's what we do -

- So are they-

Harold's features hardened. Until that moment, it had been mostly idle conversation, just chatting, but the vibe changed the moment she stated that.

- Do not compare us to them - he hissed. - They abandoned us.

Behald didn't answer that. She didn't want to get in to it with the Crow.

Harold kept saying:

-Listen, forget that. I am only saying that his brother ... -

Behald groused.

- I know very well who his brother is, thank you very much -

- I was only checking -

Behald sighed

-As you said, we need to wait - she answered, and poured her mead.
Harold nodded.

-As for Zvadkro...well, maybe we should redeem ourselves a bit -

Harold grinned for the first time since his return.

- That we should -he agreed.

He failed to mention that it was not only for diplomatic reasons, but also because those blue eyes awoke in him a strange feeling of guilt and protectiveness.

For the first time since the madness had begun, Aziraphale woke up feeling more like himself. He had felt so numb before. But now, as he observed the ceiling of his given room, his senses - well, his limited human senses - he felt awake.

However, awake and self-aware didn't make his reality easier to accept.

So, Aziraphale laid in bed for at least thirty minutes, and finally, with a heartbreaking sigh, he decided to leave the room. Nobody had come looking for him, so he assumed he was not a prisoner anymore, or at least not as he had been until then. Aziraphale might be human now, but he was not that naive to believe that he could flee.

So after settling himself in this new reality, this heartbreaking reality, he decided to leave the room.

There was nobody in the corridor. He frowned slightly, that was strange, wasn't it? As far as he knew, Vikings woke up early and were loud as hell. But maybe in Cro-Harold's palace, things were a bit different.

Or maybe he'd slept in longer than he anticipated. Taking a deep breath and the courage he clearly needed, Aziraphale decided to try his luck and find someone. His rested but somehow still aching body hadn't forgotten the events he had lived through not two days before, but he needed to find Harold or Behald. He wasn't expected to wait all morning, was he?

He shivered slightly. It was a cold morning. Norway's weather was known to be freezing cold even in summer, and Aziraphale was too used to the slightly warmer and much wetter English one. He rearranged his suit. He had been given Viking wearings, his Slavic ones, richer and far more intricate in style, still soiled with dried blood.

Not that he was complaining of having been cleaned, but those clothes had been warmer. That, or he had been too dizzy the previous days to pay attention to the temperature. Probably.

Aziraphale wandered through the space, taking his time. His room was at the end of it, so there was only one way to go. His thoughts wandered as well, lost in his memories.

It had been so long since he'd been in Scandinavia. His last visit had been around 1582, just a bit before definitively settling in London.

It was many centuries lost in his memories, and it had not even been Norway, but Finland. He remembered it though because it was a happy one. Aziraphale had been sent as a French governess for a princess. She had travelled during spring, and she remembered the beauty of the Nordic landscape. Aziraphale had really enjoyed her time there, having a whole library for herself, given presents - particularly delicious dishes from all the world - and being praised by the whole court.

And, as if the Almighty Herself had done it on purpose, she had once again met Crowley. She was a woman too, a trader from the far and exotic Ottoman empire, coming straight from Istanbul; and oh my god how gorgeous she had been in those exotics oriental clothes; and the belly dance she had performed in front of the prince had left jaws on the floor.

Aziraphale had thought she would explode from arousal and desire, already acknowledging her feelings at the time.

Aziraphale's breath hitched at the memory, his heart pounding in his chest.

Thinking about that didn't help, as pleasant as it had been.

At the moment, Aziraphale needed to focus, reminiscing and offering him no help. As far as he had seen, which was not very much, this was the high middle ages. It couldn't be past the Xth century.

He had never been in Norway then.

Aziraphale's mind was already racing, trying to recall any bit of information he could that he almost hit a wooden door. He took a quick glance. Like any Viking door, it was engraved and decorated. The scenes told tales of the gods. Illustrated there was Odin, the Allfather, reaching towards wisdom. It was the moment the god had given his eye in exchange for infinite knowledge and troublesome wisdom.

Aziraphale quickly looked away, when his eyes stopped at a particular It was sad reminder of precious time lost. He sighed and then pushed open the doors.

There was a moment of silence and Aziraphale almost regretted entering the hall.

-Shit- he thought. He shouldn't have left his room. What was he thinking? He was a foreigner and accused of murder and...

His rambling thoughts were cut off when Crowle-Harold entered his field of vision. In a second, all his self-confidence fell to the wayside.

Harold was there, talking with his step-sister. He seemed to be in deep conversation with the red woman, he hadn't noticed Aziraphale had opened the door. Aziraphale gulped. At least the Jarl was fully-dressed this time.

As if things hadn't been traumatizing enough in this shit of a situation! He needed to concentrate, and certainly, Harold's strong, tattooed torso would not help.

A sudden sadness overtook Aziraphale. He'd never seen Crowley's body like that before, at least not for centuries. It depressed Aziraphale, knowing how much time he had wasted–more than one lifetime lost to history.. For a terrible moment, doubt crept into his mind. What if Crowley didn't love him?

For oh-so-long Aziraphale had been sure of Crowley's love. It had been strange in the beginning, then it started becoming a comforting thought.
That knowledge was at least one small comfort he had hung on to.
And it was comforting and infuriating.

At least before he knew he was the only one the serpent had eyes for, and that filled his heart in a warm sense of being loved. As for the infuriating part, it came because of his incapability to correspond that love. He was such a coward.

But he had lost his chance.

Aziraphale sighed, trying to save the last hints of courage. He needed to focus, no matter how dashing false-Crowley was in that Viking warrior's clothes.

He made a tentative step, then another. The noise around him was overwhelming, Vikings had potent voices and they were talking heatedly. He saw lots of people he hadn't noticed the day before. Probably warriors that had come back with their master.

At first, they didn't notice him either. Then, orange, supernatural eyes fixed on him. Surprise, then rage came across beautiful features. War's features tensed. False-Crowley (that was the best way to call him, he decided) tensed, then turned around, and golden eyes were on him.

Their glance was by far kinder than his sister's. Aziraphale could even see some kind of interest. His heart skipped a beat. "Focus".

As the blond advanced into the room, the conversations died, and uninviting glances fell over him.

- So, I see our guest is here - commented the Jarl. He was almost next to false-Crowley, looking for something to answer when a black man suddenly entered his vision. Aziraphale tried not to gasp.

Deep brown eyes looked at him with curiosity. He blinked, that face...

Famine, it was famine!

The man's sharp features were as unwelcoming as ever, but contrary to the inhuman specter he had seen at the airbase, he seemed more alive. Must be because if he was human, he at least needed to eat. A bit.

Not much, by the looks of it. He had never seen someone that slim. Insecurity grew inside him. He must look very chubby next to the dark-skinned man. He must seem particularly plump and soft among the strong Vikings that were fixing him.

He blushed, uncomfortable. False-Crowley was looking at him. What did he think about his body? Aziraphale had never felt so ashamed about his corporation, not even when Gabriel had made irritating comments about his looks. He was so lost in self-deprecation the angel had completely forgotten that thicker bodies were a symbol of wealth in medieval times.

All he could think was he not only had he lost Crowley, but there was no chance that he could seem attractive to false-Crowley.

But why on earth would he want to please him? What he needed was to fix the situation. Famine was still looking at him, talking about something Aziraphale had lost track of.

- Jorgen, just leave him alone. This is not easy for him -

Something similar to a grin crossed false-Famine's traits, and Aziraphale could see all-too-well his teeth were sharp. Without a single word, he stepped out of the way. He could see how the young man headed to a nearby table, where there was false-Beelzebub. Had she been there since the beginning? The princess offered the man a pear that seemed positively scrumptious, he declined. She frowned, beating into the fruit herself.

The scene reminded him he hadn't eaten since the day before.

Before Aziraphale could say anything about it, false-Crowley was touching him. He lowered his gaze to see the firm, strong grip of the Jarl on his upper-arm. It was warm. Aziraphale could faint.

- You seem to feel better - false-Crowley stated. Aziraphale stared at his lips, then blinked away.- Did you sleep well?- the Jarl inquired.

- Yes it...it was a dreamless night, my liege- Aziraphale mumbled politely, trying to control his melting hair at the contact - thank you so much for the rum.

False-Crowley frowned.

- Well, I am glad that you are feeling better. You don't have to thank me, I am so sorry about that... - he briefly threw a murderous glance at his sister, who defiantly crossed her arms - the misunderstanding we had. And do not... - he gasped, he seemed uncomfortable - you don't have to call me my liege. I am not your sovereign. After all, you are a prince, Zdravko. I am certain- his hold on his arm was even more firm, supportive, Aziraphale tried miserably not to think about that - we will find a suitable solution.

- I um...- mumbled Aziraphale, overwhelmed by the Jarl's touch that was now on his elbow and the intensity in his golden eyes.

False-War grinned at that.

- Oh yes. Because his brother is that kind of a diplomat - she laughed bitterly - you know what, Harold? This might be even funnier than I thought -

To Aziraphale's disgust, false-Crowley let go of him as the redhead princess leaned in the blond's direction.

- Do not fret love, I am sure you will find the right words to convince both your brother and Behald's father that it was all some kind of accident - she winked, her eyes dark and threatening.

- Just piss off, Red - Crowley hissed.

Red looked at him as if he had insulted her.

- Oh come on! Why can't I have some fun too? You cannot keep him all for yourself. -

False-Crowley clenched his jaw.

- You have done enough. Out- he insisted.

False-War looked dangerously at him, but after a tense moment, she capitulated.

-Yeah, whatever. I hate diplomats, anyway. Have fun with your pet - she added disdainfully.

Aziraphale furiously blushed at those words, and he looked away. Had he not, he would have seen the slightly red color that stained the Jarl's cheeks at those words.

Harold sighed.

- I ... you must excuse my step-sister - he finally managed to say - She is incorrigible. I don't know what I am going to do with her -

Aziraphale dared to look at him. He seemed worried.

-It...it is nothing.-

- It is not "nothing". She shouldn't speak like that to you -

Aziraphale blushed.

- I am not that important...- he began.

The Jarl blinked.

-Not that important? - he asked with a playful smirk on his beautiful lips - you must be kidding. Look...I know this situation is delicate. But you are my guest. -

-Guest? - Aziraphale asked- you may mean your prisoner -

The Jarl seemed uncomfortable. He touched his hair, in a gesture so familiar the ex-angel almost burst into tears. It was something the demon used to do when he searched for words.

- I won't lie to you, you are not free. You are arrested in this palace until either your or my brother arrives. But I can assure you, prince Zdravko, that anything you'll need, I'll provide. You can ask me anything. -

Aziraphale gulped. The only thing his heart wished was to go back home, and false-Crowley couldn't offer him that.

He swallowed.

-Please, stop calling me that - he asked.

False-Crowley seemed confused.

-Calling you what? - he carefully asked.

- Prince. It...it doesn't feel right -

The Jarl blinked.

- But it is...-

-Just call me Azi..- Az. Call me Az - he asked, feeling suddenly weak. - Prince Zdravko...it is just too ceremonious - he pleaded.

False-Crowley looked at him for a long moment in silence, then:

- As you wish -

-Than you, Crowley - the angel said without thinking. Then his blood drained fromhis face. Oh, no, what had he said?!

To his surprise, a genuine smile appeared on the Jarl's lips.

- Oh, apparently that old name is still used - he said amused.

Aziraphale stared at him.

-I...-

- I thought that everybody called me only the Crow, nowadays. But that nickname is still used ,I see -

Aziraphale blinked. No. No, he mustn't. If he began calling the Jarl like his demon...something inside him broke. He began to feel the first hints of anxiety reaching through his body.

No, he could not mix everything up. He...

- I am sorry - he said, his mouth dry - I..it was not appropriate -

The Jarl made a dismissive movement.

- It is ok - he assured. - I must apologize too. Yesterday...I acted severely. Too serious. I am sorry if...if I scared you - he finished. His face was still stern, but his eyes seemed apologetic.

Aziraphale's soul trembled.

- You don't have to... -

-I do. It's just. You have to understand, Az. I must be fair. It is not always easy. I hope the negotiation with your brother will go well -

Aziraphale closed his mouth. False-Crowley seemed sincere, but even he could read the hidden message behind those words.

It was a kind reminder.

Do not mess with me.

Conquering the fear that threatened to take over he opened his mouth to ask something. Talking always helped. Aziraphale was good at talking. It was just he didn't know where to begin. There were so many questions. Then a sudden thought came to mind. Everybody had been talking about his brother.

Who the hell...?

But at that moment, a cry interrupted them. A boy was running through the hall. A wide smile spread across his face, as he bumped into false-Beelzebub. She smiled, holding him tight.

- Hey little spawn. I see you woke up with so much energy - she teased. The boy smiled even more.

- Dad is back! - he exclaimed, his long, dark hair moving with his head.

Aziraphale knew that voice.

You might think, dear reader, that at that point, Aziraphale should have been expecting to recognize everybody, but with all the Armageddon't stuff and turn of events, it was quite a shock to see him again.

He blinked, dumbfounded. The boy fixed his gaze on throat went completely dry.

Warlock. It was Warlock. The boy Crowley and him had been taking care of for almost six years. Well, it was not him, but still!

Something similar to joy was awakening inside him for the first time since thisnightmare had begun, until the boy waved, and false-Beelzebub's words hit him.

-Go say hello to your father, little one -

Warlock headed to false-Crowley. The strong arms of the Jarl raised the boy in the air as he enfolded him in a tight hug.

- Did you miss me? - the Jarl asked, gold eyes brightening with love.

And it sunk in his chest like a rock.

It hurt, and it enraged him like nothing before had done.

For the first time in his long-life existence, Aziraphale damned Her name.

My son, the redhead had said.

So if he was Warlock's father...who was the mother?