CHAPTER 9: Among Vikings
That is how Aziraphale's presence in the Palace became more comfortable.
Despite the initial rejections he had felt from everybody, hostility became to disappear as Aziraphale tried to make his way into the Viking society. Which, to the court perplexity, was easier than any of them would have expected.
But Aziraphale was like that. During the first week, he carefully avoided nobility. He intended to be as discrete as possible. However, very quickly he made friends. Or at least, friendly acquaintance. First had been the librarian.
He had barely been able to hide his joy when he had discovered it.
He almost jumped in joy, seeing that, against all odds, there were books in Harold's court. And not a few. He took the librarian's hands into his own, smiling with happiness.
He looked a bit dazzled. As soon as he had could, he had put distance between them, but Aziraphale had barely noticed. He was amazed by the fact there were books in there. Books were so rare at that moment in history.
So valuable.
And False-Crowley had an amazing collection! Aziraphale had counted them, delighted. For thousands of books! Rare manuscripts came from all over Europe and even the north of Africa. Aziraphale had passed his fingers over the Egyptian and Syrian scrolls, still not believing his eyes. He had shuddered at the touch, overwhelmed by the knowledge at his reach.
There were even Greek and Latin transcriptions and lots of Viking books with runes in them. Runes! Hiden secrets and discoveries awaiting him! Well, by lots, there were just around ten books, but that was huge. The blonde was aware of it how few and rare writings from the Viking societies were! They didn't use to write that much, and most of the writings were not going to survive the next millennia anyway.
Aziraphale could have cried out of emotion.
The librarian (who was more a sort of guardian really) did not seem very amused, but he did not dare to say anything. To Aziraphale's luck or not, he was already very known in the palace. Not that he could be mistaken for another person. He was the only one looking like that. So distinctively not Viking.
But the look of discomfort on his face was unmistakable. He was not amused to have that foreigner intruder in his library.
As if that could have stopped the blond.
He spent that whole evening at his newfound treasure place until the guardian expelled him. Went he had left the place, a smile on his face and eyes shinning, Aziraphale left a bit better. For a few hours, he had almost forgotten his problems. Almost forgotten everything else.
Once in his room, he marveled once again at the magnificent collection of books false-Crowley had. Unusual, that was to say, for a Viking. Then he had remembered, with a point of nostalgia, but somehow not as painful as the previous times, that Crowley had always been a curious creature.
He craved knowledge, had given it to humans. It was in his nature to try to discover new things. He had never been particularly interested in books themselves, as he was a dynamic person, but he had always been interested in philosophers, scientists, historians, artists...holders of human intellectuality.
And Aziraphale reminded suddenly, he always had a book or more for him. That thought hurt. Yes, it was true. Crowley was always prompt to give him books, and, even if Aziraphale had tried not to show how delighted he was about that at the beginning, he had quickly accepted those gifts openly. Well, at least as openly as the dynamics of their relationship allowed.
It at always being a lot of non-dits between them, and now Aziraphale was so sorry about that. But better not to deal in those thoughts.
He wondered when exactly all those gifts had started. He realized, with a shudder, that it had been short after Alexandria.
Oh, oh, God.
Of course, it has been after Alexandria. Seeing it now, he marveled how he had never noticed the shift in the demon attitude after that accident. Well, he had noticed, because he was always very aware of Crowley, but he had never put that clear flag on it. The protectiveness and open interest and affection from the demon had augmented after the library burned, and he almost died there.
It was normal he guessed. If he had been that close to lost the demon...
His heart jumped remembering the holy water incident, and he felt guilty once again. Oh, heavens how egoistic had he been.
He tried not to dig in those thoughts, and instead think again about the invaluable collection. It was no wonder that if he was anything as Crowley, and for what he had seen until then, he was, Harold had that collection.
Aziraphale bite is lower lip. He felt the sudden urge to ask a lot of questions about the Jarl. Great, as if he was not being intrigued enough by being him.
In any case, he was really happy about having found it. He realized then it was probably the first moment of true happiness he was experiencing since the beginning of all this madness.
He wondered if Harold used to go very often, and if the reason he had the collection as he had yet not a special person to offer the books. That single idea made him immediately blush.
He decided to stop wondering about it but went to sleep with a slight smile on his lips.
He came back. Of course, he came back. The "librarian" seemed particularly annoyed to see him but did not dare to comment. Aziraphale read three scrolls and a book before his stomach demanded food. He has woke up early to that. He left with a smile to the librarian that the Viking fellow did not give back, but Aziraphale was ok with that.
From that moment, he kept coming back. And his questions started.
Aziraphale tried not to be too demanding or impertinent, but of course, questions and curiosities were more strong than his will not to be a bother.
"And does the Jarl come often here?" he casually asked on the third day he came.
The librarian looked at him with a strange look on his face. As if could not believe he was addressing him. Aziraphale blushed but waited for the answer with a kind smile on his face.
"I do not think that is any of your interest, foreigner" the librarian finally answers. He had dark eyes that shined in suspicion.
Aziraphale saddened a bit but kept trying.
" Oh, sorry, but I just wanted to know...how he got to have this beautiful collection," he answered pouting a bit.
The librarian rolled his eyes.
"He is the Jarl. He can have whatever he wants"
"Oh, that is not what I meant-" Aziraphale answered. " Is just...I am surprised and impressed by the number of books"
"His father liked to read. And he does also."
Aziraphale nodded. " He enjoys it" he repeated, and his heart was beating hard in his chest. Since he was a human, he had noted that that the corporal reactions to which he was very used due to his long stay on earth, were now felt more intensely. He would never have thought it was possible, never thought his heart could beat faster or more painfully for the world and Crowley, but it had been wrong.
Not only the earthly experience was on some aspects more enticing and intense, but he seemed also to now blush and be perturbed about almost everything.
Ok, everything related to false-Crowley, mostly. But still. Aziraphale guessed the way he was experiencing emotions was paying for not having access to the ethereal realm anymore.
The utter pain of having lost his grace was a constant echo in the back of his head, but generally, the intensity and emotions he was experiencing with his misadventure were enough to keep him to dwell touch on those thoughts.
"I just was wondering if this was a place where I was going to see him" he mumbled, more for himself than the librarian, but he was heard. The tall, muscular man that did not look like a librarian at all, glared at him. Then, with sight, he explained:
"He is our leader now. Since the previous Jarl's death, he has been too busy to come here. He has duties. Responsibilities. So each time he needs access to knowledge, he sends someone here to take what he needs"
Aziraphale had nodded. So he would not be seeing him there. Aziraphale knew he should not feel like that, but he was a bit disappointed. He wandered a bit between the bookshelves, then left without another word.
He came back a few days later.
Aziraphale knew he could not hide forever in his newly discovered favorite place of the palace. It was not as if the palace and the whole city had not better places to be. Harold had been showing him, introducing him to people that didn't know who he was - who they thought he was- albeit no judging from them, only cautious greetings and light chats, and Aziraphale had to admit the city was beautiful, the palace had marvelous chambers and even more marvelous decoration, and life in that part of Norway, at the gates of spring seemed enjoyable. Peaceful.
Of course, he was not going to forget the first time he had seen Harold, before recognizing Crowley's features on his, the danger and might that was emanating from him after his military campaign with the Baltics countries, and how his sword was had been stained in blood.
There had been blood also in his robes, from the attention of murder he had been accused of. . It still stank on Aziraphale's nose.
No, he was not forgetting they were Vikings, they were warriors and they praised pagan bloodthirsty pagan Gods. The pagan gods part didn't bother Aziraphale as much, because it was one of the many ways the Almighty had decided to manifest to humans during history all-long. Not, it was bloodthirsty that he didn't approve, but that the ex-angel had long ago learned it was more inherently to humans interpretation than some divine or demonic influence.
If that also was part of Her plan...well, he didn't want to think too much about it. He was so angry at Her. Angry was maybe not exactly the word, but it didn't matter. She had done that, somehow, or let it happen, this situation he was in, as she had let happen so many things in the past. I felt abandoned and as childish and pretentious it might be to be upset with Her, it was what he felt.
Better to focus on now, and on the lovely people, he had been briefly introduced to, in order not to feel too alone. He knew Harold did not want him to feel the prisoner that he was, and that was the reason he had to take time to show the place around to Aziraphale and pass some time with him before his very busy schedule will take him away.
And indeed the person was lovely, or at least acted like so, less hostile than the nobility that just ignored him or looked at him with judging eyes.
Which didn't mean he was naive. He remembered very well he was a captive, considered an adversary and that his fate was on Vikings' hands. And that was
His brain continued to look for an answer or a way to escape, but he felt still tired. His new human condition didn't allow him to stand the whole night awaken using his intelligence to try to find a solution. He wanted to relax, and by the way, discovering the place could only be helpful later, he had thought.
But despite being among Vikings, Aziraphale was very aware that Harold wasn't the kind of leader that was up to bring violence into his country. He was not the only kind with him, it was his normal behavior around everybody. Except with Red, but Aziraphale could not blame him.
Harold would do what was necessary outside the country, but his territory was a peaceful realm. Peaceful and beautiful.
So yes, Aziraphale knew there were marvelous places to be, in his relative freedom, but the library was the place he preferred.
It had the smell of books and the flavor of home. He knew it was not his home, but it reminded him of it so much.
Plus, maybe he could find something, some information about what the hell had happened. He knew he was trying to convince himself that there was hope, but he was not very sure about that, to be true.
Still, he felt good at the library. So when he finally went back, he asked to grab a book. The librarian looked at him with annoyance, but his eyes were somehow least stern.
"I came to grab some books if you don't mind"
The man nodded, reluctantly. It was as if he had not expected him to come back after he had been told, Harold would not be there.
Aziraphale wandered a bit, distracted, his fingers rushing the scrolls and books. He should be looking at which one would be more useful, but instead of that he only could think of the fact that, even if he liked the library, there was the thing missing.
The smell of hot cocoa. A tartan couch somewhere, the hint of red, short hair, gold eyes, and a crooked small...
It reminds me of home, but there is no home.
His heart ached at that, reverberating with his thoughts. He didn't realize he must have stopped moving, lost in his thoughts, because he suddenly heard a rough voice from his left.
"Are you picking something or not?" the voice asked. Aziraphale blinked and then realized it was the librarian.
"I am sorry," he said.
The librarian made an annoyed sound. He was next to him.
"By the gods, just stop saying you are sorry," he said. For some strange reason, Aziraphalehad the impression that he had been about to snap, but he had retained himself. Instead, he said.
"Ok, let me help you. I know this fucking library. What are you looking for?"
Aziraphale looked at him, surprised, then a smile spread across his face.
"Are you helping me?" he asked.
The man seemed to blush lightly.
"Not at all. Only getting ride off you" he said, looking at the bookshelves.
And Aziraphale's smile could only grow wider, knowing setting into him, as he realized the man was having the first opportunity in a long time to act as the librarian he was supposed to be.
"Well, that is very nice of you," he said, smiling even more at the man's roll of eyes. Then he noted something. "I think I do not have the pleasure of knowing your name"
He seemed to doubt, and he wondered if he hadn't made a terrible mistake. He had noted, from the single first second, the dark skin of the man, a man that, now he was closer, he could see, was still very young. He had been careful not to make any comment about it. He was very aware of the racism inherent to the era and the society he was in. He hadn't realized at first the implications of Famine (Jorgen, was his human name) being Harold's sibling.
How the horsemen look had been irrelevant, just corporations for them to show among humans and conduct their doom over Earth.
But this was different. They were humans, and Jorgen was a black man among Scandinavian people. Which meant, seemingly, that false-Crowley father has either had an African concubine, either he was adopted.
It made Aziraphale wonder about which kind of man had he been, but it also made him worry because he understood there were few ways for people with African roots to end in Scandinavia.
The weight of the most probable explanation made him shudder.
Slavery.
Viking society accepted slavery with ease. It was not a question of racism or skin color, they enslaved other Vikings too, they enslaved the surroundings countries' habitants if it was necessary ( the word necessary being subjected to dubious meaning).
Any person he had seen for now could have been a slave, regardless of his looks. It was true he hated to think about.
Slavery was a common thing throughout history. Each culture had a different image of what slaves and free men were. He knew to be a slave in some cultures didn't mean forcefully to be tortured or mistreated, but they were still slaves.
It was something he decidedly didn't want to think about related to Crowley, to the image he had of him. It made his heart sank in his chest.
He knew some signs would betray a slave's status. Some clothes, or some kind of necklaces. He had tried not to look actively for those.
But to forget the librarian's unusual skin, as a reminder that there might - probably were- slavery was more difficult.
He had managed, though.
He had to because he could barely stand the idea of Crowley associated with that revolting reality, that part of humanity he hated despite loving humans.
He should not feel so bad about that, he also knew. He was- had been- an angel of the Lord, he was supposed to be over that kind of thing.
But he had gone native on so many things, and just, there were things his heart didn't want to think related to Crowley's name or image.
Even if it was not Crowley. Which was stupid, of course. Crowley was a demon. And Harold was a Viking. They were not (or at least he hoped) inherently bad, but there was darkness within them, and Aziraphale had to accept that.
He had to be careful, or the remains of his heart could be destroyed. It already ached with loss and love.
Now, having asked the librarian his name afraid him. He feared what the answer would be. Maybe, if he was a slave, there would be no name. And once the man would have confirmed his fears, Aziraphale will not be able to deny it for more time, and it will irremediably hurt.
There would be nobody to blame, though, except himself.
He had asked, carried away by his manners. He felt rude not to ask, and now he had a face...
"Name is Erik" answered the man.
Aziraphale blinked.
Erik meant "Absolute Ruler".
There was no way any Viking had named his slave like that. Either it was a distasteful joke or the librarian was no slave.
His heart grabbed on that possibility.
He focused again on the man before him. The tension along the line of his shoulders had eased, and he didn't seem so aggressive anymore.
Seeing him close, Aziraphale observed he seemed more unsure than anything else.
Maybe that was it. Maybe all his aggressivity was only hiding the fact the man didn't know how to act.
And it made sense.
Aziraphale was a prisoner, but he was a prince, and war may be declared around his person.
He suddenly felt a bit bad for the man.
He smiled softly:
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Erik."