After that brief visit to Hell, it is now time to return to our regularly scheduled program. Quick warning for those who are squeamish: things get a bit graphically worse during this first section until the section break.

Breathing hard, Michael banished the sledgehammer and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. Crowley had passed out as she'd finished smashing his wings. Pain, previous blood loss, and sheer trauma proving too much for him. That gave her a moment to pause and consider her options. There was no reason to continue breaking bones when he wasn't conscious to feel it. He was supposed to suffer. That was the only way to properly punish the demon.

Not that there was much more she could do with the sledgehammer regarding his wings. They were mangled, crushed, and broken things. Fragmented bones wrapped in battered and swollen flesh. All the more brutal since their wings were part of their true form. With the damage that she'd done with the sledgehammer and his torn feathers ripped out, they barely resembled wings anymore. Sharp edges of broken bones pressed hard, trying to tear through the skin.

A demon didn't deserve its wings. They should have all lost their wings when they Fell. Or he should have at least lost them when Crowley murdered Ligur in such a cowardly way. There needed to be consequences. He didn't deserve his wings.

Plucking his feathers didn't feel like enough. Breaking every bone in his wings didn't feel like enough. Those could heal with enough time. She needed to do more. Something more permanent. She needed to make him pay properly.

Michael returned to her waiting collection of blessed blades. She had such a lovely selection to choose from and several had already left their marks on the demon's body and true form. The deep and scabbing cuts along his back were delightful evidence of their effectiveness, along with the other lacerations that were less visible with his current position. But the knife that she picked up this time was shaped more like a cleaver than anything made for combat. And, after a moment, she selected a second knife with a curved blade and slipped it into a sheath that immediately appeared at her side.

Deciding that she was tired of waiting, Michael kicked the demon in the ribs. [24] Crowley returned to consciousness with coughing, a groan, and cringing as much as his physical body could manage between the frankincense, myrrh, and chains. Breathing shakily, he slowly turned his head enough to glare back at her.

"Rude," he complained weakly.

"Manners would be wasted on a demon." Michael took a moment to doublecheck the bindings, the inscribed spells, and the current levels of burning incense. "Do you know what humans do when they don't want birds to fly away? Sometimes they clip their wings, trimming the feathers to keep them grounded until those feathers are replaced."

"You just ssskipped… the 'trimming' part," he hissed.

Kneeling down, she ran her hand along his broken left wing. Crowley shivered in pain. But his wings couldn't even twitch. The sheer helplessness of his situation was thrilling.

"But clipping their wings is only a temporary measure," she said, squeezing at the shattered bones until she found the first joint. Where the carpometacarpus met the ulna and radius. "But if they want to ground a bird permanently?"

She raised the blade high. High enough that even with the awkward position that the chains kept him stretched out, Crowley could glimpse what she was doing. Michael could see his yellow eyes widen.

"They do something called 'pinioning'," she said.

Michael swung down hard, blade whistling as it cut through the air.

Thwack.

Crowley screamed. Louder, shriller, and far more wretched than when she simply broke the bones. His limp body flinched weakly, unable to flail and thrash with the agony of it. Black ichor pooled on the floor, pouring from the wound. The final section of his left wing lay severed. Completely detached from the rest of the limb.

"Oh dear," said Michael as he sobbed. She moved to the other side of him. "Now you're uneven. That won't do at all."

Thwack.

Another agonized ragged scream followed the wet and meaty sound of the blade cleaving through flesh, sinew, and bits of bone. Cutting through the joint where the separate bones should have met before the sledgehammer crushed everything. Another pool of ichor spread. Another chunk of a broken wing was left on the floor. Severed from the rest of his true form. Michael tossed aside both severed pieces. She didn't want to trip over them.

Gasping and sobbing, Crowley's fingers clawed weakly at the smooth floor under him. She wondered how much of his reaction was the sheer pain and how much was him realizing exactly what she'd done. She'd carved off parts of his true form. She'd taken part of his wings away from him. He would never fly again. Even if angels and demons rarely used them on Earth anymore, that loss would be hard to ignore.

It still didn't feel like it was enough.

Michael knew that her methods weren't the best. Moving back and forth, switching between the different sides like she was rather than just focusing on finishing one wing before changing locations, was admittedly not the most efficient way of handling it. But there was the slight advantage that the time it took her to stand up and walk around his prone body gave the demon a chance to breathe. It gave him time to recover just enough to cling to consciousness. She approved of that.

Returning to his left wing, Michael asked, "Did he have time to scream?"

One hand grabbed the wounded wing, pulling it straight. Or at least as straight as she could manage with all the breaks to it. She aimed for the joint that connected to the humerus.

"Did Ligur scream when you killed him?"

Thwack.

Another broken cry of pain. More dark ichor stained the floor. Another severed chunk of flesh and broken bones that she tossed away on the growing pile.

Humans butchered their beasts like this. Cutting them up into convenient sizes for both eating and for storing for future consumption. The tools and techniques might have improved with the passing millennia, but the basic concept remained the same. A sharp blade separating meat, sinew, and bones apart.

The only real difference was that she wasn't limited to only the physical. She was carving away pieces of his true form every time she brought the blade down.

Standing up and walking back to the other side, Michael said, "And now you're uneven again. I'm so sorry. Let me fix that."

Thwack.

Crowley's screams sounded exhausted and weakening, but the pain in his voice hadn't diminished. Choked sobs followed as he struggled to catch his breath. He couldn't hide his suffering now. No brave front. The demon's vulnerability and weakness were on full display.

There was so much spilled ichor smeared across his body and the floor. Spreading in a growing puddle. Michael could barely see the cuts that she'd left across his back previously. They were mostly hidden by the dark liquid bleeding from the ragged stubs that she'd left behind.

Michael discarded both the chunk of severed wing and the sturdy cleaver-like blade. It had served her purpose. But she wasn't quite finished yet.

Those bleeding stubs meant that the demon still technically possessed wings.

She pulled the curved knife from her sheath. Then Michael crouched over him, her knee resting on his lower body and earning a moan. Her free hand grabbed his left humerus tightly enough for bone fragments to grind together. And then she stabbed the blessed blade into his back next to it, digging and twisting the blade. Hunting for where the wing connected to the rest of his true form. She felt the muscles in his back twitch and spasm as she sawed away at the metaphysical equivalents of tendons and connecting tissues until Michael could pull the remnants of his left wing free of the now-gaping hole in his back.

Crowley's voice was hoarse from screaming by the time she tossed the broken thing aside. Blood and ichor ran down his back from the deep and wide wound. But the wing itself was completely excised from his body and true form.

Then she grabbed the right wing stub. Digging the knife in the second time shouldn't have taken longer than her first attempt. It should have gone smoother since she knew what she was trying to find this time as the curved blessed blade buried itself into the flesh and true form. But she was approaching from a different angle. Moving along the underside of the limb instead of from a spot closer to the spine. Michael had to search a little to make sure that she carved out the entire thing. The demon could barely make a sound by the time she sawed through all the connections and ripped the wing stub completely out of him. But the guttural and broken sound on a different plane was close enough to a scream for her ears.

Michael finally felt something close to satisfaction.

She pushed herself back to her feet before miracling away the ichor splattered across her clothes and coating her hands. It didn't completely hide what she'd been doing, [25] but Michael looked slightly less gruesome. She almost felt disappointed by the loss. But there were certain expectations of an Archangel. Wallowing in the carnage of her actions was unbecoming for someone of her rank. She should at least keep the worst of the mess off.

A sharp gesture and the severed pieces caught fire. Not Hellfire or a heavenly equivalent, but a normal and intense flame that consumed the wing remnants. She wrinkled her nose at the smell for burning flesh. Another gesture and the scent of frankincense and myrrh intensified to cover it up. Michael watched the pieces burn for a few moments. Erasing the final traces of the demon's wings.

"Well, that was invigorating," she said. "Though I will admit that you look a little messy now. Would you like another towel?"

Twisting his head slightly, Crowley tried to glare at her. But he couldn't quite manage it. He didn't have the smug look that he gave her at the failed execution. He couldn't even put any real intimidation in his expression. He was too pale, breathing hard, and struggling to focus on her. Unconsciousness or even discorporation was dancing along the edges.

It might be best to take a break again. Get some work done and check on everything. Undoubtedly deal with Gabriel's insufferable attitude and memos. She needed time to plan the next stage of things. With the loss of his wings, she would need to find new ways to punish him that would be equally as effective. That would take time. A break would give her another chance to consider her next move.

Another sharp gesture and the chains yanked the demon back up. Arms stretched out and his toes barely reaching the ground to support his weight. Crowley didn't scream, but the unexpected roughness did make him gasp. He was a mess. His back was mostly covered in black ichor and his chest was sticky with dried blood from the deep wound she'd left there before.

The floor was stained to the point that she doubted there was any non-miracle way to ever clean it up.

"I'm afraid that I still have certain responsibilities," she said. "We'll continue this later, demon." Metal clanged softly as she set down her knives and reclaimed her sword. "Remember not to move. Not that you're capable of it."

With the same careful precision as before, Michael stabbed deep into the demon's chest and true form. Just like last time. Nestled between so many vital points. The slightest movement in any direction risking fatal damage. The perfect insurance to prevent escape attempts. The gurgling gasp and renewed bleeding were a pleasant bonus.

A final miracle to ensure that not a single hair was out of place and Michael was the image of perfection once more. And it was time to get back to work.

There were plenty of misconceptions regarding the requirements of being a witch.

A lot of people assumed that witches must be women. Anathema and Agnes Nutter before her were both women. And the stereotype was an old woman with warts and a cackle. [26] But a quick glance at history would reveal a good assortment of men who were also accused of witchcraft. And more modern witches could come from a variety of backgrounds and gender identities. Witches tended to be rather open-minded individuals.

Another assumption was that witches danced naked in open meadows under the moonlight. Add that to the previous assumption about witches needing to be women and certain people started getting ideas, turning witches from targets of derision into sexualized fantasies. But the outdoor naked dancing was another piece of fiction. Such nocturnal activities should only be attempted if you don't have any concerns about getting cold, covered in mud, or stepping on thistles.

Then there was the misconception concerning the number of nipples that witches possessed. But the only person who believed that one was a retired witchfinder currently enjoying said retirement with Madame Tracy.

And of course, everyone believed that witches spent all their time consorting with the forces of Hell. Making pacts with the devil, summoning demons, and so on. But while Anathema had more dealings with hellish entities than the average person due to sharing the village with a couple of not-quite Anti-Christs, a hellhound, and a retired demon, this would be her first attempted summoning.

She was taking her time. Making certain that she got every detail right. The last thing that Anathema needed was to accidentally summon the wrong demon because of a spelling mistake or smudging a line. Especially when Newt was standing by in case Crowley needed a body. Anathema refused to just let anyone possess her boyfriend.

Anathema glanced over briefly at Aziraphale. The angel might be offering the occasional suggestion or clarifying instructions since he had thousands of years of experience with occult [27] things, but he was clearly distracted. He was stressed and tightly wound. Trying to keep calm, but obviously distressed and worried out of his mind. She couldn't blame him. The demon that he loved was missing and probably in trouble.

The elaborate circle took up most of the floor. Chalk lines ran across the polished wood. Small candles were carefully positioned around the shape. With Aziraphale's assistance, she'd created something beautiful and powerful.

All that she needed to do now was actually try summoning Crowley.

"Okay, if anything goes wrong, Aziraphale deals with any other demons that show up," she said. "And Newt? Are you ready?"

Nodding, Newt said, "I think so. If he needs a body, is it… How do I do that? Is it uncomfortable?"

"Madame Tracy seemed fine on the airfield," said Anathema.

"As long as you're receptive and willing, it should go smoothly. You might feel a little crowded, but nothing worse," said Aziraphale. "But perhaps it won't come to that. And if it does, it'll only be temporary until Adam can separate him back into a new corporation."

Anathema's retirement from being a professional descendant might have taken some time to get used to after a lifetime of letting Agnes guide her actions, but it certainly wasn't boring.

But before they could move forward with the plan, the door to the cottage opened. Warlock shoved his way in. Adam trailed after him, Dog following at his heels.

"Nanny's not in Hell," said Warlock bluntly, not even bothering to dance around the subject. "They don't have him."

Turning towards the teenager, Aziraphale asked, "How do you know?"

"We went down there and asked," he said with a shrug.

"What?"

Anathema's horrified shout was not alone. Newt and Aziraphale's voices were equally loud. Neither Warlock nor Adam looked particularly surprised or concerned by their reactions.

"What were you thinking?" demanded Aziraphale, stepping forward to grab his shoulders as if he needed to reassure himself that the boy was truly whole and safe. Another hand snaked out to reach for Adam's arm for the same reason. "Why would either of you think that was a good idea?"

"We were thinking that we could do something if it was Hell. They can't take Nanny from me. I have a deal with Satan. And even if they wanted to bend the spirit of the deal, they can't break it." Warlock scowled darkly. "But Beelzebub denies it. Hell has nothing to do with what happened. Nanny isn't there."

"How do you know Beelzebub isn't lying?" asked Newt.

"Ze knew better than to try it," he said. "And ze wanted us out of there fast. I think ze was afraid that me and Satan might try fighting again."

Taking a step forward, Adam said, "According to Beelzebub and rumors, someone has been doing research on summonings and things like that." He hesitated a moment. "It might have been Michael. She might be the one who has him."

Anathema might not have been the most traditionally religious person due to her unique upbringing and awareness regarding the Not Actually End of Days, but she certainly recognized Archangel Michael when someone mentioned her. Heaven's mightiest warrior and the one foretold to eventually face Satan in the Apocalypse. And supposedly one of the good guys. [28] But she'd met Gabriel briefly and he'd already proved that Heaven's idea of good didn't exactly align with humanity's view.

Besides, she was an angel famous for smiting evil and Crowley was a demon. Michael going after him almost made sense.

Aziraphale turned pale at the news. A hand went to his mouth as his eyes widened. He shook his head slowly, as if hoping that he misheard. But it was clear that he understood exactly what the pair were telling him.

"If Michael is truly responsible… and if she was researching summonings… Then there is a decent chance that she would have found ways around this," he said, gesturing at the circle on the floor. "She's the type to take precautions before acting."

"So… I'm not getting possessed," asked Newt slowly.

"Not today, I'm afraid," said Aziraphale, biting his lower lip and wringing his hands. [29] "We might need more direct methods."

"Wait." Anathema readjusted her glasses. "Please don't tell me that you intend to march into Heaven by yourself. Not after everything that's happened. That doesn't seem safe."

She was already considering her options. Could she accompany him? She knew that Adam and the Them broke into Heaven once. Could Anathema do the same thing? Did she have anything that would help against Archangel Michael?

Shrugging, Warlock said, "I could—"

"No," said Aziraphale firmly. "No more trips away from Earth, Warlock." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "But I don't intend to run off unprepared. If we are dealing with Heaven and Michael, we need a new plan. But I believe that I might have what they call… 'an inside man.'"

Crowley dangled limply in the manacles, struggling to breathe through the blinding agony and exhaustion. He was a wreck. His head swam and pounded with the rapid and unsteady heartbeat. The sharp pressure of a sword jammed in his chest made it even harder to inhale than his awkward position did. His back felt like it was on fire. Bright, hot, and unbearable.

The deeper pain… He didn't want to think about it. Phantom pains that still echoed through him, as if Michael was still carving away… The awful emptiness left behind from something vital being ripped from him, from his true form… Not exactly like when he lost Her love and Fell, but bad enough… The agony and loss… Just the overwhelming pain and the knowledge that he'd lost yet another piece of himself that he would never regain…

No, Crowley refused to think about that deeper and more intense pain. He couldn't. He didn't have the energy to handle it. He barely had the strength for his other injuries. He could barely endure the physical damage, let alone the metaphysical damage.

His body was giving out. He could feel it trying to give out. Not merely falling into unconsciousness. Crowley could tell the difference. Pain, blood loss, and traumatic injuries were pushing him far beyond his limits. His body was dying.

He almost welcomed discorporation. Granted, with his true form badly wounded, Crowley didn't know how well he would endure discorporation. It might make those injuries worse. And discorporation would toss him back to Hell. But he would be away from Michael, her paralyzing fumes of frankincense and myrrh, and her celestial knives. It would give him a chance. He wouldn't be helpless and at her non-existent mercy. If he was in Hell, he might be able to hide in some dark corner until Aziraphale found him.

His angel would come. Crowley didn't doubt it. Aziraphale would find him.

Despite Crowley's normal good relationship with time, it seemed to be slipping away from him. The pain to his physical body grew less distinct. More distant. His vision darkened. Each breath was a struggle. And his rough and stumbling heartbeat staggered further out of rhythm. Fighting for each beat. Growing further apart.

Crowley closed his eyes. A few seconds later and his corporation surrendered. Going silent and still. Lifeless.

The violent yank towards Hell immediately took hold. But another force refused to release him. Holding him tight. Trapping his true form in place.

Crowley felt a new pain from being caught between the two opposing forces. Like a metaphysical version of tug-a-war that left him spasming and convulsing within in his lifeless corpse. Not moving under his own volition, but pulled and yanked as Hell's pull fought against the opposing resistance.

The spells on the manacles. Binding spells. Meant to trap demons. Turning his own body into a binding circle to trap him.

Angels having imaginations. Almost as bad as other demons getting creative.

Finally, what little strength that Crowley had left was ripped out of his true form. Kickstarting his heart back into action. He gasped as his body staggered back to life. Forced to endure because Crowley couldn't leave. His corporation just as weak and wounded as before. And likely to expire again soon enough. But currently forced to survive at the expense of his true form's dwindling strength.

Despite his best efforts to resist, a few tears of frustration, exhaustion, and agony slipped out. Running down his face. It wasn't fair. Crowley couldn't even escape through discorporation. He was trapped. Helpless and trapped with no chance of escape.

But Aziraphale would come for him. Crowley knew that he would. He clung to that knowledge. A demon's faith in an angel might seem like an impossible thing, but he knew Aziraphale.

He loved Crowley.

"Angel… I know… you're coming," he murmured, too stubbornly optimistic for his own good. "Angel, please… Don't wanna… rush you or… anything, but… hurry up… Find me…"

[24] And immediately had to miracle away the mess it left splattered on her shoes.

[25] Not to mention that she would always know that the stains were there.

[26] Green skin optional.

[27] Ethereal.

[28] Not to mention that all the stained-glass windows and illustrated manuscripts tended to depict Archangel Michael as male, but Anathema knew that the patriarchy of the past wouldn't have accepted anything else.

[29] Newt didn't know if the angel feeling the need to specify "today" meant that he should be concerned about future possession possibilities. But he quickly decided not to dwell on the matter because they had bigger issues to deal with currently.

And there goes Crowley's wings. After breaking them to pieces, Michael decides to just cut them off completely. He also finds out that discorporation is currently not an option of escape. Yeah… He definitely needs to be rescued soon.