Chapter Twenty-Six
The month wore on, the days passing not in the typical dragging of the feet way, but rapidly, creating a blur in Crowley's memory as he watched the woman who'd invoked a change in him look towards her death with surprising clarity and peace. He'd never admit it out loud, but whenever he would reflect on the past year, a knot would form in his stomach, twisting that self-assured, independent drive that had kept him alive for so long. He couldn't afford attachments. He didn't want them. Deals were easy: he only had to give his word then. Everything else was up to the client. He was free to keep the walls up and remain detached.
That balmy summer evening in the middle of nowhere, he could recall it perfectly. He'd been idling away at home when the sense someone was making a deal came to him. At first he'd done nothing, preferring to stay out of so small an investment. Let someone else handle it, it had nothing to do with him. Just a sick woman barefoot in the dirt, searching the darkness for the thing that could change her fate. Even when he'd noticed the vial of amber liquid, he'd chosen to remain still. He wasn't so easily caught.
Then he felt her intentions, his curiousity piquing as he turned his senses towards her. Those secret shameful thoughts she believed to be so well-hidden were plain as day to him. Idealism. He so loved the simplicity of humanity, especially when it came to thrashing their illusions about his kind. The decision to go to her had been a cruel one. She was a pitifully small fish, barely worth the minimal effort to extract the Craig and make his dramatic appearance. But she was taking a chance and he couldn't help but admire her gumption. She clearly wanted him and no one else. This appealed to his ego, despite being almost certain her deal would be the usual rubbish about curing her. But when she'd voiced her true deal, that's when his interest really escalated. He'd been in a tricky situation prior to the deal - Lucifer's followers had already deduced he'd given the Colt to the Winchesters and were hot on his trail. This tiny slip of a woman was giving him a perfect out. He couldn't resist.
It had been strange, and somewhat pathetic, at first. Upon arriving in her quaint, if not dismally decorated, cottage, he'd wondered for a moment if he'd made a mistake. He couldn't say precisely what held his fascination with her; it certainly wasn't her crippled hospitality. But she was giving him a strange kind of sanctuary, an unlikely place in which to hide out and wait for the whole thing to blow over. And when he'd returned home to find his house in flames, his servants dead, and had been ambushed by Lucifer's cronies, he felt a brief moment of gratitude for the sad little girl who'd aimed for a king.
That same sad little girl proved to be a force on her own. She secured his preservation with her mystical scribblings, her iron will to protect him despite being a novice in her craft and one who was practically on her deathbed already. He'd granted her her health in return for her assistance. He granted her small favors to demonstrate his unspoken gratitude. She never questioned him, never demanded the whys or the hows, and never once tried to insist he do things other ways. She was moralistic, to be sure, but not to where she tried to change him to suit herself. For one so often looked down upon or outright mistrusted for being what he was, this level of perfect acceptance had thrown him off his game for a time. She gave him reasons to stay. And when the Apocalypse was over, and she'd stared up at him with those sad brown eyes, he knew he'd made a greater investment than originally intended: Crowley, the King of the Crossroads, inheritor to the throne of Hell, had grown attached.
How much he wanted to hate her for it. How he longed to accuse her of trickery, even though such a thing was impossible to one as old as he. He wanted to see fear in her eyes, not adoration or quiet acceptance. He wanted to remind her he was a demon, a threat to anything human. But even when she saw him kill, even when he taught her to kill, she continued to accept him for what he was. She continued to sacrifice her own comforts in order to keep him alive. She remained stalwart, destroying her own home so that he might escape with his preferred vessel, never once doubting he would take her with him. She never doubted him. She trusted him with her entire being. She had no regrets. Stupid, foolish, beautiful Murron Guthrie, the witch who dared love a demon king.
Yes, he'd grown attached. But he'd sooner swallow holy water than call it for what it truly was. That word, those words, would never cross his lips. It was the ultimate weakness and he'd already been weakened enough by her brilliant influence.
Yet, why then, did that knot continue to twist inside him, to think of his life - that long-lived thing - without her? He owned her in every way a person could be owned, but even then it didn't feel like enough. Her soul would be lost to him after she died, tossed among the others already occupying Hell. He couldn't have that. He wouldn't have that. He was the King of Hell and he would do as he pleased with the souls granted him.
But it wasn't the thought of possession that occupied his mind when she slept beside him, quiet and peaceful and wholly unaware of the thoughts in his head. How small she was in her sleep, delicate and pale, her breath kissing his skin where her head lay on his chest. He wound his fingers in her curling copper hair, letting the strands slide through in silken waves. She always smelled of ripe pomegranates, which struck him as ironic considering his role as Hell's monarch. A modern Persephone to his mad Hades. Only instead of having to steal her away from the earth, she'd leapt willingly into the gaping maw of the Pit, possessed of zero regrets.
He watched as the madness of all Hellbound souls began to take hold of her. How she would turn her head to listen for things that weren't there or how she'd start at the visions she'd catch out the corner of her eye. She moved through the house with great trepidation, as though every turned corner would present a new horror. He couldn't erase these nightmares: they came from inside her. All her grief, all of her regrets, and would've, could've scenarios were now being played out before her by the second, never once giving her a moment's peace.
At night she was restless, the sounds and sights preventing her from sleeping. He knew it was only a matter of time before she looked at him and saw him for what he truly was. He wanted to save her from that, but it was impossible to completely predict when it would happen. She could wake up one morning, turn to him, and be greeted by a monster instead. She might scream, might throw herself from him. He couldn't be sure.
It was late at night the day before she was due to die that it happened. He'd been laying beside her as always, as she stirred in his arms like a child plagued by night terrors. She'd started awake with a sharp cry and had lifted her face to him for his comforting kiss. The scream that tore through her took him quite aback, for even when she'd been facing demons and psychotic witches he'd never heard her sound so terrified.
She fell from the bed, still screaming as he drew near her, his hands outstretched to try and cover her eyes. Don't look at me, Murron. Don't look! He bade she listen to his voice, to focus on that, to know that it was him and not some horrible apparition. Even as she continued to struggle against him, he pulled her into his arms and held her as securely as her wriggling body would allow. Just listen to my voice, darling!
Eventually, she calmed and was able to look at him again. Tears spilled from her eyes as she pleaded for him to make it stop, to take the madness away. He knew of no way to do that, but kept that to himself. She held onto him tightly, her damp face pressed to his shoulder as she sobbed. He let her cry, hating the impotentence at being unable to do anything for her. He wasn't used to being powerless. He was the King of Hell; why couldn't he erase her illusions? Wasn't it his influence that had caused them? Even if that were the case, all Hellbound souls' madness came from within, from their own tortured thoughts. He knew this, knew it as well as he knew himself, yet it still rankled him to be so useless.
There was one thing he could do to ease her fears, however, and, despite it being the least thing that should be on his mind, he lifted her from the floor and returned to the bed.
Through her steadying weakening sobs, she accepted his kiss with a mumured whimper and gripped his face between her shaking hands. He stretched out above her, allowing the weight and warmth of him to further calm her. He cradled the back of her head in one hand while the other slid from her throat to between her breasts. They'd taken to sleeping naked since returning from the island, making his progress down her body easier. She broke the kiss as his questing fingers slipped over the crest of her inner thigh, a shuddering moan passing through her. He kissed down her neck and over her collarbone as he sought the source of her heat. She rose up against him, her arms coming to encircle his neck and pressed her chest to his, the softness of her breasts triggering his further arousal. The ache that mounted, the driving need to be inside her, to possess her again, rose with a near violence within him, and with great restraint, resisted, to focus on her needs first.
His fingers entered her gently, teasing the most sensitive parts of her until she opened her legs further to him. His free hand left her head, fingertips grazing over her heaving breasts as he moved further down her body with his lips. His fingers left her as he replaced them with the slick heat of his tongue, causing her arch dramatically from the bed. He lingered there, committing the taste and softness of her to memory, knowing this would be the last time he could experience her like this. And, as if needing to feel her in other ways, he sought her hand. Catching it, he linked their fingers together tightly, enjoying the desperate grasp on her end whenever he hit just the right spot.
At the sound of his name, spoken in a ragged whisper thick with urgency, he left the warm shelter of her thighs and drew up above her again. Heavy-lidded eyes, glossy with a mixture of tears and need, gazed into his as she took his face between her hands again. At the same moment their lips met, he entered her, burying himself in her as deep as he could. Her thighs cradled his hips as he moved within her with gentle, slow thrusts, lips bruising hers with the passion he put behind his kiss. She clung to him, fingers moving through his hair, moaning into his mouth and her thighs crushing him between them.
Lust normally drove their intimacy, at least on his end, but tonight, he wanted to remember her. He wanted to recall this warmth, this maddening desperation to be close to her, long after she'd gone. He would drive away all of the fear in her mind with his kisses and his body. He would further imprint himself upon her heart with the words his actions spoke in ways his voice could not.
He coiled his fingers into her hair, gripping her head as he continued to ravage her lips with his, savoring the feel of her tongue as it slid across his in swift, wet strokes. As deep as he was inside her, it still didn't seem to be enough. He released her head, curled his arms beneath her shoulders and held her as tightly to him as possible. She embraced him with everything she had, her arms, her legs, and from within. The same need to be close drove her as it drove him and they rocked together, every available part of their bodies touching, making them genuinely one.
In less than twenty-four hours she was going to die. Her soul would be torn from her body, her heart would stop forever, and the light would fade from her eyes. Never again would she look at him with the brilliance of her heart in her gaze, never laugh or blush when he teased her, never lay naked and warm and alive and in love with him enough to turn her world upside down just for him. Soon, she would be a faceless, disembodied cloud of energy, as white and shining as diamonds. And completely unable to touch him or hold him or kiss him or whisper to him in the dark when she thought he couldn't hear her.
I'm not letting you go tonight. You'll die, my brave girl, but you will not die alone. Ask me, ask me to do it. I won't let you die in pain. Ask me, ask me, ask me!
Somewhere in the midst of their union, her voice sounded in his ear, pleading for him to never leave her, to always be with her. He gripped her tighter in response, still unable to give breath to the words he knew she needed to hear. The knot tightened inside him. Then he heard it: she wished for him to be the one to take her life, to lay absolute claim to her soul. He sighed against her neck, the scent of her filling his senses as he released himself into her. In the afterglow, they remained entwined, neither quite ready to let the other go. They moved as one to shift onto their sides, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving as they regained their breath. She sought his lips in the darkness, whimpering against them as she kissed him repeatedly, murmuring her love into his mouth. He took these words in and held them on his tongue, as if the taste of them might give voice to his own admission. When they did not, he released those charged words into the air with a heavy sigh.
They lay in the blossoming dawn, arms and legs coiled together, lips touching every now and again. He wanted her to sleep, to find peace in the limpid darkness of her mind. Only asleep could she continue to avoid the nightmares that waited for her upon waking. But should she wake screaming, he would touch her again, and again, until the very end. He would smother those terrible visions in any way he could. He felt so alien, thinking this way about someone other than himself, but in truth, it was no less than what she'd given him over the course of their unusual relationship.
She slept in his arms for the remainder of the day, sometimes opening her eyes when a voice sounded in her ears again and he would whisper to her and stroke her cheek, promising it would be over soon. When she would fall asleep once more, he reflected how this was very much like consoling someone who'd lost their mind. In many ways, that's precisely what was happening. As the madness continued to grip her, she would remain wide-eyed and scared until it came time to complete the contract.
Soon, all too soon, he heard the clock in the living room chime its twelve strokes. He closed his eyes against the sound even as she drew up in response to them. The distant baying of hellhounds joined the clock and he felt her shiver. She turned back to him, face stark white in the blue light of the moon. He rose up and pulled her back into his arms, settling her still in his lap. She wrapped herself around him in silence, resting her cheek against his. Over her shoulder, he spied his hound waiting, blue flame head lowered as if in mourning for the woman he'd come to view as a companion. Together, they would escort her soul to Hell. He just had to take it.
He parted from her enough to look into her eyes, mutely asking if she was ready. Clarity entered her gaze as she smiled warmly at him. She drew her hand down his cheek and he turned into the touch, kissing her palm. My brave girl...hold fast to me. Don't let go.
She fell against him again, whispering her love into his ear as he lifted one hand behind her, his eyes closing as his fingers curled into a fist. She jerked violently in his arms once and went still. Her arms slipped from his shoulders, going limp at her sides. Her body grew heavy in his lap and he bent his head to the space between her neck and shoulder, fist uncurling to press against her back.
Goodbye, my darling.