Protected
Castiel withdrew the blood-stained Blade slowly, his eyes never leaving his victim. The man gaped back at him, a half-mad grin on his face, his yellow-stained, rotting teeth trying one last attempt at a sinister sneer.
"You..." the man hissed, his dying breath retched even in the clean, forest air, "...you are no true masters..." And with that, he sunk to his knees and pitched forward into the hard-packed earth.
Castiel watched him for a long time, considering, then shook his Blade free of blood, wiped it on the stained cloth hanging on his leather belt, and carefully returned it to it's cloth sheath at his side. He turned his head slightly around, recognizing the figure that had moved up behind him.
"Uriel."
"Well done, Sir Castiel," Uriel replied.
Castiel smiled. "Why are you always so formal, Uriel? We have the exact same rank."
The tall man tilted his head to the side, smiling broadly at Castiel and spread his large hands to the side. Glints of the last remaining light flickered on his highly polished armor. He looked every inch the Knight Angel Protector of the Realm that he was. "And what's wrong with a little polite formality, Sir Castiel? It keeps us...civilized."
Castiel snorted and shook his head. "You still give them so little credit, Uriel."
They both started walking back to their horses, which were tethered to some small trees near the edge of the wood.
"Why should I, Castiel? We've been here, for what? Three centuries now? Serving them, enforcing the rule of law, keeping them safe from the ravages of war and evil that they so willingly allow, and even openly pursue." He shook his head, glancing at Castiel. "Mind your armor, brother..." he added with a murmur, indicating a spot on Castiel's midsection.
Castiel looked down and saw the blood, the blood of the rebel bandit that he had just brought down, dripping from his breastplate. He wiped it away casually with a mutter of thanks and they continued their walk in silence.
"So what you're saying is," Castiel broke the silence after several minutes, "that coming down from Heaven was a waste of time."
Uriel considered this, then smiled tightly. "No. No, of course not, Castiel. It's just these new..." he grimaced. "Bandits. They are seemingly more foul than the usual lot. It has me on edge is all. Father's Will be done."
"Father's Will be done," Castiel repeated in a familiar monotone, nodding.
They reached their horses and slowly coaxed them into a gallop across the open fields leading back to the Citadel, the seat of Angelic justice on the earth. It was a sprawling structure consisting of several tall peaks and towers, all constructed of magnificent, polished white marble and gilded with copious quantities of gold. The human architects that had helped construct it had wanted the Angels to be reminded of their home, and while the castle and it's grounds were indeed impressive, it had only served as a pale and painful reminder of what the Angels had left behind.
Some Angels, Castiel reflected as the ground raced by, all sound in the world silenced by the rhythmic beat of his horses hoof-beats, missed Heaven more than others. Over the many years of their service on earth, some of the Angels had become bitter and resentful. He glanced over at Uriel, who was bent low over his mount, coaxing more speed out of the destrier, and frowned. Uriel was one of the worst, which made it hard for Castiel, as he had always been one of Castiel's best friends and fellow warriors.
That he had changed so profoundly bothered Castiel, and worried at him night and day.
He did agree with him on one thing, though. This new breed of bandit was troubling. More than. Their obsession with the Old Gods, and the ritual tattooing was the worst form of dark magic. Recently, the Angels had been discovering signs of ritual sacrifice, and spellcraft. They were playing with forces beyond their reasoning, and the Angels were beginning to get worried.
The reached the gates of the Citadel, and were hailed by the guards at the portcullis. The bridge lowered on massive, greased wheels and settled with a heavy thump on the ground, sending up a cloud of dry dust.
"Good hunting?" the page asked as he took the reins of their horses as they dismounted. Castiel smiled at the young boy and ruffled his hair.
"It was. Is Michael available to take our report?"
The boy nodded. "Been waiting for it, sir. Like a cat watching a mouse-hole."
Castiel smiled again. "Thank you, Dean. Now, make sure they are well brushed and fed. They've had a long day."
"Will do, sir," Dean replied, smiling back. He led the horses away to the stables.
"I honestly have no idea what Michael sees in that one, in that entire family, as a matter of fact," Uriel grunted once the boy was out of earshot. "He protects the Winchesters as if they were worth their weight in gold."
"He said that he sees a lot himself in Dean," Castiel answered, shaking his head. "Not sure what he meant by it, either." He frowned.
Uriel returned the frown, considering. "Michael is...hard to read, Castiel. Sometimes he has plans within plans. Maybe he intends to use the boy as his Vessel in the future. Does it bother you?" He met Castiel's eyes, then shrugged. "He is the Protector of Heaven, brother. Who am I to ask?"
Castiel nodded briefly in agreement and they headed for the main hall.
Micheal was having dinner when they walked in, servants gathered around the massive, polished oak table. He waved them forward as he took another bite from a side of honeyed ham.
He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and drank deeply from a wine goblet. Castiel and Uriel reached his side and went to one knee, bowing their heads.
"Rise and report," Michael said in a business-like fashion, waving over a servant to fill his glass.
"The bandit that has been terrorizing the families of the eastern quadrant was found and dispatched, my lord," Uriel replied smoothly. "Sir Castiel delivered the Lord's justice himself."
Micheal nodded in approval and took another drink, watching them both with a discomforting level of intensity over the rim of the cup. "And?" he asked, setting it down and sitting back in his chair.
Castiel hesitated , then reached into the deep pocket of his tunic. "He was carrying this, my lord." he said dryly, handing a rumpled and bound leather scroll to Michael.
Micheal took it and frowned. He brought the scroll slowly to his nose and sniffed it, considering. He raised his eyebrows and met their eyes. "Human skin," he muttered in disgust, then removed the string binding it and unrolled it on the table in front of him, holding down the corners with plates and heavy goblets from the table.
His eyes scanned it briefly and then slowly closed. He shook his head.
"More Dark Magic," he growled under his breath, but it was still loud enough to hear in the suddenly stone-silent room. "Yet again..."
He opened his eyes and slammed his fist into the table in the middle of the scroll, upturning several elements and spilling their contents everywhere. Most of the servants jumped back a bit in surprise at the outburst.
"This is intolerable..." he said, his voice still a deep, warning growl. He shook his head. "Bring this to the Magician." A female page hustled over and took up the scroll, holding it gingerly, and bowing to Michael. "And tell him to actually tell me something useful this time, or I'll be finding myself a new wizard."
Crowley stared at the crystal ball again, squinting against and trying to ignore the pain of the sudden migraine that had assaulted him.
This was impossible.
He shook his head and leaned closer.
The interior of the ball swirled in dark clouds, and there, at it's center, a glowing, golden thread, twisting and wafting in the dark...
He leaned back and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Impossible.
The crystal ball was just a prop...something he had bought at a local market to fit the part he was to play as Court Magician.
If the Angels ever discovered the truth, the real truth as to the source of his 'powers'...
He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He had taken too many precautions, been able to mask his identity as a Demon with powerful spells, spells guaranteed to keep even the most powerful of those winged choir boys clueless.
He was on a mission. And he would not, could not fail it in, or his life was beyond forfeit.
Hell was losing influence on the humans, sheltered as they were under Angelic rule. Oh, there was still fertile hunting for souls, to be sure, but this Citadel, it was a dead-zone.
Lucifer hated it.
Crowley's mission was a simple one. Gather as much information as possible from within the Citadel itself, discover any weaknesses, and report back his findings to Hell.
'Simple', he thought, snorting.
Sure, just hide yourself in the middle of a literal army of heavily armed Angels and spy on them. 'Simple'.
He looked around the large chamber in the tower he had built for himself here. Cages with exotic animals. Beakers with boiling, colored liquids. Spellbooks, most of them utter nonsense, stacked to nearly reach the ceiling in uneven columns, the stacks covered in dripping, wax candles. All of it carefully crafted to fit the perfect image of a court magician. It worked – it was working – but his mission was not...
There didn't appear to be any weakness in the Citadel. At least none that he or Hell could exploit to bring it down. If anything, the humans that the Citadel was there to protect were the only problem...
He sat down, rubbing at his head and frowning. These new cults that had been spontaneously springing up...these cults attempting to summon Old Gods...they actually were a problem...he wished that he could take credit for that. It was causing the Angels no end of trouble...
He stopped rubbing his head and looked up, smiling, a thought occurring to him.
Why couldn't he take credit for the cultists? Hell would never know the difference...his smile broadened. That was a brilliant idea...he would claim responsibility for seeding the cults with black magic, tell Lucifer that he had poisoned the humans against the Angels...
He nearly jumped out of skin as there was a sudden knock on the door.
"Yes...yes, yes, just a moment!" he exclaimed, standing up and straightening his robes. He fought off a wave of dizziness and nausea, closing his eyes...
….a golden thread against pitch black night...pulled...pulled tightly...
His eyes fluttered open and he focused on the room around him. He hurried over and opened it to reveal a blond, prim and proper Citadel page waiting there. She smiled and nodded to him and walked in without an invitation.
He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up her hand to cut him off, striding in and appraising the room.
"This looks more promising," she said, tossing a leather scroll casually onto his upholstered chair. She turned back to him and smiled. "The kind of place one might actually find an ancient spellbook."
"What...what are...you...how dare you barge into...what is that!?" Crowley sputtered, pointing at the scroll on his chair, walking over and picking it up. He unrolled it and frowned at it, scanning the writing. "Another scroll of spells for summoning the Old Gods..." he muttered. He looked around the corner of the scroll at the page, who was watching him curiously with her arms crossed. "Did Michael send you to me with this, girl?"
She rolled her eyes. "You can can it with the 'girl' crap right now, Crowley. Or do you want me to go downstairs and tell your 'friends' what you really are?"
He nearly tripped over his own feet scrambling back from her, bracing himself on a table behind him.
"You...you cannot know that! It's impossible!...Unless...you're actually from...who sent you?! Azazel? Lucifer...?"
"Relax, Crowley..." she answered, holding up her hands. "No one's turning you in...and as to who sent me..." her mouth turned up as she considered something. "That's complicated..."
"Yeah? Try me...," Crowley shot back, beginning to recover some of his resolve.
"Well...not to put to fine a point on it...but you did," she answered while beginning to rummage through the stacks of books, pushing several of them to the side and to the ground.
Crowley blinked at her in confusion. "Um...excuse me?" he asked, then frowned. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for something."
"What, exactly?"
"Something that will save your ass...well...all of your asses..." she said, turning from one stack of books to another.
Crowley frowned. "Your...manner of speech...it is...so..."
"Different?" she called back over her shoulder from a corner. "Yeah, wow, I mean, this place is so...retro. The Angels arriving here has stunted this world's growth severely...it's like it's stuck in the Middle Ages..."
"The Middle...?"
She sighed and turned around towards him. "Forget it. You won't get it, and we have no time left..." She looked out of the window and paled. Crowley followed her eyes, but saw nothing. But he could have sworn that he heard a faint...laughter...on the night wind...a cold, humorous sound...
She swallowed hard and rushed over to him, grabbing his shoulders, giving them a shake.
"Look, Crowley, I am not about to lose another one...do you have a book...an ancient book of spells...bound in human skin...something old...powerful...?"
Crowley frowned. "Who are you?"
"No time!" She looked over her shoulder again at the window, then back at Crowley, her eyes filling with visible panic. "The book, please...!"
"You first," Crowley hissed, steadying his gaze.
She sighed and shook her head. "You idiot...it doesn't even matter...you wouldn't even understand..."
"Then tell me," he replied calmly.
"Fine...I'm Atropos, Ok? Happy now? Where's the book?!" She looked over her shoulder again and moaned. "Oh no...nonono..."
Crowley looked over at the window, but still saw nothing. He did get the impression that it had become...darker, however.
"Atropos...one the Fates?" He frowned. "Even if that were true, what would you be doing here...?"
She sunk to the ground. "Crowley...listen to me. I only have time to say this once. If I don't get that book in the next few seconds, you and your entire world are gone." She raised her eyes to him, and in that instance he saw a steely resolve...and also a weariness, a frustration...the look of a soldier that had been battling for far too long...
He nodded, then strode over to his desk. She watched him, her eyes filling with hope.
He reached the desk and inserted his heavy signet ring into a lock on the center drawer there, turning it. There was a heavy click and he slid the drawer out, gathering up the large tome inside of it. The 'Book of the Damned', his mother had called it before he had stolen it from her library. It was one of the only true book of spells inside the magician's chambers.
He looked up to see Atropos standing on the other side of the desk, her eyes wide.
"I...I don't believe it...do you have any idea how many worlds...how many realms...?" she shook her head, then held out her hands. "Give it me...quick!"
Crowley began to hand it to her, then hesitated. "Wait...why do you need...?"
He was cut off as suddenly there was a howling, hollow wind that blew into the chamber, seemingly extinguishing all light and heat. He saw something moving in that blackness...something hungry, he felt...teeth...scraping against his skin, ripping...tearing...laughing with malicious hunger as it fed...
He felt the Book ripped out of his hands, then there was a sudden, painful burst of light. He felt the migraine burst into full life again. That burning, glowing thread in the dark pulled taught, threatening to rip...
Then that tension released. The thread relaxed, no longer being torn. Light and warmth, such as it was despite the late hour, seemed to flood back into his magician's chamber. His migraine was gone, the after-image of the glowing thread disappearing from his vision with every blink of his eyes. Atropos sat on the floor, the Book clasped tightly to her chest, panting. She looked up to Crowley, a look of pure relief on her face,
"Got one..." she said breathlessly, still smiling, tears welling up in her eyes as she looked at Crowley. She stood up slowly and placed the Book reverently on the table. She looked around the room and nodded. "All in all, not a bad little world." She turned back to Crowley and winked. "Enjoy it."
Then she was gone.
In the Void, the Creature screamed in Hunger.
So close...so close...
It snarled, enraged. Hungry. It had been hurt.
It re-focused on the little waves of light...the threads waving in the Dark, the endless, infinite, waves of light, love and life...
And from them...whispers...summoning...voices that called for it...willingly called for it to come and devour them...return them to the Pureness...the Darkness...
It's Hunger rumbled in the Void as it moved to answer those whispering voices.
It had to feed...