Thanks to those who followed, liked and reviewed! :)
This will be the darkest chapter of this story. Here's another reminder for graphic descriptions of violence! Consider yourself warned, haha...
Chapter 2:
Crowley reached consciousness lying in a heap on the floor. He was shivering. Not because of the cold. Demons can't be cold and this was Hell after all, you wouldn't expect it to be cold. But still his form shook with tremors.
His back was hurting and he could feel how the blood dried on his skin. They had left him at some point, when he wasn't even aware of his surroundings anymore. To recover. If they would take the torture too far they would discorporate him and then Crowley would be free. They couldn't hold him in the shapeless form of pure demonic energy.
But since he also couldn't die and his body regenerated much quicker than a human would, all Brut and Mazikeen had to do was wait until the wounds have healed a bit. Then they could start anew. It was Brut's speciality. He knew how much any demon was able to endure without discorporating and he would bring them to the brink, not quite pushing them over the edge to freedom.
Crowley knew they were able to keep him here for all eternity if they must. Torturing him until he went mad. He swallowed his fear, pulling all his limbs protectively close to his body and then tried not to move at all. Maybe they would leave him be a while longer if they thought he was still out. However, quietness made his mind wander and all he could think about was how the prospect of eternal pain scared him.
He shivered even more. Tears again gathered in his yellow eyes. Weak tears. So full of fear. Weak, pathetic demon!
Crowley felt himself losing control over his sanity and he forced himself to conjure up memories of warmth. Times he felt safe. Not in Heaven, no, most definitely not. But safe on Earth. He thought of Aziraphale's new bookshop. He was the first visitor to be invited in. He had brought little chocolates. Crowley thought of Aziraphale's happy smile, his contentedness of being surrounded by books.
It was a safe place for both of them.
"I know you're awake." Brut suddenly mumbled much too close to him.
Crowley sucked in a shivering breath, tensing all his muscle to remain in this protective bubble of warmth.
The chains rattled, scraping over the floor. He felt the pull; he was forced to his feet again. Crowley tensed even more, fighting against the pull of reality. "No." he grunted, clenching his fists to his chest. "N-No!"
But his strength was no match for Brut's. His arms were stretched against his will, up into this vulnerable, crucified position that hid nothing. Crowley's lungs were pumping panicked breaths, expecting the first strike. His heart was beating equally quick, making the blood flow faster out of his still torn up skin.
And there it was again.
A crack and a scream. His body arching, twisting away from the pain. But it was futile. More blood on the floor. More shameful tears. More pain.
For the first few years it was like this.
Not that Crowley had any sense of time passing. Everything seemed to take longer in Hell. He called the times when he was unconscious night and the times when he was kept awake by pain day. It was mostly Brut who tortured him. Sometimes others, not less brutal demons. But it was always the whip. Sometimes with hooks or spikes at the end. Sometimes when a mood strikes him, Brut used his own fists. All four of them.
Brute force was what he excelled at.
Crowley grew accustomed to the pain. It didn't diminish his agony, but at least he knew what to expect. Straight forward violence. It were the days when Mazikeen was allowed to carry out the torturing that frightened him most.
Mazikeen had a certain glint in her eyes that chilled Crowley to the bone. While Brut seemed to be bored by his job, Mazikeen was still thriving in it. And she was much smarter.
She knew that torture could take up many forms. She was creative and eager to try new things. Crowley's memo about human torture was probably Mazikeen's whole inspiration. It was a shame. Under different circumstances, Crowley might have liked her. A demon with a bit of brains. Together they could've wrecked havoc on humanity. Just enough to make the boss happy at least.
But now when Crowley was at Mazikeen's mercy, he wished for Brut's clean violence.
It started with Mazikeen almost always entering his cage. She preferred to torture close-up. So she could see the pain and fear in his eyes. It spurred her on.
Her weapon of choice were knives and she used them randomly on various parts of Crowley's body. Sometimes she would just scratch, sometimes sink them in quickly. Other times Mazikeen would simply throw them like darts and see what sticks. She used the whip not only for slashing his back, but also to strangle him. It didn't matter that demons didn't need to breathe, no species liked its throat to be crushed.
It was Mazikeen who reminded Brut that the thread that wound up Crowley's chains and hoisted him in the air could be used to pull at his limbs until breaking point. She even dared to use words against the great seducer. The serpent of Eden. Making him believe that he deserved no better, making him wish he was never created.
After Mazikeen's brand of torture, Crowley's thoughts were dark. Hopeless. Lonely. And so very scared.
But still he remembered the angel.
He remembered Earth and the bookshop.
He remembered warmth.
And when his days of pain were endless and his mind couldn't think because agony and sorrow was all there was, at least at night he could dream of warmth.
Crowley's skill of imagination was an escape not even Mazikeen knew about. She hadn't been to Earth. The concept of hope and warmth in a better place wasn't accessible to her. Demons never knew anything but Hell. Heaven made sure of that.
Although sometimes… Crowley did remember…
Lately, Mazikeen has found a new favourite past-time.
She let her sharp fingernails run over the little clusters of black snake scales that gleamed all over Crowley's body. Then she took a blade that was formed like a hook and tore them off slowly.
One by one.
The knife was called a demon blade and much like Aziraphale's flaming sword it was a little bit magical all on its own. It could truly hurt Crowley to the point where he wouldn't be able to recover. If Mazikeen would run him through with a demon blade, Crowley would instantly discorporate. Even scratches wouldn't heal fully.
It was Mazikeen's favourite type of weapon. She was very skilled at using it, but still Crowley never dared to even breathe whenever she hooked the blade under one of his scales and sliced them out of his body.
Mazikeen could sit there patiently for hours. Watching black blood flow as the scales came off. Taunting him and his serpentine nature and watching how fear froze Crowley in place. Only silent tears were falling.
Once the scales were all gone, Mazikeen left him. The old, dry snake skin was rotting while a new one grew. And only when it was all back, she would rip the scales out once more.
It took Crowley increasingly longer to heal.
Although he was unable to perform any miracles, the regeneration of his body worked by itself. But as the years dragged on, the demon grew weaker. Sometimes the simple task of lifting his head was too much of a strain for him. Crowley way lying there motionless in a puddle of his own blood, waiting for the wounds to close.
But even lying down, the pain never stopped.
When the torture had begun – a long time ago – Hastur had visited him sometimes. Just to stand by and grin. He would tell him about a new recruit that has been sent to Earth in Crowley's absence. Someone cunning and very promising. But they all seemed to have returned back to Hell at some point.
Crowley liked to believe that it was Aziraphale who was able to stop them, because that would mean he was alright and still on Earth. The thought made him smile… and then cry.
He long since gave up on talking, trying to charm the torture demons into leaving him be. His throat was sore from screaming; he didn't want to add to the pain.
And then even Hastur seemed to grow bored of gloating.
Crowley didn't really look like himself anymore. He was a bloody piece of flesh. Raw and shivering. His red hair had long since lost the elegant curls that had fitted so neatly under his stylish top hat. It had grown long and messy. Knotted and sticky with blood it fell over his face.
Sometimes a little golden shimmer still gleamed behind his hair, when Crowley managed to open his eyes long enough. But mostly he was lifeless and dull.
It was another day of scaling.
Mazikeen hadn't been with him for a while because it took Crowley ages to grow the snake skin back. She had been reprimanded by Brut not to wear him out too quickly or there was nothing left for them to do unless they wanted to risk discorporation.
But today Mazikeen was back.
She had prodded Crowley with a hooked spear for a while. Finding the freshest scars Brut left on him and ripping them open once more. Then finally she had grinned and produced her demon blade from a sheath on her belt.
Strung up on the chains, Crowley's eyes managed to follow her tiredly as Mazikeen set out to work. He flinched at the first contact of the blade, but then settled for quiet endurance. He railed inwardly at himself; that flinch probably left him with another scar that wouldn't heal.
As Crowley listened to his own inner voice, he shockingly realized that he didn't really care anymore.
It was getting harder and harder anyway to concentrate on not moving. His body was destroyed beyond recognition, littered with scars, angry, open wounds that were still bleeding, red and purple bruises and broken bones. Why should he care if Mazikeen's blade discorporated him?
I would be free.
What was keeping him inside this particular form?
Crowley thought of the consequences of losing his body. Under normal circumstances, if he wanted a new, officially sanctioned body, he would have to apply for it. But what good would that do him now if Hell only used his new body to destroy it once more until his sentence was served?
Was that what Hastur meant by torturing him until he broke?
Maybe they would grant him a new body without putting him back in the cage, if he begged for mercy. However, declaring defeat would be seen as weakness and he would be reinstated at the lowest rank possible. As mere dirt beneath demons' feet. He would probably end up being tortured anyway and never be able to set foot on Earth again.
Never feel warm. Never feel at home. Never see Aziraphale.
Crowley mentally shook himself. What has he got to do with anything?
No, if he really wanted to be free he needed to catch his captors off guard, when they weren't prepared to put his soul in a new body of their choice. Crowley's shapeless form could escape to Earth and possess the living. That would be easy. But he could never stay long in one body. They would hunt him down forever, eventually drive him out and punish him even harder for daring to run away.
Crowley would never be able to settle and be calm.
There was also a good chance that the possession would drive the humans mad, if they weren't receptive for it. Crowley would be responsible for leading them on a path of destruction that would eventually condemn them to Hell, too.
What would the angel say?
Crowley tried to shake him from his thoughts once more. What was he even trying to achieve here? Was he staying in this beaten body for him? So the angel wouldn't be disappointed in him? But why did he care? Crowley bloody well couldn't go on like this! It was hurting too much.
Leaving this body meant never to return to what they have known. The arrangement. The companionship. The not-being-alone.
But who said enduring this torture would result in a different outcome!?
Crowley would probably stay in Hell forever. Imprisoned by these burning chains, hoping for mercy, waiting for a miracle that would never come! This was Hell, for Satan's sake!
At least he would be free if he gave up on this body. Maybe they wouldn't be able to catch him again; Crowley could outsmart them, surely. Maybe he could even check in on the angel over time in many different bodies.
What about the humans I'll touch with this damned demonic soul?
Crowley's heart pounded desperately. Why should he care? He was a demon, after all! Wasn't that what demons did? They were ruthless, unkind and evil!
Why should he care about the humans?
Why should he care what Aziraphale thinks?
WHY THE HELL SHOULD I CARE AT ALL!?
"Getting worked up there, huh?" hissed Mazikeen, noticing Crowley's rapid breathing. The demon blade rested on a collection of measly-looking scales on his chest, already smeared with blood from another wound. "Careful." teased Mazikeen. "You know what happens if you move too much."
Crowley swallowed to wet his throat, wincing because it stung. No more considerations; his mouth was already set on speaking. "Y-Yo-u… w-w-ould-n't… go through… wi' it… a-any-w-way."
Mazikeen's gaze hit him sharply. Every word was pain, but she understood him. "What?" she questioned challengingly.
The serpent swallowed again to ease his speech. "Y'd be… in tr-tr-ouble… wi-with… Brut. Y'r… scared… of h-him."
Mazikeen quickly pressed the blade against Crowley's throat. A deep breath and it would be over. "Brut's my boss. Doesn't mean I'm scared!" she growled.
"'Course y-you are." whispered Crowley. "You w-wouldn't… d-dare… to do a-anything… wi'out 'is consent. May-be… h-he would… torture… y-you… instead."
"And even so," Mazikeen placed her deformed, forever half-rotting face directly in front of Crowley's. Eyes as dark and razor-sharp like her blades met with golden snake ones. "I would welcome it. I'm not as weak as you. Wimp."
She was getting angry. Good, thought Crowley. That was what he wanted. One thoughtless movement with the blade and he'd be free. "I've b-been... tor-t-tured by Brut. Believe me… y' w-wouldn't s-tand… a chance." Mazikeen's eyes flared dangerously. "Y're good... at y'r job. But Brut... s'masterful." declared Crowley, slowly running out of breath. "T's why he's the boss, r-right? 'Cause y' c-could-n't pos'bly... match him."
"You take that back!" Mazikeen shouted.
"Jus' sayin'... he'd know... h-how t'use these blades r-right."
Now, that was personal. Mazikeen loved her blades and took great pride in being so handy with them. "Brut wouldn't manage to scale you!" she screamed, fuming. "He's much too blunt. You need to be patient!"
"Oh…" made Crowley, weak but unimpressed. "Th-ought y'were... str-rugglin'."
Mazikeen removed the demon blade from his throat, but still held it in her hand as she prodded his chest with a sharp fingernail. "Watch your tongue, snake! Or I'll cut it out of you!"
Now for his death blow. Crowley swallowed one last time. "I w-wond'r... if tha's what B-Brut would do." In a flash the very tip of the demon blade sank into the left side of Crowley's chest, just below the shoulder.
"Shut up!"
He continued unwavering. "I-I bet Brut w'd come up... wi' s'mthin' better."
Mazikeen's wild fury was unleashed. "I'll show you what Brut would do!" she spat and then she ripped.
A scream swelled inside Crowley from the deepest core of his being and he released it piercingly as the blade ran over his chest in one fluid motion. Like cutting through warm butter. Leaving a burn hotter than fire.
And then, suddenly, the blade was gone.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Crowley was breathing in quick, stabbing gasps. He was STILL breathing!
Through the sharp haze of searing, unbearable pain, he opened his eyes and saw Mazikeen off her feet. Brut's massive hand relentlessly closed around Mazikeen's throat. She was trying to speak and explain herself, but Brut didn't seem to be interested.
"You could've discorporated him." The head torturer said with a quick, scrutinising glance upon Crowley. "Close call. Could still be a goner." He closed his hand tighter around Mazikeen's throat. "We weren't ready for him. He could've escaped. Do you have any idea what you have done?" Brut growled. "Hastur will not be pleased."
With that Brut turned around not sparing their prisoner another look, dragging a screeching, hissing Mazikeen behind him by her hair. Crowley listened to the screams getting quieter the further they moved away until he couldn't hear them at all anymore.
His body was in furious agony. From the rough-edged cleft across his chest spilled black blood like molten lava. Not deep enough to kill! Not fucking deep enough!
He was still here. Still trapped!
He failed!
Damn it, of course, you did! What were you thinking!?
Leaving here to be nowhere. Giving up to be alone. And, suddenly, somewhere inside of him a conscience was stirring. He would've only caused pain to those who were innocent. Pain, that was his alone to bear. Pain, that he deserved for being weak. For even thinking about giving up.
On Human souls… and on Aziraphale.
He would've left the angel all on his own.
Of course, you would've, a louder, unforgiving inner voice screamed at him. Horrible demon! Egoistic monster!
The great serpent hung limply from the chains, watching the blood trickle out. It hurt a million times more than anything before, but the wound wouldn't close and he didn't care.
Crowley was crying, ashamed of himself for what he'd almost done. He was attacking his mind remorselessly; there was nothing that contradicted his self-loathing.
It was dark in the cage and Crowley could no longer feel warmth.
They have broken him.
I'm so sorry! I love Crowley, I really do! :)
FYI: The demon blade is an invention of the Lucifer TV show, I believe.
Again, I would love to hear your thoughts in a review, lovely readers!