A little bit more of Crowley's POV before we switch over to Aziraphale's for a little while. :)
Chapter 3:
He was mostly left alone now.
The demon blade brought him so close to the brink of destruction that any form of more violent torture would end him.
They watched him closely at first. Ready to capture him in a soulless, vaguely body-shaped vessel should his injuries still get the better of him. But they never did. Older wounds started to heal very slowly, but the gash on his chest kept bleeding, keeping him weak. Serpent scales hesitantly grew back, but Mazikeen didn't return anymore to cut them out.
In fact, Crowley hadn't seen her or any other demon for years after the incident. It was as if they had forgotten about him. Before, groups of lowly demons would be led past his cage. He served as a warning for them to misbehave only within Hell's rules. As proof that even higher-ranking demons weren't safe from Hell's wrath.
But now, nobody came by anymore.
Crowley's little part of Hell was silent, endless and black.
Brut was his only company. He returned to the cage every once in a while to beat him up rather half-heartedly. Neither of them enjoyed this chore. Neither of them talked. Brut was just making sure that Crowley didn't dare to start having any kind of hope.
He didn't need to worry. Crowley's thoughts were bleaker than Hell itself. He'd accepted that he would remain here forever. A deserved punishment for wanting to abandon the only being in existence that might still trust him.
Brut also didn't allow the demon to find rest on the ground anymore. In lieu of hardly any physical torture, his chains were kept short now. Sometimes Crowley hung there from his wrists for days. Weeks maybe? Longer? Without ever touching soil. Crowley learned to sleep like that, lulled into horrible dreams by the steady sound of blood hitting a black puddle below.
It was the lowest, most futile point of his entire existence.
And also the natural turning point of his fate.
A door opened and closed forcefully somewhere in Hell. Heavy-set footsteps echoed in the dark, drawing closer. Crowley didn't react. He expected Brut and another round of four-fisted boxing. Maybe one or two lashes. Or something with knives.
His eyes were closed so he didn't see that it was actually Ligur who stepped out of the dark and towards the thread next to his cage. "Crowley…" he grumbled, chains rattling in his hands. "You should really count yourself lucky."
Ligur let the chains loose and Crowley collapsed like dead weight. He kept lying on the floor, grunting woefully. Unwilling and unable to move. But Ligur was talking.
"Boss was getting angry." he said. "Kept wondering where the souls for Hell were coming from when we keep retracting demon after demon from up there, because they weren't achieving anything even slightly demonic on their own. The boss said they won't be made a laughing stock in front of the opposition so... Satan, personally, requested your reinstatement on Earth. Seems you're more use to them up there than down here."
Ligur snapped his fingers and something changed. An underlying pain, a burning sensation that didn't even fully register in Crowley's brain anymore was letting up.
With great effort the serpent blinked his yellow eyes open and shifted his arms over the floor until they were in his line of sight. Crowley saw the blistered deep-red rings around his wrists… but no chains. He suspected his ankles were free, too. Crowley couldn't quite believe it. Technically, he would be able to do miracles now.
He chuckled darkly somewhere inside. As if it were so easy. As if he could do anything but lay here and feel the pounding throb of his injuries all over his body. His mind was too preoccupied managing his pain to even think about concentrating on a demonic miracle.
"Get up!" grunted Ligur and Crowley wanted to laugh again. Maybe he was going insane? "Come on, on your feet, demon!" he ordered.
When Crowley didn't move, Ligur shook his head at him, clicking his tongue, obviously disgusted by his pitiful sight. "Eric! Come here!" he yelled and quickly, a wiry, small demon came scuttling out of the dark and helped Crowley to his feet.
He wanted to scream. Everywhere they touched his skin burned like fire. But Crowley ground his jaw. He was ashamed enough; he wouldn't cry out even if the pain was crippling him on the inside.
"Dress him." huffed Ligur. "He can't go up there looking like that."
The disposable demon pulled a simple black piece of rag over Crowley's head. It stuck to his bleeding cuts, but covered most of them and also hid his serpentine features from human eyes.
"Right. Let's go." called Ligur unceremoniously.
And after over thirty years, Crowley was dragged out of the cage in Hell.
Edinburgh, 1860:
Crowley smelt the change in the atmosphere. Wet grass, fresh earth and horse dung. Oh, how he had missed earthly smells. Just to sense anything other than sulphur and misery was incredible to him.
Crowley was dropped to the ground. The cold grass felt like an embrace, soothing his angry, burning skin. He wanted to crawl up inside it and never get up.
"That's where we leave him?" Eric asked.
"That's where he was summoned from." said Ligur. There was a sardonic smile in his voice as he added, "The humans won't even notice him, lying in the cemetery like a fresh corpse." He nudged Crowley hard with one foot, causing him to moan pathetically. "If you discorporate up here, you'll be send back to Hell. Then our Master will realize how pathetic you really are." Ligur knelt down, grabbing a handful of dirty red hair to catch the serpent's dull yellow-gleaming gaze.
"And Crowley…" he said then, "Should you miraculously manage to restore yourself and misstep again… be sure that you definitely won't leave Hell a second time."
His laughter sounded like thunder, then the air shimmered and the demons vanished. Just like that.
Crowley was alone.
Back on Earth.
He allowed himself a small sob of relief, noticing how tears immediately leaked from the corner of his eyes. Never… never in a million years did he believe that he would ever feel the grass of Earth on his skin again. The cool night air in his tangled, dirty hair. And the rain on his tired face.
Oh, yes. Rain. Of course, it was raining. This was Scotland and he was back. What he never believed possible... did happen. He was back!
Crowley didn't know how much time had passed – it felt longer in Hell – but he recognized that this was the same graveyard where he dug for corpses with Elspeth, Wee Morag and Aziraphale.
He wondered what the angel was up to nowadays? Did he know what happened to him? Was Crowley even worth to ever darken his doorstep again?
The rain began to soak through the black cloth Crowley was wearing, making it cling uncomfortably to his freezing-cold body. The inside of the thin fabric was smeared and sticky from his seeping chest wound and on the outside the rain was continuing to hit him like needles.
Crowley shivered violently. As it turned out, demons can indeed be very cold if they are too weak to keep their body temperature miraculously steady. Crowley was so incredibly tired. He wanted to sleep. He knew he ought to make an effort to keep his human form alive, but right now it was all too much.
He was back. Nothing else was important.
He'd try in the morning. Yes, that sounded like a plan, right? He needed to rest now… then maybe… tomorrow... he could… what? Oh, concentrate... yes... on… on…
Suddenly, someone grabbed Crowley's legs and the demon snapped his eyes open. A startled noise escaped him and he flinched, making whoever grabbed him stumble backwards.
Their eyes met.
Crowley had feared to be woken from being trapped in a dream. That it was all a cruel trick his mind had played on him and now Ligur had returned to pull him back down to Hell. But opposite Crowley in the grass between gravestones cowered an equally startled human being. An old man in a tatty, dark coat and fingerless gloves. His hair was stubbly and grey and his eyes were still widening in fear.
Too late Crowley realized that, of course, Ligur hadn't thought to provide him with dark glasses to cover his snake eyes. His sudden panic must've made them flare up dangerously.
The demon and the man stared at each other through the falling rain. Crowley didn't dare to move a muscle; he'd probably scare the poor bugger even more.
Eventually, the man swallowed his fear and inched closer. Vigilantly hovering over him, his eyes quickly scanning the demon's body. He could obviously tell from the way Crowley was holding himself that he was hurt. Despite the black robe covering the worst of it.
"I-I don't know... what you are," the man mumbled finally, "But you'll catch your death out here."
Decidedly, he grabbed Crowley's legs once more. Ignoring his stifled moans of pain, he began to drag him away. The demon's mind blurred after a while and, at last, his eyes closed and he drifted off into oblivion.
London, 1860:
Aziraphale closed the book he was reading and shivered in his vest. He peered outside to see if a storm was brewing, but the night was actually rather mild. No rain for a change and only a light breeze was rocking the street lanterns. Still, an uneasy feeling crept up his spine.
It had been a bleak few decades. Maybe it was just that, pressing on his soul.
He looked around. Candles were lit, he had his favourite tartan blanket draped over his legs and his bookshop was in perfect order. Other than the fact that he had no one to talk to, it all seemed rather lovely and warm. There had been a few stubborn 'customers' in the shop today, but he managed to usher them out without them having made any purchase.
Aziraphale stared at the empty sofa across from him and sighed sadly. He could think of only one other person who would've scared them away much easier.
But he wasn't here.
Still in Hell. But still alive. At least that was what Aziraphale kept telling himself when fear threatened to overwhelm him.
He had made some careful inquiries at the beginning, hoping that someone higher up in Heaven might know something about his… hereditary enemy. He even tried to communicate with some of the other demons he encountered over the years, but they really weren't the talking kind.
Not like Crowley.
Aziraphale sighed again and stood up to file the book back into the right shelf. Maybe some hot chocolate would help to lift his spirits. Yes, that sounded like a good idea. He went upstairs, preparing his beverage, but his mind, like so often, kept circling around the serpentine demon.
He couldn't… wouldn't imagine what they were doing to him down in Hell. Thinking about it made his heart race and his breath stutter. Aziraphale had never felt so helpless, but there was nothing he could do! He couldn't just waltz through the gates of Hell, trying to get Crowley out of there. He would go up in hellfire flames before he even made one step over the proverbial threshold.
Crowley would be fine, eventually, Aziraphale told his worried heart when it started to beat out of his chest. He'd known the demon for centuries and if there was one thing he was exceptionally good at, then it was getting himself out of trouble. The original tempter always found the right words.
He would come back. Someday.
Aziraphale still owed him, for when the demon rescued him from the Bastille during the Reign of Terror. They would still go out to have a nice meal together one day and all would be fine.
The cocoa was getting cold.
And so was Aziraphale.
He shook himself, wanting to carry the mug back downstairs, but the uneasy feeling just wouldn't leave him. He straightened his collar, trying to get rid of the ice down his back and then he suddenly stopped.
Maybe the reason for his uneasiness was of demonic nature.
It has been a while since he crossed path with the opposition. Not very skilled individuals and completely overwhelmed with the ways of humans on Earth. It had been easy to keep grander malicious attacks at bay. Maybe the coldness signalled a new arrival from downstairs.
Aziraphale closed his eyes and concentrated. There seemed to be… something… afoot. Not in the city, but further away. Up north. That was peculiar. Normally, he wasn't able to sense them from so far away. Maybe it was something big? Or maybe it was an evil signature that was already familiar to him; the angel couldn't tell yet.
Anyway, Aziraphale decided to deal with it straight away. It would take him some time to get to where he felt this new demonic energy and if it was something larger then it required quick damage control.
Aziraphale made a face, hoping to find a carriage that would take him all the way up there. He wasn't very keen on riding a horse again.
After about a week the angel carefully wandered across the cobblestones of the Scottish city of Edinburgh. He was shivering again. Not because he felt cold, but because the memories of what happened when he was last here forcefully constricted his throat.
This was where he had last seen him.
The demonic energy wasn't as strong as he originally believed. Just a faint whiff of evil. But, Aziraphale figured, since he was already here, he might as well investigate. So the angel followed the scent.
"Oh, excuse me," Aziraphale waved to stop a young boy who ran across the street without any shoes on. "I'm looking for trouble."
The boy grinned, nodding at Aziraphale's fine coat. "Looking like that, sir? I don't recommend it."
The angel rolled his eyes and produced a silver coin that he held out to the lad. "I mean, you don't by chance happen to know a place that was recently touched by misfortune? Something inexplicable or evil that has happened to someone in town?"
Quick as a viper the little street urchin had snatched the coin from Aziraphale's hand. "I don't know anything, sir. But you should visit the old beggar, MacDonaldson. He lives in the alley behind the Resurrectionist pub. They say he's got some evil monster there with him."
The boy took off down the street without turning his back. "Thank you very much!" Aziraphale called after him. He had wanted to urge the boy to buy some shoes with the money, but he was gone too quick. The angel sent a little blessing after the kid instead and made his way to the mentioned pub with the familiar name.
Aziraphale had already been walking all day and when he arrived at his destination it was getting dark. He also realized that he had indeed been here before. With Crowley. But it hadn't been a pub back then.
The alley in question was narrow and almost completely lightless. Cats and black rats almost as big as cats scuttled out of Aziraphale's way as he carefully trod down the path. "Hello?" he called softly. "Is somebody there?"
There was no answer.
The end of the alleyway was in sight up ahead and Aziraphale squinted. He thought he could see something… or maybe someone... lying there. On top of stacks of newspapers and beneath a pile of old blankets… something that resembled a head was visible.
Aziraphale moved closer. Yes, those were hair. Entangled, covered in dirt and sticky with a black substance that looked like oil. "Hello?" he said once more, trying to rouse the sleeping person, when, suddenly, something moved in the dark and a man stepped out of the shadows. "Oh," made Aziraphale. "You gave me a start."
The old man eyed him suspiciously. "What do you want with him?" He asked, nodding vaguely towards the person lying under the blankets that still hasn't moved yet.
"A-Are you Mr. MacDonaldson?" the angel questioned.
"Who wants to know?"
Aziraphale took a little step closer and smiled in a friendly, hopefully disarming, manner. "Ah, I'm a doctor, you see? Doctor McFell. I was sent to take a look at your friend here."
"Rubbish. No one sent you." the old beggar decided curtly. "I know what the folk around here say. They think I'm mad. Think he's the devil, but I know what I saw. The devils have brought him here. He's a poor soul returned from Hell."
"Well, it doesn't actually work like that." mumbled Aziraphale under his breath.
"He's done nothing to anyone since he's come here and you want to collect him again. Back to the hellfires!" The man ranted on, putting himself between Aziraphale and the lump on the ground.
"No, no, that's certainly not what I want to do. Please," Here the angel made a movement with his hand and spoke in a calm, persuasive tone. "You really are glad to have some help and, in fact, you just wanted to go back to the other end of the alleyway so I can, err, check… on my patient."
The beggar's eyes went a bit glassy and his posture relaxed. "Ay… a very good idea." he mumbled and trudged past Aziraphale without looking back.
The angel breathed through. Nice trick. Crowley had taught him this; Mr. MacDonaldson's words had made Aziraphale think of the demon. But he still didn't believe that it was him who the old man saw. Probably just an unfortunate soul who got robbed in the streets. Humans did have a wonderfully vivid imagination.
Because, if it were Crowley, he would've recognized the angel by now and given him a sign of life… wouldn't he?
Checking again to make sure the old man was out of sight and earshot, Aziraphale turned towards the person on the ground and made another movement with his hand. "Let there be light!" he whispered and a small ball of energy hovered close above his palm like a torch.
In the flickering light the human shape beneath the blankets was more recognisable. In fact, it seemed to move slightly with every shallow, gasping breath it took. "Well then, my poor fellow…" said Aziraphale. "What seems to be the problem?"
He knelt down and, suddenly, the light caught something beneath all the dirt and grime of the long, tangled hair.
Its original colour. A shade that was all too familiar to the angel.
A flash of red.
Aziraphale gasped in shock and disbelief. He reached out and combed the hair away from the face.
He stared into hugely widened eyes of gleaming gold, the vertical pupils almost invisible. Strained breathing indicated how much effort it obviously took to hold his physical form together.
"Crowley!" exclaimed Aziraphale, voice strangled with sudden panic. "Oh, good Lord, what happened to you?" Without thinking the angel touched Crowley's shoulder and the demon immediately flinched and howled in pain.
"Oh, no!" whimpered Aziraphale. "I'm so sorry. Did I hurt you?" He touched him a little gentler, trying to calm him down again. "Why don't you heal yourself?"
The snake eyes didn't move; Crowley seemed to be staring without seeing. Breathing in a short, sharp staccato rhythm, fully concentrated. Aziraphale wasn't sure if he just hadn't heard him or if he was unable to answer.
Carefully and very slowly, the angel pulled the blankets back. He could see Crowley's body spasm with pain. The robe he was wearing was thin and where it covered his chest, it seemed to glisten. Holding his breath, bracing himself for a horrible sight, Aziraphale gently hooked one finger around the hemline at his neck and pulled the garment back to make more skin visible.
Crowley briefly squeezed his eyes shut, wailing pitifully. The fabric stuck to the glistening black stuff and only now Aziraphale realized that it was blood. A lot of demon blood.
He saw the top end of a long, ragged gash that seemed to run all the way over his torso. There were other cuts and fresh scar tissue, but it all paled in comparison. The angel couldn't see a bit of skin that hadn't been injured at some point in the past.
Numbly, he let go of the fabric, fingers caressing the demon's shoulder again. His eyes were watery and he had to swallow the lump in his throat a few times before he was able to speak. "Oh, Crowley…" Aziraphale cried. "What have they done to you?"
Crowley's throat worked. He grunted something unintelligible, then, "R-Rest. C...Can… h-he-eal. One… cu-ut… a-at a… ti-ime."
Aziraphale's eyes widened, completely aghast. That was what Crowley was trying to do!? Why he was concentrating so hard, gasping after every syllable. He was working on healing his wounds! Slowly. In fact, so slow that it must be torture.
"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale exclaimed. "You wear yourself out first!" He pulled the blankets fully away, pushing one arm beneath Crowley's head and around his shoulders.
"N-No." the demon whimpered, clenching his fists tightly so the knuckles turned white, expecting more pain.
"I'm going to help you, Crowley," the angel assured him. "But I can't do it here. The old man might come back." He contemplated for a moment. "I might be able to numb the overall pain a little. At least until I know what exactly I can do to make you better." Aziraphale proceeded to let his hand slowly hover over the demon's whole body.
Crowley gasped and then released a long, drawn out sigh. All at once, his tense muscles relaxed and his eyes slipped shut.
"Crowley?" the angel uttered a little panicked.
The golden eyes snapped open once more. "Aziraphale?" He blinked and seemed to look for the source of the voice he'd heard.
Tenderly, Aziraphale's fingers grazed Crowley's cheek, helping him focus. "I'm here." he whispered. "It's alright, my dear. I've got you."
A tired smile entered Crowley's features when his eyes found the angel's; apparently truly seeing him for the first time. Then his head lolled to the side and he was unconscious.
The smile on Aziraphale's face gave way for a deep frown of worry. Gingerly, he put his free hand under Crowley's knees and carefully lifted the demon up into his arms.
He didn't stir again.
Aziraphale's frown deepened.
Then he turned around, looking down the dark alley. He breathed through and made his pearl-white wings appear. With Crowley held securely in his arms, the angel pushed away from the ground and into the air until he miraculously disappeared.
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