From the diary of Azira Z. Fell (spanning several tearstained pages):
This has been the worst day ever. And there is hardly a soul who knows the true extent of just how dismal things are.
All fifteen years of my life and I've never even written it out in my diary. But I need to somehow get all of this out of me. I need to. And I cannot say it aloud, not all of it. All because of the curse itself. Tracy says that the fairy Luci (the fool) did not intend to lay a curse on me. He meant it as a gift. Most days, it does not feel like a gift.
It certainly didn't make me happy when it was first explained to me…
—
Azira's first awareness of the curse came when he was five years old. On his birthday, in fact. He'd been looking forward to it with the enthusiasm most five-year-olds looked forward to their birthdays with, and even went to bed early so he might wake up sooner to enjoy the day.
His father hadn't been home. Sir Fell was a merchant who traveled often and was away from his home for long stretches of time. That is how it had been for Azira's whole life- starting with his birth, actually. But that didn't bother Azira, because all of his favorite people were there. His mother- who was teaching him how to read at the time and gifted him a hefty, beautifully illustrated book of nursery rhymes. Tracy, the cook, who baked a wonderful 'angel food' cake for the occasion. Maggie and Arthur, who worked in the household, also wished him a happy birthday, and had gone out to the garden that morning and come back to fill the dining room with flowers.
It was shaping up to be the best day of Azira's life thus far. He couldn't even think of anything to wish for before he blew out the candles. He felt he had all he wanted and needed right there. With one big breath, he extinguished all but one sputtering candle, which he got in the next breath. Lady Fell smiled, watching her son cut the cake (with Tracy's help). He passed the plate with the first slice to his mother, and Tracy cooed, pinching his cheek.
"Here, this next one for the birthday boy," she said, setting a slice of cake in front of him. Then, without thinking: "Go ahead, eat."
And so Azira did. The first bite seemed to melt in his mouth, and he sighed happily. He took another bite, just as light and fluffy and sweet as the last, then another. When he was done with the slice, he licked sticky-sweet frosting from the fork and plate. Then he reached forward and stuck his fork into the cake itself.
"Azira," his mother began to chide him for poor table manners, but Tracy only laughed.
"Little piggy. It's his birthday, Lady, let him have as much as he wants."
So Azira continued, faintly confused. He began to feel full, but his fork didn't stop moving, bringing bite after bite to his mouth. He started to feel sour fear creeping in. Why couldn't he stop? He tried to, but only managed to slow down. It felt like he was chewing paste now, all the enjoyment gone as he struggled to swallow one more bite.
When tears began rolling down his face, Lady Fell noticed.
"Stop eating, Azira," she said, pushing the platter away from him. And suddenly, he could.
Lady Fell and Tracy sat him down and explained what had happened on the day of his birth. How- inspired by his inconsolable crying- Luci had lightly tapped the baby's nose and said: "My gift is obedience. Azira will always be obedient. Now stop crying, child."
And he had.
Lady Fell and Tracy had begged Luci to take back the curse, but Luci wouldn't consider it, leaving in a huff and muttering about ungrateful mortals, and the time he'd taken from his day to come to Frell to bestow the 'gift'.
—
…and I am not happy now. All the so-called 'gift' has caused me is grief. No matter how kind Mother and Tracy tried to be- phrasing their orders as questions or suggestions so I was not compelled to obey, or only giving me well-meaning commands- they could not be mindful absolutely all of the time. And I forgive them that, I really do, and I love them both dearly but even so…
My mind is a whirlwind. No one can ever truly understand what it is to live with a curse of obedience until they have lived a day in my shoes. A year. Fifteen. However long I may live. I'm surprised I may even write about it, since Mother commanded me years ago never to tell anyone. I understand why, I really do. I wouldn't want anyone with bad intentions to be able to command me to do anything either. But it gets so lonely. I suppose it's my intentions that matter. I do not intend to show anyone this diary. Ever.
I learned my lesson already, and would not like a repeat of that debacle.
—
The debacle in question happened when Azira was eight years old.
He had recently made a friend, Bea, and one day they were in the kitchen helping Tracy make crepes. Tracy told Azira to fetch some strawberries, and he came back with two. She sent him back with more specific instructions, but he still managed to frustrate her.
"You should be a lawyer," she muttered. Aziraphale didn't get the joke.
Later, after Tracy had switched over the questions and the crepes were finally finished, Bea and Azira sat in the garden each eating one.
"How come you don't just do what she says?" Bea asked, wiping a smear of strawberry off of their face with the back of their hand.
"I hate when she's bossy," Azira responded.
"I always listen to my elders."
"But you don't have to."
"'Course I have to," Bea snorted, then polished off the last of their crepe with one big bite. "'F I don', Father might smack me," they mumbled around their mouthful.
"It's not the same. I'm under a spell."
"A spell?"
Azira saw how impressed Bea seemed. Spells were rare. Suddenly, he felt very compelled to tell them the whole story. So he did.
"Wow," Bea said when he was finished. "Can I try it?"
"No." Somehow, Azira hadn't anticipated this, and his stomach dropped. "C'mon, let's go play." He hoped to distract them. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.
"Okay. I command you to race me to the gate, and I command you to lose."
They raced. Azira lost.
That was only the start of what turned out to be an awful afternoon, where Azira was commanded to lose every game, play the worst parts in make-believe, hand over the best, ripest berries off the bush, and not to complain about any of it.
It was a short afternoon as well. Only an hour after his admission, Azira punched Bea in the nose and they ran home. After Lady Fell sorted out the situation with Bea's mother, finding her a position well outside of Frell, and Azira had been punished for hitting another child, she issued one of her rare commands. To never tell anyone about the curse.
—
Mother had been there to pick up the pieces after my stupid mistake back then. To understand, to an extent. To share my disappointment. But now she isn't. And I can't help but feel as if I could have prevented it.
It didn't seem all that serious when we both came down with a cold. We bundled up and spent the day in her room, waiting for the symptoms to let up, and Tracy made us her special 'curing' soup. But when Tracy left the room, Mother took the unicorn hairs out. I don't find them all that appealing either, floating around all tangled and yellow, but Tracy always said to keep them in. After she finished, she placed them in the empty bowl and Tracy was none the wiser. Then I got better, but she didn't.
It got so much worse so fast. I had no idea…
The next day she said there was a stabbing pain in her throat and the day after that, she wasn't all there anymore. It was like she was dreaming, and couldn't see me. It happened so fast. Just the night before she had bid me goodnight normally, claimed she wasn't very sick, and said not to send for Father. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps I should have been pushier about the hairs. Maybe I should have prayed harder, or promised more.
I prayed for her to get well quickly. I didn't mention her living, I didn't think she was in any danger of dying.
But the funeral happened today.
—
The church was a part of an old castle, the walls made of thick stone and the stained glass windows slightly faded. The high vaulted ceiling made High Chancellor Tyler's voice echoey. According to Arthur, the royal family had lived here generations ago before relocating and it stood empty half the time. People still used the church, however. For weddings. And funerals. Arthur had been trying to distract Azira on the way over with facts about the castle, and usually Azira would be interested but today his heart just wasn't in it.
Right now, Arthur was trying not to doze off. Maggie had to keep lightly kicking his shins. Arthur's wife, Deirdre, sat on his other side with their son, who was small enough that it wasn't considered rude for him to doze off leaning against his mother's shoulder.
Azira felt a pang of longing. He wished he could sit with them- they felt more like family than his own father did, but Sir Fell had insisted he sit up front. Away from Arthur and Maggie and Tracy.
High Chancellor Tyler continued to drone on. Azira didn't even know if half of these things pertained to his mother. Quite honestly, it was going in one ear and out the other. The late-summer weather made the church almost unbearably stuffy as well. Looking at his mother, laid stiffly in a polished walnut casket, made Azira feel even more claustrophobic. She didn't even look like his mother anymore. Her face was slack, none of the crinkles near her eyes visible, like when she smiled and laughed, her normally expressive eyebrows still, and he couldn't even delude himself that she was asleep because he knew his mother. No matter how much she denied it, she snored.
"Azira!"
Sir Fell had been trying to get his attention. The two of them moved to stand up front. And now they were supposed to close the casket.
Her hands were folded. They were close enough that the white hairs at her temples were visible. Azira's vision blurred. He wanted to shake her just a little. Just in case. Because she couldn't really be dead.
His father glared at him. He was holding up the process. With shaking hands, Azira helped close the lid. And his Mother was gone with a final quiet thud of the lid. Before he knew it, Azira's breathing hitched, and tears fell down onto the polished wood.
Sir Fell drew him into a hug. Azira moved his arms to reciprocate, but then he heard a low whisper: "Get away from here. Come back when you have composed yourself."
Even if the curse didn't force him to obey, Azira would have been glad to. He ran from the stuffy church into the slightly less oppressive outside air, cutting through a flower bed and circling around to the cemetery behind the castle. He stumbled, unable to see clearly through the seemingly never ending, unstoppable tears, landing hard on one knee.
Under a willow, where he couldn't see the world and the world couldn't see him, Azira dropped into the grass and let himself cry into his folded arms. He was unsure how long it took for him to finally be able to breathe normally and collect himself. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his new black suit jacket, feeling his throat and eyes start to ache from crying. The worst part was, he knew he wasn't done yet. He knew he would cry again later today. That night. Tomorrow too. Maybe every day. And every time, his father would be no comfort.
Everything that he and his mother had done together that they would never do again was another blow that hurt worse than his stinging knee. They would never recommend or read books with each other, or slide down the banisters, or cook with Tracy together or walk through the gardens. She would never kiss his forehead or laugh or roll her eyes at Father. Everyone kept saying she was 'lost' but she wasn't really, was she? She was in that box. Azira could never 'find' her again. The thought of closing the casket only made him sob harder.
Azira could have spent the entire rest of the day under that willow, but unfortunately, the second half of the command, come back when you can be quiet, was tugging at him. It was a light tug so far, no dizziness or nausea yet, but Azira figured he'd better pick himself up and start moving before it came to that. When he parted the leaves of the willow, he spotted someone in the cemetery who hadn't been there before, meandering down a row of tombstones. Someone rather tall, a little older than Azira, with longish red hair that kept flopping into his face, dressed in black for the funeral.
Was that the crown prince? He looked more… spindly and angular than his mother, the Queen.
As he wondered that, the boy looked up. Azira found himself staring into a pair of golden brown eyes, set on either side of a slightly crooked nose, both a tad pink from crying. Prince Anthony fixed his slouchy posture when he saw Azira, clearing his throat. "Hello. They, uh… sent me to collect you."
Azira wondered how much of his breakdown the prince had heard. He nervously rubbed at his face with his sleeve again, knowing it wasn't doing much for the tear tracks he undoubtedly had on his face. The prince started to search his pockets.
"I'd offer you a handkerchief but I think I forgot to bring extras. Stupid of me. Seeing as it's a funeral."
Azira shrugged. He stepped closer to peer at the tombstone Anthony had been reading. Ligur McDormand.
"Cousin of mine. Never liked him. I liked your mother, though," Prince Anthony said.
"You knew my mother?" Azira asked. His voice sounded more croaky than he would have liked.
"Yeah. Sort of. Saw her a few times at events and such. You're her 'angel of a son'?"
Azira couldn't help but smile. "She said that?"
"Yeah. Got to talk to her at this banquet. Can't remember what it was for, boring as all hell except for when she was talking. That Tyler bloke- the one who did the eulogy- he was a speaker there too and I swear I was nodding off. Until your mother made this little hand puppet out of a napkin. Drew eyes on it. And she started moving its mouth along to the words and then I had to try not to laugh." Prince Anthony sighed. "We were talking later and I somehow got her started on you."
"Oh."
"The book lover?"
Azira nodded.
"I- this is a little embarrassing, but I can't remember your name."
"Didn't the Chancellor say it? Since I'm- in the 'survived by' bit."
"I was definitely sleeping. Lily had to pinch me awake." It was odd to hear the Crown Princess Lilith referred to by a juvenile nickname. Then again, it felt odd to be speaking to the prince at all.
"Well, I'm Azira." He started to bow when the prince's hand on his shoulder stopped him.
"Don't- you don't need to bow."
"But… you're the prince?"
"We're just- I mean, we're just out here having a conversation, we won't need to do the- the bows and the titles and stuff. You can call me Crowley. It's my middle name, and everybody I care about uses it."
"Alright," Azira said hesitantly. "Prince Crow-"
"Just Crowley."
"Just Crowley, should we start heading back?" Azira was feeling the tug at the pit of his stomach a little stronger now.
"Sure. You're feeling better?"
"A bit. Enough to be quiet," Azira muttered the last part as they began to walk back to the front of the church. Azira dragged his feet in part to spite his father and rebel in some small way against the curse, and in part so he and the prince could keep talking. He was nicer than Azira thought he would be, and tucked one of Azira's hands into the crook of his elbow as they walked. Like a proper gentleman.
When they arrived back at the doors of the church, many of the people who had attended the service were gone already. Sir Fell was waiting impatiently by the carriage.
"There you are, son," he said when he caught sight of the two boys. Azira was suddenly conscious of the rip on the knee of his pants, the dirt and blood that must be staining the fabric, and the puffiness of his eyes. "Terribly sorry to inconvenience you, your Highness." Sir Fell sank into a bow that made Prince Anthony- er, Crowley- look vaguely uncomfortable.
"No trouble at all," he mumbled.
"Either way, thank you for accompanying my son. Come along, Azira." Sir Fell stepped into the carriage and gestured for Azira to follow. The curse tugged at the pit of his stomach. He had to go.
Crowley stepped up beside the door and held out a hand. But Azira wasn't sure whether to put his hand in the prince's, or let him push up on his elbow. After some awkward fumbling, the prince ended up grasping the middle of Azira's arm and he reached for the side of the carriage for balance. Just as Azira thought the awkward part was over, he heard a tearing noise.
His sleeve had gotten caught on the latch of the door. He winced, examining the tear. Maggie would never be able to get it smooth. The door shut, he heard Arthur flick the whip, and the carriage started moving. Azira looked out the window to see Crowley trying- and failing- to smother his laughter.
Azira sighed, arranging himself as far away from his father as possible.
"A fine affair," Lord Fell broke the silence. "Everyone in Frell came. Everyone who counts, anyway."
"How can it be fine? It was awful. It was Mother's funeral." Azira knew he sounded petulant. He didn't care.
"Your mother was beautiful. I'm sorry she's dead."
He kept his gaze fixed on the scenery moving by. His father sounded regretful. At least Azira thought he did. A little. But it didn't feel like enough.
—
I'm not even sure Father cried. I know everyone grieves differently, but he didn't even have the decency to say anything about her besides that she was beautiful. There's so much more to say. Maybe if he were around more- I shouldn't finish that thought. Not when I don't even like the idea of him being around more. I know I shouldn't hate Father. But sometimes I do. I wish that I had asked Mother why she even married him.
It's awful. The only other person in the world I can completely trust is Tracy. She's the only other person who knows and cares.
I miss Mother. I miss her, and the way Father acts frustrates me. Shouldn't he miss her just as much? If not more, since he knew her for even longer? Later tonight he's holding a party. He won't call it a party. He's calling it 'everyone paying their respects'. I thought that's what the funeral was for. Why does everyone need to come to the house? Mother was never very fond of big parties. And I'm not either.
If there was anything I could do to bring her back, I would. No question about it. Thinking that I may have been able to prevent this if only I had done something differently that day we were both sick is killing me. I wish–