The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 50: An Angel's Secret

Chapter 50: An Angel's Secret

"Crowley," the angel said in a bewildered whisper. "I sent the sword away. Remember?"

"Where?"

"Just, away." The rumbling outside grew louder, and with it came the echo of a wail. The wailing expanded: a banshee scream that howled along the edges of the wind. The demon furrowed his brows.

"But that's not the whole story, is it Aziraphale?" The howling drew nearer, coming as if from a great distance and gaining speed. Both of them looked to the windows. "You can get it back, after a fashion..."

"That's...daft, dear boy. It's far away," the angel declared, focusing all his senses on the cries outside. "From my hand, or anyone else's. It's not available," he finished, as the banshee call keened again. Crowley spun around; his eyes wild. The angel lifted his gaze left and right, searching for the direction of the call.

"The one time we actually need it," he added almost mournfully, as the demon whipped around once more.

"You keep mementos, angel," Crowley reminded him, his eyes swiveling to the noise. "In that regard, you may have very well saved our necks."

"What...what are you implying?"

The demon's voice sizzled loudly," Now's not the time to play coy! I know, Angel!"

Aziraphale gaped. "Crowley.... your eyes...."

Golden? Red-yellow? Large or small, in dim shadow or brilliant day, those eyes always shifted it seemed from one to another. But now, as they glared into the heart of the angel, they were tinged with a sort of emerald green. Aziraphale swallowed. The screaming was over their heads now, tinged with terrible humor. The lilt of it seemed to call Crowley's name, beckoning.

"Angel," Crowley spoke softly. Aziraphale blinked. The demon edged closer to him. "Angel, you always carry the sword's shadow with you." Aziraphale was silent. "Deep in here, the memory of its birth..."

"How do you know..."

"You sent it away, but replaced something of it. And that's all I need." Crowley held out his hand. "Give me the sheath."

The angel shifted.

"I know you have it," Crowley repeated methodically. "Give me the sheath. Please."

The green shimmered back and forth across the demon's eyes. Without looking away, Aziraphale reached for something invisible at his hip, unbound it, and handed it over his friend very slowly.

The screeches outside grew nearer, lower, and the angel's head flung to the eastern windows.

"Angel," Crowley barked. Aziraphale jolted back to him. "Angel, now the ring."

"What?"

"We don't have time! Give me the ring!"

Like a sleepwalker, the angel slipped off his ring and offered it to the demon. Crowley took it, closed the space between them, then presented it to him. "Kiss it."

"What? Crowley I don't understand—"

"No time! Just kiss it!" The angel obeyed. He bent down, closed his eyes, and lovingly kissed the ring. And in a panic induced haze, he watched his Beloved do the same, grit his teeth, and slip it loosely over his pinkie. Then he took the sheath and strapped it to his side. Finally, looking back at the angel, he reached back, and acted to draw something from it. Whatever it was made a silvery sound as it was released.

Up came an old and battered bronze sword. It appeared doused in some clear liquid. Crowley blinked his eyes. It erupted in blue flame.

"Stay here, my love," he whispered, drawing in to land a departing kiss on his angel's pale cheek. "This is demon's work."

"Crowley," Aziraphale gasped. "Is that...holy water on the blade?" The demon shook his head, crouching and backing away to the door, the sword held at the ready.

"Not exactly," Crowley explained. "Not holy water. A liquid curse," he swung the sword, and the flames danced and sang, "Which means only I'm fit to bare it. I love you angel." Now he was at the threshold of the bookshop, the thing wailing its hunger for him. "I will always treasure the color of your eyes."

He pushed open the doors, and darted out.

"Crowley! Stop!" The angel dashed for the doors, but they closed on him. In a panic he threw his whole shoulder at them, and then unfurled his wings, and hurled the wind from their flapping. But to no avail. The doors shuttered, the room cyclone as books flung about. But the doors remained locked.

All the angel could do was lean his sore shoulder against the glass, and look out. And there was his Beloved, standing in the field, his own dark wings flapping as he stood his ground against an invisible cackling force that seemed to warp the lines of the landscape before him.

Crowley rose the flaming blade in both hands, and dug in his heels.

"COME AND GET ME, YOU BLOODY BITCH!!!!!"