The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 147:Despair and the Warg-Father

Chapter 147: Despair and the Warg-Father

Oh, how she wanted to break him.

But as ubiquitous as the wards were, they prevented the mirror creature from doing all the nasty things she desired. Most of her power was wasted on one hard strike which was repelled and recoiled hard, sending surging needles of pain through her body. Regathering, the mirror thing thought thru the red cloud of her rage, and focused in on the angel's weakest point. His sympathy.

She had to keep hunting for his dream, to the point he could no longer speak.

But first, she must get him babbling.

She regarded his strung-up body, which was not his body at all. It was his spirit, taking form as it would in any of the astral plans, nearly as solid as he. It was how he saw himself, though disheveled beyond his usual preening. His clothes were rumbled, his hair wet with perspiration and clinging to his brow, his face writhed as he fought her in his sleep. Well, if keeping him asleep would not bring the dream, she must wake him, and have a discourse to ferret out his weakness.

She couldn't get inside, so she would trick him into opening a door.

Crowley took vigil with the sword, propped against a wall, and the ring, blazing on his hand. He prayed. He actually prayed. He prayed to God, and to Aziraphale, and to the universe.

He spoke no words to Satan. He could have. He thought about it. But previous insight prevailed over his utter desperation. His former boss was the master of the deal. And his deals were more like wagers, with the odds always stacked in favor of the House. Even when you won.

In that utter silence, Crowley focused on the power in the sword, and the blue flame. He was tired of the silence. He wanted to hear things. He began to wonder.

"She doesn't know about the ember, Beloved," Crowley whispered in the statue angel's ear. "I don't know if it will work, but feels, dunno, spooky. Oh well, back to the flames, I guess." The demon took a deep breath and reached with his mind into the angel's chest. He felt that terrible ember, burning with a fire that could not hurt him, consume him. But they set him ablaze nonetheless.

Old War fires. Fires meant to punish his poor angel. Fires that hurt neither of them anymore, or ever. Because now they were claimed by Aziraphale as his own.

Alight, Crowley poured his attention into the ember. Claim yourself as you claimed this.

And, finally, could hear.

The soul of Aziraphale woke, hanging in the air of the mirror world. Strung up as he had been before. As he blinked awareness all he could think was: it's as if I'm still in my body! I feel so solid. I can feel everything.

"Good!" a voice like a gurgling drainpipe spat in his face. That's when she electrified him.

The shock pulsated through him to his core. Only lasting a moment, it was enough to grab his attention. The jolt passed thru him and left him dangling, panting. Then murky and oily claws came up and lifted his face the air.

A terrible stench entered the angel's spirit nostrils, and jostled him with the impact of a slap. Acrid and burning, they made his head swim. He focused his eyes, stinging from the prickly vapors, and set them on a thing so vile that bile rose up in his throat.

She electrified him again, shocking him with vibrant pain.

But he didn't shout.

He was coming prepared.