The Known/Unknown Quantity

Chapter 187: I Vow to Fiercely Love You in All Your Forms

Chapter 187: I Vow to Fiercely Love You in All Your Forms

The rambling farmstead looked more appropriate to a fairytale than a Tadfeild residence. Its preposterous buildings were too obvious with their craggy, ivy encased walls leaning into the hillside. A bit over the top for authenticity to an eye looking for the odd.

It had everything required and yet seemed just an assemblage of theater props.

Its strangeness went overlooked by Crowley and the angel. Not long ago they met the child and his father, Farmer Monod, here. Frankly, Crowley didn't put it past the widower to ironically stage it with purpose. It would be indicative of the way Monod carried himself: with dark secret humor as if the whole world was a practical joke.

Otherwise, the farmer was typical of the local stock, in the way of folks rooted in place by generations. But that might be parody too, a performance working as a shield against his one glaring distinction: his giant stature.

The farmer loomed; he was so colossal. During the day as he tended sheep, he glacier-ally glided through the hills, trailed behind by a joyfully wild four-year-old son. And as Crowley watched Warlock and Greasy speed directly into the house, he wondered if Aziraphale was on to something after all, as these facts presented themselves together along with Anathema's words.

Their parents aren't angels.

Mr. Monod ignored the boys flying past him. He greeted the demon and angel at the foot of the steps, blending into the overgrown trees bookending the porch. Like a hoary oak he towered, casting a long, hulking shadow. He appeared just as rooted, as if he'd been there for thousands of years, waiting for them.

The humor that defined him had fled.

The huge chiseled featured seemed sharper, carved by wind and rain deeper into their crevasses. Crowley shook himself, swearing he could almost see lichen growing in the man's hirsute beard.

Arms the size of logs held themselves tight to the massive chest. "Naw, then. Mr. Fell. Mr. Crowley," the farmer rumbled as sheep bawed somewhere in the surrounding fields.

The chorus resumed while Aziraphale's voice tried to rise above the den. "Good day, Mr. Monod. I regret we couldn't meet under lighter circumstances."

"Aye."

"We have been briefed." The angel's voice held onto its curt edge. Crowley glared at his friend through slitted eyes. Aziraphale's calm was a thin veneer. He met the giant's unyielding gaze as if to accuse him.

"I see." Mr. Monod didn't blink. "The lads tell you the Crowes be here?"

Crowley swallowed. Monod and Aziraphale weren't breaking eye contact. Fuck, it's high noon at the OK Corral. "Er, yes. I believe the little one's about the same age as your own munchkin."

"To da' day," the large man said, glaring at the angel.

"You must be rather chummy with Mrs. Crowe, to know that?" Aziraphale spouted abruptly.

"Difficult circumstances make comrades in arms," the farmer's low voice reverberated through the air. Something of his accent fell away then, into something else. The demon rose an eye brow.

"And we don't leave a man behind, do we?" the angel continued his irate tone. "Especially if they are a...short woman?" Crowley flashed an exasperated look to him. Aziraphale side-eyed him, rising up and down on his toes.

If Aziraphale insinuated anything, the farmer gratefully ignored it. "Perhaps," he agreed like a grumbling bison, then motioning them forward. "Come along, then."