Whispers of Despair: An Ineffable Journey

Chapter 5

It was so much to take in. Everything Aziraphale was saying. Though amidst it all, one thing stuck out to Crowley, reverberating in his mind like the toll of a bell---I needed you to accept my proposal. I've disobeyed and this is the consequence.

Crowley's mouth went dry.

"Are you---are you saying that none of this would be happening if I'd just come with you?"

Aziraphale blinked. He leaned his head back. Every passing moment felt like an eternity. It brought weariness like no other. Even the fast discorporation had not felt like this. This was a cruel punishment. It was no wonder Michael found Despair utterly distasteful. Despair had become his enemy faster than he could blink. He had to stop them no matter what even if he did not know how to stop despair. Despair tended to spread quickly when unleashed.

"It's hard to say for certain. Although I suspect, the attack would not have been stopped with any agreement," he assured the demon. "Protecting you wasn't the biggest trouble I gave myself. They were annoyed, but they understood well enough. But it is neither here nor there. We can mull over it later. I am very tired." He found it harder to connect to his body. It felt as if he were becoming mist and shadow. A sent of hollowness and lightness washed over his body. Weary, the angel forced himself to open his eyes and he stared at his hand. It seemed a little more translucent than before.

Much of the past six thousand years Crowley had spent hating himself, but never so much as he did in this moment. If he'd known at the time... Of course he still despised Heaven, of course there was no part of him that wanted to be an angel again. It had been the one thing Aziraphale had asked of him that he'd refused, but if he'd known that refusal would lead to this, to Aziraphale's very existence on the line, well, things may have been different. The angel's safety had always taken precedence over his own.

But there was no time now for self-loathing. The seconds were ticking away, and with each passing moment, Aziraphale was growing weaker. Crowley stood and moved around to inspect the wound as it was revealed to him. It was tiny, almost imperceptible, but he could sense the way it extended beyond Aziraphale's corporation, doing damage to his very essence.

"We can...we can fix this," he said with more certainty than he felt, hoping to ease Aziraphale's fears (and possibly his own). After all, together they had successfully hidden the supreme archangel from all of Heaven and Hell, and that hadn't even been using their full power. Surely they could do something about this together, couldn't they? They certainly had to try, at any rate.

It might draw Heaven's attention, but they wouldn't be able to get into the flat. Hell was, potentially, a bigger concern, though Crowley suspected they might be too busy trying to fill the vacancy left by Beelzebub's departure to care about whatever some retired demon was doing topside.

He shivered. That was not good. That was not good at all. Crowley was starting to understand, though. At least that was the hopes. "The weapon spreads despair everywhere. It is designed to touch humans," he explained. Aziraphale tried to speak the words loud and clear so the message was succinct. "But when it comes in contact with angels and quite possibly demons as well it does not just spread despair into their souls, but it eventually discorporate them. It's a slow process that is quite unpleasant. The wounds are very small because we're not supposed to notice when despair creeps in. It just does. It then spreads like the sands of the beaches spreads along to shorelines."

He shook his head. He was not sure there was a way to fix this. Discorporation is usually a permanent thing. It is hard to reverse and hard to stop. Few survived it. As far as he knew he was the only who actually managed to succeed. "Perhaps," he said, not believe the word. He offered a smile to the demon. He did not have the heart to argue with Crowley. Aziraphale did not want him to lose hope.

"Give me your hand."

Crowley didn't wait for any sort of acknowledgement before reaching for Aziraphale, clasping the angel's hand in his own. His other was laid over the injury.

At the instruction, his eyebrows shot up. He looked at his hands clasped in Crowley's hand. He'd just taken it up on his own. Well, this was a turn of events. "They are really, really not going to like this," he remarked. "You're healing the top archangel, who they didn't want to survive..."

He then squeezed the demon's hand. He counted under his breath. He then sent everything into fixing this. It was so very painful. As the bright of their miracle lights brightened, he tightened his grip. Fighting against the nature of this spell was no pleasant. Just as he did not think he could bear it anymore, the miracle light faded.

"Count of three, yeah? Joint miracle, just like before, but this time, don't hold back. I don't know how much power it'll take to fix something like this, so let's give it all we've got."

He gave Aziraphale's hand a reassuring squeeze, though exactly which one of them it was meant to comfort was not entirely clear.

"One...two...three."

His body lurched forward before slumping back against the cushions. He still not feel right, but he felt better. It seemed they at least bought some time. He did not know how long but there was a chance. After a few moments of just sitting there, he finally felt the energy to say something. "Thank you," he whispered. "How are you feeling after all that?"