Veneration

2. Halo

Medeshamstede, Kingdom of Mercia, 8th Century

This was definitely his favorite monastery so far, Arizaphale decided.

The angel had been traveling through Mercia as a friar. He comforted here, performed the discreet miracle there and learned all he could about Anglo-Saxon culture and architecture.

Traveling as on foot as a mendicant was certainly not his preferred means of getting around.  His clothes were scratchy and dirty - and the food was atrocious! He was glad he didn't need to actually eat to survive, and could claim to be piously fasting when necessary.   But poverty was all the rage now and Upstairs had been prying into his activities lately.  He needed to keep a low, and lowly, profile for a while.

All the same he was glad he had made it out this far.  A monastery was a great place to bring healing and education.  These monks were exceptionally studious and kind.  Their mission, pastoral care, was quite inspiring. Certainly this religion got a few things wrong...actually, quite a lot wrong...but that part was something they got right.

He would leave at first light when the monks woke for Lauds. They had provided a cot for him, of course, but Aziraphale had no need for sleep. So he walked silently down the halls, committing various structural details to memory. He had just left the kitchen, where he'd lingered for a while to pet all the fat, lazy cats. The only place left to visit was the infirmary. Well and good.  Perhaps some ailing human would be awake and in need of solace.

Before heading into the infirmary proper, Aziraphale stopped at the nearby herbarium.  He hadn't had the chance to look at all of the medical scrolls which the monks kept in there, along with their herbs and mixing equipment. The herbariaum door was secured by a crude but effective iron lock. Rather than disturb it, Aziraphale simply transubstantiated and passed under the door as a shadow. 

The room was bigger than a monk's cell, but cramped with shelves. There was a low, wide table along one wall holding mortars and pestles and other utensils.   Aziraphale took stock of the fresh and dried herbs. Betony, willow's bark, comfrey, mugwort, yarrow. Except not yarrow - cow parsley.   Well, that wasn't going to help anyone!  The angel saw a prefect chance for a helpful, discrete miracle: transform cow parsley to yarrow. But Upstairs might think it was frivolous.  It just didn't seem fair - the monks had the idea right, they simply dug up the wrong plant. Maybe he could mention something offhandedly before he left? But to whom? The abbot wouldn't remember. Hmmm ...maybe the....

His thoughts were interrupted by a scraping sound, iron on iron. Someone had unlocked the herbarium door.  Whomever it was was not being quiet.  Their whispering was louder than regular speech would have been and there seemed to be a great deal of movement.  Aziraphale pressed his shadowy self against the wall beside the door as two humans tumbled through it.

They wore monk's robes, but seemed quite young.  20, maybe? a little younger? Novices, probably.  They appeared to be fighting, arms entangled and pulling at each other's clothes.

Oh. Not fighting.

The moon was full and illuminated most of the room through a small window.  Aziraphale recognized the Infirmarian's cheerful, blond assistant - Edwold? Edred? Of course he would have the key.  The other was a stranger, not that he had a chance to meet everyone.  He was leaner, lanky and sharply handsome.  His hair was cropped close and without distinct color in the moonlight.

No.  Not a stranger.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale gasped.  At least he would have if shadows had lungs and mouths.

He hadn't seen Crowley for a long time.  Decades.  Perhaps even a century?  But there was no mistaking him.  He wore a light glamour to appear youthful and approximately human-eyed, but it was nothing the angel didn't see through.  What was he doing here?

Of course the answer to that was spectacularly obvious - Temptation.  Either that, or giving the Infirmarian's assistant a very unique opportunity to learn first-hand whether or not demons had tonsils.

They roughly shoved the door behind themselves.  It closed snugly (and suspiciously quietly for such a heavy door). Crowley pushed the young man farther into the room, backing him up against the wide table.

This was just preposterous! Tempting a human right under an angel's nose?  Not that shadow's had noses, but still, that certainly took some nerve!   Aziraphale wanted to feel incensed, but he had to admit to himself that this was probably a part of the demon's job. Crowley wouldn't have known the angel was at the monastery, much less hovering in shadow form less than five feet away.

In any case, he thought, maybe he ought to do something?  As much as he might actually like Crowley personally, they were on different sides.  Wasn't he expected to...thwart demons?  To rescue humans from their wiles?  But it seemed like the last thing the human wanted was a "rescue" from his situation.

Crowley's arm moved down to the front of the young man's body, pushing robes aside. Aziraphale couldn't quite see where the hand went, but the sharp intake of breath and low moaning indicated it had found its mark. Aziraphale may have been a shadow, but he still felt his jaw drop. Ug!  Why couldn't Edwold-Edred have just found himself a nice, normal human boy?  Someone a bit less demonic?

By now the demon had pushed the youth down onto the table and was astride him.  Their heavy robes had been cast aside. By someone's grace the moonlight hit the lip of the window at an angle that cloaked the human mostly in shadow - a relief for Aziraphale.  However, it also cast Crowley in a silver nimbus.

The moon glow picked out the demon's every detail, from his elegant cheekbones to his long, lithe muscles.  It highlighted his every action.  Unlike the earlier fumbling he now moved elegantly - dipping forward, arching back. Aziraphale was speechless and motionless, and would have been so even if he wasn't a shadow.  Crowley glided with the smooth grace of a feline. No, a serpent. In fact, exactly like a serpent - one opening wide and swallowing down a mouthful. His jaw and throat muscled worked rhythmically, without any gag reflex or particular need to breathe.

The angel slumped against the wall, more shadow-like than ever before. The demon's Temptation was depraved (glorious) to behold. A million thoughts spun in Aziraphale's mind, but none settled. There were none that could fit into his tidy, proper, angelic track of thought.  Who knows how long he would have remained fixated and fascinated? But Crowley broke off his ministrations and lifted his head. His yellow eyes focused in on a spot next to the door, the very spot where an angelic shadow lie. The demon gave a quick grin and winked before returning to task at hand....mouth.

Aziraphale flitted his shadow-self under the door and down the hallway. He found himself at the monastery's wall without actually meaning to go there.  Just as well, it was high time he left.  He sent a quick memory of leave-taking the night before to the abbot and caused a small patch of yarrow to bloom in the yard.  Heaven would just have to accept that.  Then the angel slipped through the monastery gate and was out of Medeshamstede before remembering to resume human form.