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Crowley had heard about Aziraphale long before he knew that it was him that he was hearing about. He heard about him in rumors; in whispers; in tales of adventure conflated over many tellings. Sometimes it was King Arthur who fought with strange, powerful and unearthly techniques, vanquishing his enemies and slaying beasts; sometimes, it was a being who was given the moniker of White Knight, almost as if in answer to Crowley’s own assumed name. A powerful figure for Good, to counter one of supernatural Evil; a story crafted to balance Crowley’s truth. That was the way of human stories, after all; they liked balance, symmetry. He wasn’t surprised. But then...the stories persisted. And some began to come from more credible sources. “The White Knight conquered an entire band of rogues on his own. My cousin was among those slain.” Or, “I came from Camelot. I saw King Arthur’s teacher; it’s no wonder the king does battle as he does. I swear, no human man could fight that way.” And so, Crowley began to wonder.
Aziraphale, as Crowley knew, did not usually involve himself directly. Crowley’s angelic counterpart tended towards guidance, towards teaching in answer to Crowley’s temptations. Neither really liked to get messy. And when it came down to it, they both knew that it was all about the choice, the decision to be Good or to be Bad, and it had to be the human who chose it. If either Crowley or Aziraphale did it themselves, then the soul wasn’t won for Heaven or Hell. So no, at first he didn’t even suspect it was Aziraphale, not until he heard “teacher” in addition to “warrior,” although the angel could undoubtedly play both roles.
(Aziraphale was an angel who had given away his sword, and not by mistake, although he indulged in worry later. As a Principality, Aziraphale had been crafted to be a tool of God in all ways. He was made to wield a blade, and so he had, so very many times. And when he gave it away, he knew well what he was giving. Precisely what sort of tool it was.)
So, Crowley had an inkling, but he didn’t quite believe it. Words were Aziraphale’s weapon of choice—and he wielded them cuttingly—not the blade. Which was very good for Crowley, because if Aziraphale had ever seriously engaged him sword-to-sword, he knew that he’d be done for. He’d seen the angel fight before, when they had had to; one doesn’t survive thousands of bloody years amongst humanity without being willing to defend oneself. And even then, there had been some very close calls where they were really very lucky to have heavenly or hellish power on their sides.
So when a knight with a white-feathered cape had approached him through the early morning fog, voice muffled and silhouette obscured, he had led his band through the trees and approached over soggy, squelching ground with his hand on the hilt of his sword. His voice was all menace as he challenged his opponent—until Aziraphale said his name. Or, almost his name; Crawly, not Crowley, as if by slip of habit—though obviously they didn’t spend enough time together for his name to be a habit on Aziraphale’s tongue.
“Crowley,” he corrected reflexively, and lifted the visor of his helmet up. He swallowed. Aziraphale’s eyes were narrowed, and his armor was polished to gleaming. The mouth of his scabbard was well worn from the drag of his blade.
He could see the moment that the angel fully registered Crowley’s features: his expression became milder; the narrow eyes turned gently confused, even as his lips pursed flatly. If it was Crowley, then the Black Knight wasn’t a threat to the Aziraphale, and part of that rankled (the other part of Crowley was purely relieved, since crossing blades with Aziraphale would end in blood, and not the angel’s).
“What the hell are you playing at?” Aziraphale’s whisper was sharp where his expression was soft. Worried.
“Same as you, obviously,” Crowley hissed back. “Only I’m spreading foment, and you’re enforcing peace.” Over his shoulder, he called back to his men:
“It’s alright lads, I know him. He’s alright.” There was an answering rustle of lowered weapons, and the sucking squelch of shifting feet in the wet mud. He looked back over at the angel.
“So we’re both working very hard in damp places, and just canceling each other out?”
“It is a bit damp,” agreed Aziraphale. Crowley could see that the mist had condensed in tiny droplets across his silver armor. Above his brow on the visor, a larger droplet hung, the tension holding by a metaphorical thread.
“It would be easier if we both stayed home…?” Crowley ventured softly. It was a proposal he’d tried to break before, in the past to no avail, and thus somewhat of a delicate subject. Especially when the angel was armed, and had approached him ready to do battle—not that he ever believed that Aziraphale would harm him, they were well past those days—but he might decide to make a show of it for their respective entourages, and that wouldn’t end well for Crowley either. His band of rogues stuck with him solely due to his reputation and prowess—due to the seemingly, and in fact truthfully, supernatural nature of his triumphs. And well, against Aziraphale, all those tricks were equal. So making this suggestion was a risk.
Aziraphale drew up in plain affront—damnit—and his voice cracked out sharp as a whip. “And what?” he said through his teeth. “Just sent messages back to our superiors saying that we’d done as we were supposed to?”
“...Essentially.” Aziraphale hadn’t reached for his sword yet, at least. “We cancel each other out. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought it. I know you have.”
“And what if they checked?” Aziraphale insisted. “You know what Michael is like. What all of them are like. Black and white, do or don’t, Good or Evil. No. No, this conversation is over.” He let out a shaking breath. His hand fluttered at the hilt of his blade, and Crowley glanced down at it, pale-faced and wide-eyed. Aziraphale swallowed. The droplet of water clinging to the edge of his visor fell and splashed against his cheek.
“Absolutely not,” he said again. His hand dropped loosely to his side. He turned away.
“Right,” muttered Crowley.
“Right!” snapped Aziraphale, and then he was turning, striding through the mud with the ease of an angel who could ignore corporeal limitations.
Crowley watched him go for a moment, the bright white of his caped shoulders fading into the gray of the mist. The demon’s face had sunk heavily into a frown, and he flipped the visor of his helmet down before he also turned away. He didn’t know what his face looked like right then, but he doubted it was good—or terrifying, as his position here demanded.
The Black Knight’s rogues ate venison that night. They always ate well—that was one of the perks of being associated with a being who had done the whole Living Only As A Human thing, and hadn’t liked it. Nowadays, Crowley always expected very hard that their hunters would return with a great bounty every time that they went out, and so they did. It added to his reputation, this uncanny luck on hunts, although he didn’t truly notice. Especially not tonight, when he had sequestered himself in his tent with his meal, rather than joining his men around the fire. The warmth would have felt good, no doubt. But, he reasoned to himself, it was better to maintain a little distance and mystique, anyway. Can’t seem preternaturally powerful when you’re licking juice and fat off your fingers every night. Can’t seem untouchable when you’re moping—not that Crowley was moping. He was just thinking things over.
Aziraphale hadn’t budged, even after all these centuries—and Crowley had been dropping hints for centuries, about being less than strict about their roles. The angel had protested every time, but Crowley had thought, for a while, what with Aziraphale stepping back and taking on more of a shepherdly role, that perhaps he’d made some headway. But look at him now! Traveling through the countryside, wielding his righteous blade in the name of Peace and Valor and whatever such nonsense. Crowley kicked at the chest piece of his armor where it lay on the ground, and listened to the reverberations clang and rattle.
Their superiors didn’t care about them. Heaven and Hell—oh, they’d made a show of it in the Beginning, when Earth and humanity were fresh and new, but then they hadn’t checked in—not even once after the first century. And that was a long time ago. Crowley had been experimenting too, seeing how far he could stretch things in his reports. Just with little things at first, the Wheres and the Whens, that he could claim he’d gotten mixed up on, and then the bigger things, the Whos and the Whats, and eventually entire reports. They’d never caught him out.
Heaven, Crowley knew, was an awful lot like Hell, underneath the veneer of Righteousness. They both came from the same sort of stock, after all. The same sort of people in charge—for a given value of “people”.
The point was, they hadn’t checked up on Aziraphale either. Crowley knew this for a fact, because the angel had mentioned it two centuries ago, in that little pub where they had both gotten awfully, appallingly drunk—and the angel hadn’t seemed bothered by it, either. If anything, he’d been pleased. Of course, he’d also seemed like he’d forgotten the entire conversation the next morning, but angels and demons aren’t like humans—their corporations are the only things that get impaired when they’re intoxicated, sort of like a filter between their true minds and the world. They couldn’t get so drunk that they’d forget.
He’d let it go, though. Because Aziraphale had obviously wanted him to, and because it had seemed like a step in the right direction, regardless of how it’d been swept under the rug. But now he didn’t know what to think anymore. It’d been so long since he’d first brought the idea up—the idea of an arrangement that’d make them both more comfortable. Maybe he should give it up.
Sinking back onto his sleeping pallet, Crowley pulled his plate back to his chest, and speared a piece of meat on his knife. It was a good catch. Savory. The angel would probably like it. Crowley grumbled lowly and incoherently to himself, and looked for a distraction.
Outside, the chatter of the men had gone quiet. It had gone quiet, and why hadn’t he noticed that? It was unusual. A band of thieves and blackguards enjoying a good meal were never quiet. He put his plate back down and moved silently towards the flap of his tent to listen.
There were voices, but they were in low whispers. They were hiding something. Hiding something from Crowley. With a split-second of concentration, his hearing increased dramatically.
Unseen by the men, his jaw dropped and his eyes went wide—this was bad. Very bad.
Crowley paced back and forth along the length of his tent—five steps one way, five steps back. His mind was spinning in circles, thoughts chasing each other as he threw away one plan, made another, considered it too and threw it out.
His men—his men—the ones who believed him more than human, who followed him for chaos and good fortune—they thought him weak. One of them had recognized the White Knight for who he was: Crowley’s opposing counterpart, and had declared him cowardly for his disinclination to fight. And that would have been alright, Crowley could have dealt easily enough with it, if it was just that. But he’d picked his men too well, or they had picked him too well, because they were a band that thrived on chaos and wrongdoing and more than a little bit of spite towards the people they saw as stifling their freedom. This included Arthur; this included his knights; this included, after today, Crowley.
Because he hadn’t led them in their charge, they had turned elsewhere, itching for a fight. With the White Knight in the area, they thought, now was the time to strike a blow against the nearby town. It would be a failing on the knight’s part, the attack of innocents when he was close by, but ignorant to stop it.
“Shite!” Crowley spat, and whirled again. His boot struck against his scabbard, and the sword slid across the ground.
“Shite,” he muttered again, quiet and nearly agonized, and ran a hand through his hair. None of his complex plans would do it. Something would have to give, and for once—for once—he was willing for it to be his own place.
Aziraphale didn’t like fighting; his weapon of choice was words, his favored role was teacher. And they both knew that pain and hatred begot only more pain and hatred. But in retaliation against the Black Knight’s men, Aziraphale would draw his blade and shed blood, and he would do it coldly and cleanly, before returning to a party of knights and squires who did not really know him. And the village would still be dead. And so would some of Crowley’s rogues. And so would his hope of them working together, if the angel saw this as retaliation, as a “if you’re not with me you’re against me”.
“Shite,” he breathed, and buckled his armor about his torso. He didn’t have time for intricate multi-step plans that wouldn’t work. Sometimes, he had to just act as best he could to try and preserve something.
The Black Knight strode out of his tent into a nearly empty camp. His hand rested fully on the hilt of his blade.
“So, you thought that you could act against my will.”
The few remaining men jumped to their feet.
“Sir—!”
“No.” Behind his visor, Crowley scowled and tried to channel Hell, if they ever found out that he didn’t do everything he’d said he had. “I believed you followed me. To work behind my back is to work against me, and those who work against the Black Knight will face their doom!”
Well, he’d certainly channeled some kind anger, but it was nothing compared to Hell. He hadn’t brought up torture, had he? Still, the man quailed, and mumbled, and bowed and scraped to attempt to regain favor—so perhaps his reputation hadn’t been completely dashed, but with most of his men gone, did it matter? Crowley climbed carefully onto his horse, a great black beast with eyes like flames which had appeared at his call. The thing made a terrifying sound that Crowley couldn’t interpret. It was something like a growl, and not at all horse-like.
“Just get me there in time,” he muttered to it, “and I’ll get you all the apples that you want—or carrion flesh, whatever. Just don’t buck me off.”
The horse looked at him with glowing eyes, and then took off.
They flew through the mist and over mud and rocks. Crowley rattled in his armor and clenched the reins, feeling every bump and jolt over the sodden ground. His breath hissed through his teeth in ragged bursts of moist heat that collected in his helmet until it felt like he was breathing water. The horse made no sound other than its hooves across the sodden ground.
On either side of them, trees flew by, looming out of the fog only to disappear again within a heartbeat. Crowley kept his eyes peeled, hoping to catch his rogues before they made it to the town. But it was to no avail. They’d left camp early, while Crowley was absorbed in his own thoughts. They were long gone.
The Hell Horse jumped a low stone wall with ease, and the town came into view. Even if Crowley hadn’t known that this was where his men were headed, he would have known something was wrong. He could hear the screams from here. And away from the buildings, a horse roamed unattended, its posture uneasy.
Crowley’s horse galloped into the town like a whirlwind across the grass and dirt, right into the midst of chaos. It came to a halt with startling swiftness, and Crowley slid half off of it, only catching himself by the creature’s neck.
“The Black Knight!” came a shout. A man’s voice, unfamiliar. And then a more well-known one:
“Come to join the merriment?” it said, and Crowley slid the rest of the way from his beast with a loud metallic clang. He drew his sword.
“You turned against me!” he roared, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A child was crying, curled back against the wall of a house. Somewhere someone was laughing.
Crowley liked chaos and he was good at causing it. He was good at channeling the cruelty of others too, pointing it in certain directions, like the king’s knights. This wasn’t what he did. Crowley would steal food and drink and burn a rich man’s home. But this—oh, Hell would love this. Crowley should love this. These souls now belonging to Hell; the sparks of anger and vengeance planted in the hearts of others. The pain. The misery. This was what he wanted to avoid; what would be so much easier to avoid if he could just stay home. No more Evil slipping free of his grip, and no more witnessing it when humanity sunk to this level all on its own.
Behind him, there was the sound of a drawn blade, and Crowley whirled. The Hell Beast screamed an almost human sounding scream as someone swung at it. It echoed through the trees around the village.
Crowley hefted his sword, and then he charged with shaking arms. The horse had its own opponent well in hand. Crowley was needed elsewhere.
Crowley fought like something inhuman, yes, but he was no warrior. When someone who could ignore the laws of nature was pitted against someone genuinely skilled, it was still a toss-up, because unless Crowley could predict it, he couldn’t change reality. And he might not be human, but this corporation—the thing that tied him to the Earth—his vehicle for experiencing the world—was. And that made a difference too.
The armor was heavy, and Crowley’s feet slid deeply into the mud. He hefted his sword again and again against opponent after opponent until his muscles screamed. There was no time to bamboozle here, and he was no Aziraphale who could take on bands of men alone by skill. Crowley was trickery and flare to Aziraphale’s skill and strength. Crowley could connive and scheme and mystify, but when confronted with numbers he was at a disadvantage.
A blade caught him in the chest, and he went down with a sound like a gong. Falling in armor hurt, all the hard, sharp edges. Mud soaked into his shirt through the joints of his armor, and he squinted dazedly at the murky sky through the slit in his visor. His own breath was loud enough to drown out most other sounds, but not the clang of a boot against his chest.
“You’re just a man,” said his opponent. “I honestly believed that you were some kind of specter or a demon, but demons can’t be killed.”
Gasping, Crowley half-rolled, half-scrambled backwards through the mud. Dirt and muck had found its way into the fingers of his gauntlets, cold and gritty, and his feet slid slick across the wet earth as he tried to get them under him. When the blade swung at him again, he barely met it with buckled knees, and pushed back up.
His opponent slid back a step and growled, adjusting the sword in his hands. Both blades were streaked with mud and water, and underneath his helmet, Crowley’s hair was plastered to his face.
“Oh,” he panted out, “I’m not a man.” And then he charged again, and they clashed with a shower or sparks that glinted on his armor where the slight, growing drizzle had washed some filth away.
The world faded into a haze of aching muscles and bruises and trembling limbs, but Crowley kept on moving, forcing arms to lift his blade again and again. The misty drizzle became more, a smattering of chilly rain that crept into the joints of his armor in cold trails. And then he slid again, feet slipping in opposite directions in the mud, and a blade was at his throat—
Until it wasn’t.
And something caught his arm and steadied him, holding him upright.
“I could hear that Beast of yours from nearly a mile away,” said Aziraphale, his hand firm under Crowley’s arm. “It sounds quite like a human scream, if you’re not familiar with it. Fortunately for us, I am. What’s happened?”
“Ah,” Crowley croaked. He tried again. “Aziraphale. What…?”
“I heard your horse, dear boy. Tell me. What’s happened?”
“...My rogues,” Crowley admitted. “Got a bit tired of waiting around. Got a bit tired of me not killing anyone. Went behind my back. I went after them. ‘M not great at fighting groups, though. You know.”
“You came to stop them.” Aziraphale sounded wondering. “Crawly, you…”
“Crowley,” Crowley corrected. “Told you that this morning. But it doesn’t matter. Can’t stop them on my own.”
Aziraphale’s fingers shifted on his arm.
“Then you won’t be alone. And afterwards...we’ll talk. It’s been too long.”
Crowley croaked a laugh, pulling away to carry his own weight.
“I hope you’ve got some drink, angel. Hell knows I could use it.”
“I might.” Aziraphale drew his sword. “And you might even be able to persuade me to share it.”