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It was a nice day.
That was fairly rare, up here, even in summer.
If there was one thing Crowley had learned to associate with the Caledonian summer, it was the midges. It was half the reason he’d let the scales take over for this assignment. Just as soon as the season had warmed enough to make basking out on a rock an appealing idea for a thirty-foot serpent-shaped demon, it was warm enough for the midges to make life hell – pun fully intended – for everyone else and their tender skin. He’d gone snake-shaped when he arrived up north just to get away from the bitey little bastards, but honestly it hadn’t interfered much with the assignment, so he’d just … let himself stretch out.
It was a pleasant change, really. He hadn’t been able to really relax as a snake – at least, not at full-size – since the days when the world was desert edge to edge, and you could slither for days without catching sight of a human. Ever since the population spread out, the scales had tended to be more trouble than they were worth, since humans often reacted badly to a reptile large enough to swallow them whole. Oh, and there’d been that thing in Ireland, last century, but he didn’t like thinking about that. There were no blessed inconvenient saints this far north, Crowley knew that for certain.
Crowley wriggled himself into a more comfortable position on his riverside sunning spot, a broad shelf of stone jutting out a few feet up above the water, nicely sheltered by the woods on the valley slope above but catching the sun all day long. He rearranged himself to expose different coils to the sunlight and flicked his tongue at the air lazily. No blessed saints up here – no blessed anything, since Christianity hadn’t taken a foothold much above Northumbria, let alone through Alba to Caledonia. If the Romans hadn’t managed to take over these lands, there was no way Arthur and his religious crowd would do it. Crowley had done what he could to stir up trouble with his “Black Knight” act down south, but those Round Table lads had seemed genuinely enthused about the whole chivalry concept (three guesses whose fault that was) and everything he’d tried had just been cancelled out. This assignment from Lord Beelzebub – who frankly should have taken it zirself, ze would have loved it here among the midges – was to block the missionaries into the south of the island, and keep the local leaders unbaptised, uncooperative, and absolutely not on board with any wider united-under-one-church nonsense.
But then if Beelzebub had taken this assignment zirself, Crowley would have missed out on this view.
The river below him was wide and fairly shallow, dotted with patches where the stones rose to the surface, safe enough to ford on foot with care but still fast enough to carry an incautious man away. On the opposite bank was a shale shore, and beyond a wide grassy stretch to the tree cover, where some sheep were grazing. There were wildflowers nodding their heads, and the distant scent of gorse on the breeze, and it was all in more shades of green than Crowley had seen since he’d left the Mediterranean. Just above the treetops he could see the hill beyond, long and low, and above that a glorious summer-blue sky – none of that persistent Britonnic fog, not today – and with the sun beating down, just for a moment he could kid himself that he’d never left the Garden.
There was a faint hint of sin in the air though, which was enough to remind Crowley where he was. Probably some couple from the nearby village who weren’t supposed to be a couple had taken advantage of the weather for a spot of fornicating in the woods. That suited Crowley just fine; adultery was always good for business. You had to be selective with encouraging sin among the human population where the desert religions hadn’t spread yet. It wasn’t a sin to forget the Sabbath day when no one had ever told you what a Sabbath was; you couldn’t count it against a soul to covet wealth when the only god they’d ever heard of encouraged it. But the big ones – murder[1], theft, oath-breaking – they were pretty universally understood to be “bad”, which made them Crowley’s daily bread.
For the last few years he’d been getting by on this assignment by tempting the locals into constant feuds and skirmishes, partly by spreading judicious rumours when he walked around on two feet, but also by scaring cattle and sheep into running off into neighbouring territory when he was feeling slithery. That kept the villages all at odds with each other, and deeply suspicious of strangers from the south (a state of affairs which came very naturally to any Highlander). The occasional terrified story of something big and black being spotted in the darkness of the woods at night did no harm either for encouraging superstitions, although for the most part the human brain, faced with a sight too terrible to contemplate, was remarkably good at scabbing it over with forced forgetfulness. Because he was sick of the way Duke Hastur would stare at him in Hell’s infrequent and unpredictable team meetings, Crowley had also been over to King Bridei’s court along the river to see what influence he could work on the man himself, and found him to be deeply pragmatic with no interest in this Christianity nonsense further than the extent to which it could serve his needs, which suited Crowley just fine. He threw the occasional extra temptation towards greed or wrath his way, but the man was a king and getting one of them into Heaven tended to be nigh-on impossible; he didn’t need much encouragement to sin.
Arthur was probably going to prove the exception to that rule, Crowley mused. Of course, he didn’t know what had been going on since his last run-in with a certain prissy member of the Table Round, thirty years ago, but it had been shaping up pretty well as a model of a Christian court when he’d left. Beelzebub had been – let’s call it disgruntled – about that, but what was Crowley supposed to do when they had an actual angel with them for inspiration? Crowley’s report on the failure of the Black Knight to foment any real level of discord had leaned hard on the presence of a member of the Host, and Crowley’s personal archenemy at that. Beelzebub had set Crowley on paperwork duty[2] for six months, and handed Wessex over to Asmodeus’ team instead. Crowley had considered sending his blond, plump, easily-offended nemesis a note to warn him about that development, but decided against it. If the angel was too good for a civil arrangement between opposite numbers, he could bloody well deal with it himself.
His mind wandered briefly to that easily-offended nemesis, with his dignified huffs of disapproval, and his rather less dignified flouncing. Crowley’s mind had been wandering in that direction quite a bit lately. It was the greenery, he was sure; that and the free time to sit and philosophise about Good and Evil. It was just so much more interesting to do that with the angel around to argue with him. Argue, and share a drink, and maybe even, by the end of the night, a smile.
Crowley shook himself from the daydream; a bird which had been considering landing on that glossy, curved rock took off in fright when the rock raised a head and hissed. No, stay focussed; it was distractions like that which got him paperwork duty in the first place. Crowley had to come up with something interesting for his next check-in with Hell. Maybe he ought to look in on the fort down by the lake, see what trouble he could stir up there. Cattle-rustling was a classic, but not the most imaginative move; maybe he could do something with a destiny prophecy, they were always fun…
Before he could get too deep into planning, Crowley heard a commotion upriver, just out of sight, by the loch. Splashing, shouting, cursing – something had gone into the water that shouldn’t be there. He watched, curious but ready to slither into hiding, and within a few moments a shape came into view being dragged down the shallow river. An arm waved high briefly and Crowley realised it was a man struggling against the flow. He’d probably be able to pull himself out of the current if he could steer himself into a shallower patch. Crowley sampled the air; a young man, strong enough to swim – very young, actually; no stink of sin on him yet. But Crowley couldn’t do anything to help him; that kind of behaviour got you worse punishment than quality time with Hell’s filing system. He’d have to-
The current rushed the struggling man into a large rock, hard, then swept him on.
He wasn’t struggling anymore.
There was only a few seconds before the man would sweep right past Crowley’s perch, and on into the deeper, wider stretch around the next bend. Even if he was only unconscious now, by the time his friends were able to catch up with him, he would be long drowned. And if he drowned, it would be another soul off to its Heavenly reward-
Bugger it.
Crowley slid off his rock and into the cool, rushing waters with barely a splash. The serpent was a strong swimmer, and though he was pushed downstream by the current, he got enough of his length across the river to reach a sandbank and hold himself steady. The man – the body? – crashed into his tail and Crowley constricted, pulling him into a loop of scales. A slither, another short swim, and Crowley and his cargo made shore on the southern bank. The shouts were getting closer.
He wasn’t dead, though. Crowley unrolled him and he collapsed limply onto the grass, but despite a blow to the head and more water in him than could be healthy, the young man might well come around. One less soul for Heaven, if anyone asked Crowley. Nothing at all to do with that soft spot he had for humans still young enough to be excited by the world, not yet jaded and dour. He flipped the man over onto his stomach with his tail and gave him a firm tap across the ribcage to try to get his lungs coughing up water, but he’d stayed too long. The rest of the humans were very close now, and they had seen him in all his black-scaled glory; the shouts went up a pitch and he saw swords drawn. Before any of the humans could understand what had just happened, Crowley flicked back into the water and disappeared into the woods on the far side.
One really could begin to question the wisdom of the assignment, in circumstances like these. Aziraphale would not question, of course not, such behaviour was not for a loyal member of the Host like him, but he could well imagine, if pushed, how questioning, as a state of affairs, might begin to seem viable. Tempting, even. When a perfectly good mission in Wessex to support that nice King Arthur and his well-intentioned knights was abandoned to go walking the length of this benighted country in an itchy, uncomfortable, unflattering monk’s habit in pursuit of this – this! –
The right word escaped him. Well, it did not, but Aziraphale did not swear, even in the privacy of his own mind, and there was no accurate word for Columba which the archangels would not have considered deeply unacceptable. Close contenders included insufferable, smug, or pious to the point of ridiculous. Holier-than-thou was rather close as well, and how a human was managing to pull that off to an angel of the Lord, albeit one who was currently undercover as an ordinary monk in his retinue, would have been impressive had it not been so dreadfully unlikeable.
“Brother Aziraphale! Does something ail you? You fall behind!”
Aziraphale shook himself back to the world of human perception, and rushed to catch up on the uneven path across the moor. Columba had stopped ahead, holding up the handful of men in their party, to await their dawdling brother.
“Not at all; I am only admiring the beauty of God’s creation hereabouts,” Aziraphale tried, and concentrated on maintaining a steady rate of breath as he climbed the hill to reach them. That was most definitely a lie, and Columba must have known it; while a great deal of the scenery through Caledonia had been striking, this particular patch was mostly scrubby green and rocks, although a certain freshness in the air suggested water up ahead.
“Ah yes; the Lord blesses us daily with such bounty,” said Columba, bracing an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder. “And we do well to appreciate it, but not at risk of delaying our progress. Bridei will honour us with a feast upon our arrival; perhaps that thought will speed your steps, if the urge to go forth and serve is not enough alone to keep you marching!” He grinned encouragingly and gave the angel’s shoulders a squeeze before ploughing on ahead.
No wonder Gabriel liked this buffoon.
Aziraphale clenched a fist and waved it in an attempt to look enthusiastic. “Onward in service of the Lord!”
Columba and the man beside him, Cumméne, turned and gave encouraging smiles, but did not pause their march for him. Aziraphale was growing used to this.
They had been on the road for months. Columba had received a vision that he must travel amongst the Picts to spread the Good Word, and Sandalphon had arrived to give Aziraphale his marching orders to go with him. It could be worse, he supposed. The walking was tedious, but the hospitality tended to be rather fine, and Aziraphale had permission to use miracles as he saw fit in support of Columba’s cause – or, as it often worked out, making Columba look good. The archangels had some grand plan for him (lower case “p”, not the Plan) and Aziraphale had to get him well-established and respected on this island.
But did it always have to be uphill?
There were six men in Holy Orders on this journey, and one angel, as well as four guards who had joined them from Oswalt’s kingdom further south. They had horses, too, but they were only for carrying the packs; the better to appear humble. The further from settled Christianity they journeyed, the greater hostility they encountered on the road, and the guards were useful, even if many brigands found themselves suddenly losing interest and heading off in the opposite direction when they came into view.
Aziraphale gave one of the guards, Aethelred who was plodding along leading a horse, a weak smile, but the return gesture faltered when they heard some noise up ahead. Shouting, and running; something angry. A crowd. The guard pushed the horse’s reins into Aziraphale’s hand and jogged ahead.
Columba had heard it too. “Hark! What do you hear ahead? Some mischief?”
Aethelred and another of the younger men went quickly ahead, around a stand of trees, and moments later came back in alarm.
“Come quickly! There is an injury!”
Aziraphale suddenly found a reason to run, and reached the party of men by the riverbank at the same time as Columba did. Eight men, all in the woven wool of the locals, and all armed with swords or spears or both. They were milling around, shouting and angry, but with no visible target or explanation.
“Who goes there?” A sword was aimed at Aziraphale’s throat, and he looked down the length with his lips pursed and eyebrows raised.
Columba spread his arms wide. “My friends, we are men of peace! We come in aid of those who need it. My companion said you had an injury.”
The sword was lowered reluctantly, as much because of the holy man’s retinue, lumbering up behind, as the heavy draped robes and visible cross hanging on his chest. “You’re too late, brother; young Mael was attacked and killed by a creature of the wilds!”
The group of men parted and showed Aziraphale a young man – a boy, really – lying on his front in the mud. He stepped forward, pushing another sword out of his way. “Now really, do let me pass, I can help him, I have medicine.”
“There’s nothing you can do for him; gone where only your God can help him now! But the creature – give us but a sign of it and we’ll see it dead for what it’s done!” Aziraphale realised now there were two men scouting along the riverbank, shielding the brightness glaring back from the water from their eyes to look into the trees on the other side.
Aziraphale knelt down, pushing the boy’s wet hair out of his face. Not dead, but close to it. The side of his face was purple and swollen, and Aziraphale could sense the bleeding beneath the fractured skull which was the greatest risk to life, but there were signs that he had coughed up water from his lungs as well, so there was strength there, too. “There now, boy; no more pain for you,” he said softly, and the boy gave the faintest sigh.
“What do you speak of, a creature?” asked Columba.
“A snake!” said one of the men, gesturing with his spear. “A giant one, black and hideous, longer than a tree! Young Mael was snatched into the water by it and dragged downstream. We scared it away before it could eat him whole!” The men around him nodded frantically, and there were shouts of corroboration.
Columba laid out his hands in a pacifying gesture. “A snake long enough to eat a man? Why, there are none such in all these islands, nor lizard either, and dragons are but a myth. Whatever beast you saw, it could not have been that.”
“We all know what we saw, brother, and we saw a snake.”
“Black, with a red belly scraping on the ground, and evil yellow eyes!”
“Aye, and what will we tell his father? Bridei will have our hides for not keeping a keener eye on his son!”
“This was Bridei’s son?” asked Columba. “The king?”
“Aye, this is Mael, his youngest.”
At the boy’s side, Aziraphale was listening keenly. A giant black-scaled snake? It had been a few thousand years since he had seen such a creature, but he had never forgotten. The healing miracle had nearly done its work; the boy was recovering nicely, slipping from unconsciousness to sleep, so he reached up to catch Columba’s attention. “You might see if there is anything you can do for him,” he said quietly. This was exactly the type of work Heaven had sent him here to do, after all; help bolster Columba’s reputation with the local populace.
Columba looked askance at the boy in the grass. “You have too great a faith in me, Brother Aziraphale.”
“I have great faith in the Lord,” Aziraphale corrected him, barely keeping the sharp edge from his voice. “At least you should try.”
Columba shook out his shoulders, then waved the men away from their fallen compatriot. “Step aside! I can at least bless his passage to the next life.” He began muttering in Latin, and brought his hand in the shape of the Cross over Mael’s body.
Aziraphale felt the shape of the blessing in the air, a hazy echo of holiness, but nonetheless a decent level for any human to muster; this was why Columba warranted the personal attention, after all. The angel subtly pinched the boy, and Mael woke from his sleep with a start. “What’s the – wha – oh, my head!” He sat up and ran a hand over the bruise on his temple, coughing.
Everyone looked shocked, none more than Columba, and Aziraphale seized the opportunity. “Praise be! You have healed the poor child!”
Columba regarded his hand with some degree of shock, and Mael’s friends all fell to their knees. Some hushed prayers came from the rest of the holy retinue behind them. “I – I have brought him back from death?” Columba said in shocked tones.
“Well, I don’t know that he was actually dead, but –”
“It’s a miracle! Praise be to the Lord!” The shouts were picked up by everyone in the group now.
Aziraphale pushed himself up from the mud, brushing it from his robes, and offered a hand to the dazed young Mael. “Not to worry, dear boy, you fell in the river and bumped your head,” he offered quietly, and Mael nodded, not really taking it in. “You’ll be dizzy for a little while; nothing to fear.”
Perhaps the reaction was justified, Aziraphale thought. Thus far the miracles he had worked to help Columba bring followers into the fold had been rather more subtle than “apparent resurrection”. Finding literal lost sheep, healing fevers and reconciling warring families had been the level Aziraphale had tended to set his focus, but he could not have let the poor young man die of his injuries, especially if that wily serpent was somehow involved.
The chorus of “praise be” and “halleluiah” was settling now, and the group’s leader, a strong-built man with a heavy bronze brooch on his shoulder, gave his hand to Columba. “I am Gartnait, son of Domelch. You are welcome here in Caledonia; tell me, what is your name, brother?”
“I am Columba, and these are my brothers in faith,” he said, vaguely including the monks and guards in that introduction. “We are travelling into Caledonia in search of friends and those who would find their way to the Lord; we are on our way to see King Bridei at Creag Phàdraig.”
“We shall go there now! He will be thankful to meet you, and there will be much rejoicing. We must tell Bridei of what we have seen today, and we shall flush out these woods for the great snake which caused such evil.”
“Aye!” came the cry from the men behind him. Mael joined in but didn’t seem to quite know why.
“We shall be back with more men, and boats, and torches, and we shall hunt it down!”
“Aye!”
“Bridei will not rest until the beast that would have harmed his son is dead!”
With a resounding cry, the men turned to walk along the river bank, and opened their ranks gladly to bring the monks and guards along with them. Aziraphale hung back as the party moved on, but Cumméne, Columba’s second in command, noticed him dawdling off in the other direction, by the water’s edge.
“Brother Aziraphale? Are you not anxious to reach Creag Phàdraig?”
“Of course, but I see some … some useful herbs over there, it’s … snakewort,” Aziraphale improvised. “Excellent for skin conditions, I’ll collect some while we’re here. I’ll be right behind you, worry not.”
“Are you not afraid to be on your own where such a beast has been seen?”
Cumméne was a man of great faith but not much sense. “Do you not think it might have been a slight exaggeration?” said Aziraphale kindly. “There are no such creatures anywhere on this island, I’m certain. I suspect that “fearsome snake” of theirs might be nothing more than a large eel.”
The party was now yards ahead, rounding a thicket which put them slightly out of view. Cumméne shrugged. “Truth or not … do not take too long in gathering, brother; we would not wish to lose track of you out here.”
Aziraphale smiled cheerily and waved him on. As he was left alone, he looked over the water to the undergrowth opposite, where there were deep pools of darkness under the ferns and shrubs, despite the brilliant sunshine above. When, after a few minutes of listening, he was satisfied the boisterous group had rounded the next bend in the river and were beyond sight or hearing, he cleared his throat.
“I can see you, you know.”
A dark-shadowed gap in the river bank, mostly concealed by the overhanging leaves of a willow, shifted slightly and suddenly in view was one huge yellow eye.
“Not that I was expecting to see you quite like this,” Aziraphale continued, as the snake drew forth and slithered his head and the first few feet of his considerable length up onto a rocky shelf above the water. “Been keeping busy, have we? Been fomenting? I would have thought that would go a little easier on two legs.”
The snake tasted the air casually as he got comfortable. “Hello, angel. Fancy seeing you here.”
“Likewise. Terrorising the local population isn’t your usual.”
Crowley yawned, his jaws unreasonably wide. “I’m a demon, it’s what I do.” The way Crowley’s voice sounded in snake form, still recognisably his but due more to his power of persuasion pushing it into the listener’s mind than any physical effect of his throat and tongue, made it harder than usual to know just how sarcastic he was being.
Aziraphale repressed the knowledge, that he had held for three thousand years if not longer, that Crowley never offered physical harm to any human who didn’t come at him first, especially not the young. “Is it? Widened your repertoire to include drowning princelings, have you?”
The snake looked away, upriver towards the lake. “Didn’t like the look of him.”
Aziraphale put his fists on his hips and lifted an eyebrow.
“And his father will be easier to tempt to something stupid if he’s grieving.”
The other eyebrow went up.
Crowley shrugged. Aziraphale knew, of course, that snakes could not shrug, and were entirely unequipped even to attempt it, and yet Crowley gave the impression of having shrugged in a way that could not be denied. “He would have ended up Upstairs, anyway. This way I still have time to work on him.”
“Mmhmm. Good luck with that.”
The awkward issue laid to rest, Crowley moved the rest of his – impressive – length onto the rock, into the sun, his head still held high. “What’s brought you up north, then? Thought you were settled in Wessex. How’s your precious Arthur?”
“Oh, don’t you talk to me about Arthur; you know exactly what you did!”
The snake’s expression was unreadable. “I haven’t been down that way in a quarter-century. If something happened lately, it wasn’t because of me. Who’s the new pet?”
Aziraphale ought to have bristled more at the term, but he could not bring himself to do so. “Columba. Head Office has big plans for him, apparently. Destined for canonisation, in all likelihood. He’s got a bit more of a natural gift than most of them.”
“But you’re still doing the heavy lifting for him.”
“He’s excellent at blessings and public speaking,” Aziraphale answered, skirting Crowley’s implication. “Rather much to expect him to heal someone who had hit their head quite so hard.”
“Blessings and public speaking, eh? And you do all the hard work to make him look good.” Crowley was staring at him across the river, a cocky tone in his voice, and Aziraphale knew that he was guessing the comparison to Gabriel right out of his head, as easily as if Aziraphale had handed it to him on a scroll.
Aziraphale decided to steer to a safer topic. “That’s why we’re travelling so far north, in fact; we – Columba – had an invitation to King Bridei’s fort. We might convince him to allow a small monastery somewhere in his lands. His messenger certainly seemed keen.”
“That manipulative git!” The black coils tensed and shifted. “He promised me he wouldn’t be converting! None of that guilt and penance nonsense, he said!”
“There’s far more to – oh, never mind,” Aziraphale subsided. There might be more to hearing the teachings of Jesus than just the punishment angle, but the modern church was, admittedly, leaning heavily in that direction these days. And he had no desire to waste hours debating that with Crowley, when they both knew neither of them would shift their stance, regardless of the quality of the argument. “Bridei certainly wouldn’t be the first king to allow his people to convert without making the commitment himself. But if he allows the monastery, I will certainly be trying to tempt him into it.”
Crowley made that odd huffing, hissing sound that Aziraphale knew was laughter, under his breath. It had been so long since he had seen this face of Crowley’s, but he had forgotten none of it. He tried to smother down the thought that it was quite pleasant, for a change, to have someone around to talk without artifice.
“In that case, I might have to help him to see the light of keeping to the Old Ways,” said the snake, and Aziraphale could not help but smile back.
“You should join us, at the fort tonight; there’s to be a feast for our arrival, and likely in celebration of young Mael’s miraculous delivery from harm, as well.” Crowley shrugged again, hardly likely to be excited by such a thought. “The food will be good.” Crowley’s expression did not change. “So will the mead. And we brought wine,” conceded Aziraphale, and now Crowley smiled[3].
“Suddenly it sounds appealing, angel. Alright.” He began to reorganise his coils to slither towards the water.
“On two feet, I’d suggest, unless you feel you’d benefit from the exercise of being chased around the highlands by armed men. Why are you a snake, anyway? Surely it makes everything harder?”
“How many midge bites have you miracled away lately?” Crowley threw back at him. “And how many times on your walk have you lost a shoe in the bog? Not everything is improved by two legs when they’re made of soft, tasty skin, and crossing the river is much safer when I’m too big to be swept away.” He dropped down from the rocky ledge and slipped into the current, moving slightly downstream but catching a grip on the rocky river bottom before much of his body had left the shore.
“I knew you didn’t knock that boy down intentionally!” Aziraphale stepped out onto the sandbank to meet him.
“I didn’t knock him down at all,” said Crowley, exasperated, and keeping his head well above water. “I-“
“Begone, beast! Halt, I command it!”
The voice had come from the river bank behind Aziraphale, off downstream where the group had walked a few minutes ago. The angel closed his eyes for a slow, firm blink. “Oh dear,” he said, in the tones of one who suddenly realised he was going to have to explain something he could not actually explain to someone who did not want to hear an explanation. He turned around. “Columba! I did not hear you. It’s quite alright, don’t worry yourse-”
"Devilspawn! You shall go no further, nor touch the man; go back with all speed!" Columba raised a quaking hand but stepped forward determinedly all the same. Cumméne was a few yards behind, hands pressed in horror to his face, and Gartnait beside him had his hand on his sword.
Crowley, who had frozen in the flow of water at the holy man’s arrival, started wriggling towards the bank again. “Bloody humans and their bloody stupid…” Aziraphale heard him mutter.
Columba seized the heavy cross around his neck and lifted that as a ward against the snake. “I have warned you, serpent! I charge Heaven itself to protect its servants against your evil nature! In nomine Patris et Filii et-”
Several things all happened at once.
Crowley’s slit eyes widened in sudden panic as he remembered that this human was excellent at blessings and that he himself was still currently two-foot-deep in water.
Columba raised his other hand to describe the shape of the Cross in the air above the river.
And Aziraphale brought all the miraculous power he could access to bear, picked up the fast current of the whole length of the river in sight into a wave ten feet high, reversed the flow, and smacked it straight into Crowley, carrying him upriver at ridiculous speed until he, and the wave, vanished into the loch.
For a long moment, the river bank was perfectly quiet. The only sound was the desperate flapping on wet stone of some unfortunate trout left behind by the river’s disappearance, and the sound of water trickling slowly back over loose pebbles.
“I… I…” Columba was gasping for breath, staring at his hand and his cross, and then over at Aziraphale. “I didn’t even finish the blessing,” he managed.
Aziraphale walked over to him and patted him carefully on the shoulder. “The power of the Lord works through us in mysterious ways,” he said. It was one of his stock phrases to account for something miraculous which he really would have preferred no human had witnessed, and which he needed them to ask no further questions about.
“But… what…”
“You saved us,” Aziraphale said firmly, and looked over at the two men further down the bank. “Didn’t he?”
They nodded, struck mute, and then chorused “aye!” when Aziraphale waved an encouraging hand.
“I saved us?” Columba let go of the cross and clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. “I saved us!”
“Well done! Terribly good job. Now, it’s a long walk to Bridei’s fort and we had best be going, so let me give you a hand here.” Aziraphale took a firm hold of the man’s elbow and guided him back to the path. The river was beginning to pick up flow again now, just in time for the stranded fish.
Gartnait kept a grip on his sword as he walked. “Such a beast – I’ve never seen a serpent like it, not even at sea. Where can it have come from? Do you think it is slain?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” answered Aziraphale with a glance over his shoulder. There was no sign of Crowley anywhere behind them, but he could not have been too badly injured, and he was a good swimmer in that form. I hope he’s not injured. Even with a few bruises, he was still better off than he would have been if he had been left trapped in water at the point it was blessed to holiness. Aziraphale had never seen in person what holy water could do to a demon, and based on Sandalphon’s enthusiastic descriptions of past battles won by Heaven’s Host, he was quite determined to keep it that way.
He realised that his walking companions did not look reassured by his statement, and coughed. “The shock; I doubt it could have survived the shock!”
They all nodded, and with more praise to Columba for his quick thinking and impressive powers, they made their way back to join the rest of the party.
“Might have warned a chap.”
From his seat at the long, laden table in Bridei’s main hall, Aziraphale looked over his left shoulder. A smile began to blossom on his face before he got his expression under control. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said dryly. “I rather thought that prompt action was called for, but I apologise. Next time I have the opportunity to save you from a dunking in holy water, I’ll make sure to check in with you first.”
Crowley sat down on the bench beside him, where there was miraculously a space. The feast had been going on for a couple of hours, now, and no one was paying attention to the new arrival, inconspicuously looking mostly human and clad in dark wool and darker leather. “Personally, I’d rather keep as far away from the stuff as possible.”
Aziraphale looked him over for a second, perhaps trying to determine if he had any injuries, but Crowley knew there wasn’t anything to show. A few bruised ribs (snakes had so many of them) from the water hitting so hard, and an awkward knock of his tail against a stone on his high-speed trip to the loch that had manifested itself as a slight limp when he had started walking to Creag Phàdraig. Certainly nothing Crowley was going to complain to the angel about.
“I’ll drink to that,” the angel said eventually, and passed over a cup of wine, deep red and warm from the fire.
Crowley took it and drank in the scent with pleasure, then knocked it against Aziraphale’s cup. “Waes hael.”
“Waes hael.”
There was a long moment of companionable silence as they finished their cups, and Crowley poured them another. He had missed this. They had run into one another quite often in Rome, where there was enough political intrigue that they could both be working in the same crowd of humans without constantly thwarting each other, but then that new “Christianity” had really taken off in popularity and Aziraphale’s assignments had become more urgent, more focussed. Less room to play in the grey areas that Crowley always liked best. He’d ballsed things right up in Wessex last time, daring to suggest some kind of co-operation between them out loud, but he knew better now. Keep it light.
He reached out for some bread from the bowl in front of them, more for something to do with his hands than because he was hungry. “Mind you,” he said casually, “once you’ve done the Red Sea, I suppose a Caledonian river isn’t much to write home about.”
“I didn’t think you were there for that one,” said Aziraphale.
“I wasn’t; I can still recognise your style. Upstairs won’t make a fuss about a miracle that big, will they?”
Aziraphale glanced at him sideways, subtly. “I’ll probably get a request for explanation from Gabriel in a few weeks when he gets around to looking at today’s figures; healing a brain injury and banishing a giant snake in the same day is a little more than anyone on my side would have been expecting for this assignment. Oh, but it will be quite alright, don’t worry. I’ll just have to explain that Heaven’s favoured human had the misfortune to come up against an agent of Satan in the flesh, entirely unexpectedly, and I thought it wise to give him all the help I could. I mean, you were poised to strike, could have swallowed him whole; Heaven wouldn’t have liked that at all. I expect I’ll get a commendation for quick thinking.” He took another sip of wine.
“Well, in that case I shan’t worry,” said Crowley, with enough sarcasm smothered onto his voice to hopefully conceal that he had been a little – not concerned, obviously, demons were not concerned about angels getting away with transgressions, but - preoccupied, perhaps, on the walk along the river bank.
“How long have you been up there, then? On this assignment?”
“Since I left Wessex, which was … couple of years after the last time I saw you.” Don’t remind him about our last conversation, move it along. “Beelzebub wasn’t happy with the Black Knight’s progress fomenting dissent, so ze moved me up here, where I had been doing very well, thank you.” Don’t mention the six months of punishment detail, the angel will get all sad and conflicted about it.
“Oh. I suppose that would account for it,” said Aziraphale, hurried taking a bite of the meal in front of him.
“What do you mean?”
“I, er … I tried looking for you.” He said it so very quietly Crowley could almost have doubted he’d heard right. “After … well, the Table Round rather fell apart, and I thought it might have been your doing, after I was … a little short with you, so…”
“Hang on – the Table Round fell apart? What happened? Shoddy carpentry?”
Aziraphale was too fretful even to notice the terrible joke. “In-fighting and betrayals. One of the knights had an affair with Guinevere – did you ever meet her, lovely girl, never would have thought it of her – Arthur might have had a tryst with his own sister, which – I don’t even know where to start. After that, half the knights took off, and what was left just – collapsed.”
Crowley just stared at him for a long moment, trying to take in the ignominious end to what had looked like a successful kingdom. “… and you thought that might have been my fault, did you?”
“Well, it was your assignment, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale carried on hurriedly. “But I couldn’t find you, and then I got recalled to Heaven for a while, and ended up working on establishing monasteries, instead, so I wasn’t around to see how it all ended. Quite badly, I gather.”
“When I left, Beelzebub handed Wessex over to a demon from Asmodeus’ team, for a different approach. Sounds like it worked.”
“You might have said something.” This was said with Aziraphale’s accustomed snide tone, but he still refused to look at Crowley.
“I might have– I seem to recall, angel, that you said us sharing information would be out of the question. Beg pardon if I offended you by respecting your wishes.”
“No, I only mean … that I was looking for you, and I couldn’t find you and … I was surprised, that’s all. I was in rather a bad mood that day, wasn’t I? Last time we spoke.” A servant came by with a fresh platter of roast meat, and Aziraphale portioned some of it out for himself. “I might have spoken a little hastily,” he finished, and finally managed a glance in Crowley’s direction.
“You’d be open to sharing information about assignments?” said Crowley. When he had first suggested the idea, it had been an off-hand thought, wouldn’t it be good if we didn’t have to keep working at crossed purposes, but he’d been mulling on it ever since.
“I won’t share information which might be to Heaven’s disadvantage,” Aziraphale said firmly. “Nor would I be asking you to betray Hell, I know how much trouble that could cause you. And I can’t lie about what I’ve been up to. But you’re right; we do cancel each other out too often when assignments overlap like this. We could at least let each other know where we will be, so that we can avoid too much wasted effort.” His eyes flicked up momentarily, then returned to the mutton in front of him.
“Makes sense,” Crowley said carefully. “No need to be wasting effort and neither of us getting anywhere.”
“Exactly.” More wine sloshed into each of their cups. “Take this situation, for example. Had I known you were already on assignment here, I would have encouraged Columba to take up the offer of visiting one of the forts on the western coast, instead. Then we would both be able to work in peace, and likely both have successes to report back to our Head Offices, and I daresay we could both do with a success story, once in a while.”
Crowley thought for a moment. Yes, he definitely did need a success story; this assignment had been going alright, but if this kingdom got snatched up by the Opposition right under his nose, Hastur would never let him hear the end of it, and Beelzebub might well send him somewhere even colder and wetter for the next job. But he didn’t want to agree to sharing information with the angel if that meant they were never going to cross paths; where would be the fun in that? “Weeeeell,” he drawled, “I don’t know that it’s the location that’s the problem, is it? We were staying two streets’ apart in Rome, and that was never an issue. I think the problem here is that we’re both aiming at the same king.” He pointed at Bridei, drunk and loud, over the other side of the room, one arm slung around Columba’s shoulders, while the holy man looked distinctly uncomfortable at the physical contact. “We both want something from him. If we’re sensible about it – we can probably work out a version where we both get something good enough for reporting back Downstai- Upsta – er, reporting back to our Head Offices.”
“I’m not here only because Head Office sent me, Crowley!” Aziraphale bristled, in that way which Crowley had been able to see straight through for several centuries now. “I am here because it is the Lord’s work.”
Crowley knew that saying you’re here because Gabriel sent you, you would be eating olives in Greece if you had a choice in the matter would not get him a sympathetic response. “So what you need is the monastery,” he said encouragingly.
“Well, yes.”
“And what I need is to keep Bridei from actually reforming his way of life. I mean, he can get baptised if he likes, but if he keeps up the carousing and women and bribery and raiding, he’s still heading down in the end. The bottom line’s all my lot care about.”
“So … if I persuade Bridei to sponsor a monastery on his land … I’d be thwarting you, but I wouldn’t actually be causing you trouble with your side?”
“Not if I’m creative with my reports. And,” said Crowley, warming to the temptation[4], “once you’ve converted some of the locals, then I can really get going. The locals haven’t got much of a clue about sin compared to those Christians. Once they’ve heard the Word, they’ll have to behave themselves, or they’ll be Sssinners. Oh, I’ll have them coveting their neighbours’ asses before the year’s out!”
“I believe the plural is assen.”
“Not the way I’m talking about.”
“I suppose … that might work,” said Aziraphale cautiously. “Certainly not in every circumstance, but really … it’s only a more thorough form of reconnaissance, isn’t it? If we work out which tasks won’t impede on each other’s priorities, it’s just a more effective way of ensuring we only spend time on getting the best results. It’s hardly an efficient use of my time to be always thwarting evil wiles; rather gets in the way of the big picture.” He sighed and sipped his drink, “Gabriel is so terribly fond of his Big Picture.”
“Sounds exhausting. You’re right, though. Efficiency, that’s the way forward. I’ll probably have to throw some minor inconveniences your way, though, just to prove I’m trying.”
“Oh, likewise. Can’t let the side down, of course. I shall most certainly be extolling the virtues of – well, virtue, to Bridei when I have the opportunity. I simply might not find many opportunities.” They shared a glance, one of those moments that Crowley treasured and stored up in his memory, one where they were in perfect agreement. Aziraphale nodded to himself. “And it’s not lying.”
That was what had tripped up this conversation last time, Crowley remembered; his suggestion had boiled down to lying to Head Offices about what they had done to save themselves some effort, rather than just co-ordinating with each other to make sure that the work they did do actually achieved something. More or less the same thing in the end, but a much better framing.
“Of course not. And I might try to convince some of the local families to buy up the best land around, so there’s less left for the monastery … but that will be expensive, so who knows how I’ll get on?”
The angel was still a little pensive. “This is a one-off, though, isn’t it? Exceptional circumstances of us findings ourselves in exactly the same spot, and all that.”
“Oh, absolutely, angel. It’s a big world, after all. And if we keep each other up to date on any future assignments, we can make sure we don’t lose track of where we are. Reconnaissance, like you say.”
Aziraphale held out his cup and Crowley knocked his against it; the earthenware made a dull tunk as they struck. There was a human phrase for this situation, but it fit them rather poorly. “Well then; may the best – hmm, most skilled – supernatural entity win.”
Epilogue
Thirteen hundred years, many swapped assignments and one argument over Holy Water later…
A cup of tea at his elbow and an orchestra playing quietly over the wireless, Aziraphale settled into his desk chair to reach the morning newspaper. The front page, once spread out, came as rather a shock:
Saturday, 21st April 1934
LONDON SURGEON’S PHOTO OF THE MONSTER
Monster Yards From Lochside: See Enlargement Inside
Does Monster Really Exist?
Beneath the headline was a large, blurry photograph of something unmistakeably serpentine amidst ripples of water. Aziraphale’s sunny expression moved through surprise to annoyance, and, finally, pinched into a grudging smile.
“I see somebody’s woken up,” he said aloud, and wondered idly whether there might be any train tickets to be had to Inverness.
Footnotes: click on the number to return to the text:
[1] He tried to avoid murder when he could find a better option. When you’d borne witness to the very first murder, seen the dawning horror on a face which had, until now, no conception of what the outcome of their actions could truly mean, you learned a lot about the value of a life to a human.
[2] Making sense of Dagon’s filing system did count as torture, thank you very much.
[3] Again, snakes can’t really smile, and Aziraphale knew this. Crowley is powerful whether he looks human or snake or savage Hell-hound-headed terror. If he wants you to know he’s smiling, you’ll know.
[4] Was he tempting Aziraphale to co-operate, or tempting himself to find a way to keep the angel around? Even he couldn’t have said.