Chapter Text
There were several downsides to operating in West Essex, not least of which was the ever-present fog and damp.
Crowley didn’t much like the fog. More romantic people might call it a “mysterious veil”, “a dewy shroud”, or other such poetic and beguiling terms. Crowley, on the other hand, described it simply as “annoying”. He didn’t like the way it clung to his clothes, or soaked his boots, and he certainly didn’t like the dark and menacing character that emerged from it several weeks prior, much less the message it brought.
The message of the bull-man went something like this: That he, the demon Crowley, and his accomplishments had been noted by the council of the damned, who had in turn sought to reward his recent achievements with a task of utmost honors. As he knew, the ruler of the lands had been making peace and spreading unity, something that hindered Hell's progress, and that he, the demon Crowley, had been selected out of all operatives to complete the task of “dealing with this issue,”.
At this point in the speech, Crowley had asked what exactly was required of him, though he had the looming dread of one who already knew the answer.
His task, said the bull-man, was to eliminate or otherwise permanently remove King Authur from the throne of Camelot. This was, of course, to be accomplished by midsummer, when Hell was to move forward with its plans preceding Armageddon.
Speech complete, the bull-man disappeared once more into the mist, leaving he, the demon Crowley and glorious tool to Hellish advancements, alone.
Crowley didn’t like being a glorious tool. Not one bit. But the job needed to be done, and who was he to stand against Lord Beelzebub and the dark council? And so, in the early hours of a West Essex November, a knight in black armor rode on an equally black horse up to the castle walls.
The guards stationed at the gate experienced a strange fogginess of mind that morning — they had a vague memory of the knight snapping his fingers, words were said, the gate was lowered and the knight and his horse ushered in. After that, the knights resumed their normal positions, neither able to recall a single word that was spoken, the face of the man, or any distinguishing features of him or his armor. Within an hour, the memory of the entire interaction has slipped from their minds completely.
Crowley, having successfully infiltrated Camelot, began to make his way through the town and towards the royal quarters. As he went, he began to contemplate his plan. He should have one, he decided, even if it wasn’t a particularly good one…
Crowley hadn’t exactly killed anyone before. Not directly, anyways. It wasn’t that he never thought he would have to at one point or another (he was a demon, after all) but the fact that he had managed to avoid it for the past four-thousand or so years or so had given him some semblance of hope. At least it wasn’t children, he thought, reflecting gloomily back to the year 3004 BC.
No, just some proud old bastard.
By this time, he had reached the queen’s gardens, over which he cast a somewhat disdainful eye before striding over to the metal-clad men that stood on either side of the gates leading into the royal court. A snap of his fingers, and they were no better off than the first pair.
The halls within the castle were as extensive as they were cold, and suddenly Crowley was grateful for his layered disguise. He hadn’t the slightest clue of where the king was supposed to be now, but he figured that they would cross paths one way or another. He did have until midsummer, after all. In the meantime, however, he contented himself with admiring the portraits that lined the walls, his favorite being “Eve and the Apple,” Such a fine young woman…bright, too.
Several times, he found himself passing groups of robed people, voices lowered demurely, heads bowed in conversation. They took no notice of the Black Knight, and so he moved like a ghost, or a shadow, through the halls of Camelot.
At the end of a corridor, a glint of metal caught his eyes and Crowley watched as one guard switched places with the other, the discharged man bowing low to his counterpart before marching away down the hall. The interaction sparked a memory within him. Vaguely, Crowley wondered whether Aziraphale would be here. It made sense, after all. A “knight of the table round”... Crowley doubted the protectors of Camelot would meet anywhere but.
The demon continued to wander, a bit off-put now, though he wasn’t sure why.
About an hour into his wandering, he turned down a corridor to find a large group of metal-plated men filing out through a door. They were slightly larger than those whom Crowley had come across before – wider-set, their armor more decorative. It struck him then that these were the knights of Camelot, and then who might be among them. The latter came a bit too late, as Crowley had caught sight of a rather tufty-haired man just as the man caught sight of him.
Aziraphale excused himself from the group before crossing the floor to Crowley. “What the devil are you doing here?” he hissed.
“Using my master’s name in vain, that’s new for you, angel,” Crowley replied blandly.
“Crowley!”
“Same as you,” he moved casually to admire a nearby tapestry.
“What, for work?” Aziraphale scoffed. “What could they possibly–oh. Oh, no…” an expression of horror seized his face. “Crowley, you can’t!”
“Worked it out, have you?”
“Well…you couldn’t possibly mean…Aurthur?” the angel gaped. “But–”
“I said before.” Crowley shrugged. “Too much peace and tranquility.”
“But…” Aziraphale waved his hands helplessly. “What about all your…fermenting? All the dissent, the discord?”
“Not enough, I’m afraid.”
They stood there and stared at the tapestry for a while. Aziraphale shifted nervously from foot to foot as he formulated his response and Crowley waited patiently. “You know I’ll have to stop you.” the angel said at last, darkly.
“Of course you will.” Crowley nodded. He’d already come to this conclusion. “Go ahead, then. Stop me. Send me back to hell, and you’ll have protected the king and saved Camelot. A true knight of the table round." With these words, he turned to Aziraphale, leaning back and splaying his arms apart, so as to provide access to his heart.
His companion stared at him, eyes flicking between the demon’s face and his plated breast. His fingers twitched ever-so-slightly to his belt, where his sword was sheathed. Crowley could see the thoughts playing out on his face – a war of loyalties chasing each other in the pursing of his lips, the quiver of his round, blue eyes. At last, he threw his arms down, exasperated.
“This is silly, Crowley. Can’t you find your way out with that…silver tongue of yours?” Crowley couldn’t help but notice how Aziraphale’s eyes lingered on his lips as he said this.
“You think you can say ‘no, thank you,’ to the dark council?” He laughed humorlessly. “It’s not like your lot where all they’ll do is put in a strongly-worded note.”
“Well, no, but…surely we can find a way around this.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Crowley turned and set a course down the corridor.
Aziraphale hurried after him, armor creaking as we went. “What do you mean by that? Crowley? Where are you off to?”
“The guests’ keep.”
“You don’t plan to stay here, do you?”
“I do indeed. A nice change of pace from hole-in-the-wall pubs.”
“Crowley.” Aziraphale stopped. The demon begrudgingly spun to face his companion, who reached a tentative hand out to grasp his shoulder. Crowley could feel the warmth radiating from it, and he softened slightly. “You’re better than this. We can work something out together. This kingdom is happy. You can’t take that away from them.”
Crowley snorted. “Sure I can. I can kill their king.”
“Yes, but will you?”
“We’ll see.” And with that, the demon swept away, leaving Aziraphale in the hallway alone.