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2704—Somewhere in Mesopotamia
Strange sounds echoed through a cavern hidden deep within the Zagros Mountains that night. Sounds that, had any shepherd strayed too close in search of his flock, would have fed countless future campfire tales of spirits and curses and things not of this world.
There was no campfire in this cave. No torch. No oil lamp. It was nearly pitch black, illuminated only by the dim glow of a clay oven and the faint spill of starlight at the entrance.
This did not trouble Crowley.
He worked in the dark with steady hands. Heat flared briefly between his fingers, then dimmed. He was a demon; light wasn’t a requirement. Quartz sand surrendered with a soft hiss, melting and bending beneath his touch before hardening once more.
Hell’s latest task had drawn him once more near the dwelling of an aged hermit. In a faraway land, river blindness had claimed the man’s sight in youth. Crowley had first met him when he was little more than a stubborn adolescent wandering from village to village, searching for something he himself didn’t know. In time, he had abandoned the road and built himself a modest accommodation beside a trade path, living by barter, small crafts, and the goodwill of passing travellers.
His blindness had never stilled him. Though he relied upon nearby settlements for certain necessities, he refused helplessness with a stubbornness Crowley found… admirable.
Whatever force guided such crossings, Crowley would have scoffed at the word “fate.” Yet each time he saw the thin column of smoke rising from the roof and the familiar figure seated in the shade outside, Crowley felt something in his chest ease, a relief he would have denied with great enthusiasm if questioned.
And if anyone wondered, for example, why rockfalls never threatened the narrow path near the dwelling, he would produce an elaborate explanation and disavow all responsibility (obviously, Crowley reasoned, this was merely to assist caravan traffic and therefore the efficient distribution of bad news).
There was another hiss as the surface darkened beneath his hands.
Their latest meeting had begun like so many before.
“Greetings, my friend!” The blind man had heard him long before he reached the threshold. “Your tread is as brisk as ever. The Lord must keep especial favour upon you.”
If the man noticed the faint falter in Crowley’s steps, he gave no sign of it. He rose carefully with his staff, face turned toward the sound of him.
“Oh, Elifas,” Crowley had replied lightly, “I doubt the Almighty troubles Herself with my pace. You know how it is, an apple a day and such.”
Elifas’ grin deepened the lines of his weathered face. “Such moderation? From you? Come inside. A merchant of my acquaintance has brought two fine amphorae. I shall share—unless you have renounced the pleasures of this world.” He raised an eyebrow, but the joyful smile gave him away.
Crowley laughed. “Oh, perish the thought! How could I refuse such generosity from the greatest connoisseur in the region?”
Now, it was Elifas’s turn to show his amusement. “Flattery will gain you little. Well, that’s not entirely true. It may earn you a second cup.”
Still laughing, they made their way to the entrance of the small dwelling. Inside, everything stood precisely where memory placed it. Elifas navigated the room with practiced grace, hands gliding along familiar surfaces. He gathered two vessels, poured wine, testing the rising level with the tip of his finger.
“It has been long,” Elifas said as he set one cup upon the wooden table where Crowley had already taken his customary seat. “I began to wonder whether I had lost you to the desert winds. What business brings you again to these lands?”
Crowley had drawn an unnecessary breath to answer with whatever mundane invention he had decided to use as guise. It was good, being able to talk to Elifas again. Over the years they had shared long conversations—with wine or without—and, now and then, Crowley had started to slip, weaving the most shallow of his struggles into their discussions.
Elifas never dismissed such remarks, however strange they may have sounded. He always listened, considered, and never failed to offer a kind word in response. His answers spoke from his own hard-won experiences. Crowley hadn’t realised how accustomed he had grown to that.
But before he could utter a single word, another voice spoke from the doorway.
“I have stored the amphora in the cellar, as requested. How—?”
That was as far as the entering man got before his eyes fell upon Crowley’s cloaked figure, who had likewise turned to see what had caused the interruption.
The merchant had halted at the top of the steps. He was broad-shouldered and dust-streaked from his latest travels, his beard oiled and bound with a bronze ring that marked his success. A leather satchel hung at his side; the hem of his robe bore the coloured thread of his guild. Sweat darkened the linen at his throat.
The moment he truly looked at Crowley, the first glimpse of searching curiosity gave way to recognition, and recognition to horror. Crowley knew that look. He’d witnessed it many times.
In the earliest days, when humanity was sparse and uncertain, people had stared at him with interest rather than revulsion. There had been no agreed definition of normal. But as their numbers multiplied, so did their rules. Crowley, with his serpent’s gaze and too-knowing smile, had long ago fallen outside them.
Being sent to Earth to cause trouble—however selectively he carried it out—did not help his case. Sooner or later, misfortune followed in his wake, and humans were quick to notice patterns.
He told himself he was used to it. The insults. The stones. The muttered prayers.
And he was. To some extent.
This time was different. Perhaps it was one rejection too many, or perhaps the particular accusations. Maybe he had simply been caught unguarded on a day no worse than any other. And that, precisely, was the problem. There had been so many such days since his Fall that they had ceased to be remarkable. Whatever the reason, Crowley would, by the end of it, find himself alone in a cavern, shaping with careful hands a small and private piece of armour.
Another flare of heat deepened the glass.
Before Crowley could react, the merchant had moved, placing himself between Elifas and the demon as if to shield him, knocking the wine-filled carafe and cup out of the man’s hand.
“Elifas,” he said hoarsely, clay shattering against packed earth. “Quickly. There is corruption here. You must leave.”
Though his hands trembled, the merchant never took his eyes from Crowley, arms still spread protectively. The demon hadn’t moved. He remained seated, legs crossed, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around the stem of his cup; the only sign of his own alertness.
Elifas, however, seemed not to grasp the danger the merchant believed them to be in. He frowned faintly, more troubled by the spilled wine than the alarm.
“What foolishness is this? This is no stranger. We have known one another these many years. Now, why this commotion and let perfectly good wine go to waste? This is still my home and now there are shards everywhere.”
He turned toward where Crowley knew he kept his broom, but the merchant seized his arm before he could take more than a step.
“You do not see him,” the merchant whispered, fear unmistakable in his voice. “If only you could! The tales of old speak true. It is the yellow-eyed one—the bringer of the Flood.”
Silence followed.
Crowley traced the rim of his cup with one finger. The faint scrape of nail against clay felt steadying. It was a small thing, but it was something to hold on to while memories he had long refused to dwell upon started to resurface.
After all, he had been there when the waters rose. He had watched the earth swallow its own children, listened to the prayers turn from pleading to rage to silence. Afterwards, he had smelled the rot, surrounded by the terrible stillness of a world forced clean.
“This cannot be true.”
His hand stilled as Elifas’s voice cut into the quiet. The man tried for firmness, but he couldn’t completely banish that slight waiver revealing the seeds of doubt.
“Well,” Crowley began carefully, “as even those “tales of old” recount, it was the Almighty’s decree to drown everyone. Invention of the rainbow and all that? Quite preposterous to think I had anything to do with it.”
He looked directly at the merchant as he spoke, enunciating each word with deliberate calm. The man’s stance loosened a fraction, uncertainty creeping into his rigid posture.
Truth be told, not only had the Flood been wrought by another hand; while the Ark was still being built, Crowley had even attempted—futilely—to bargain for humanity: fewer deaths, less suffering, at least some limit to the coming wrath. He had only received silence in return. It wasn't merely that he was unworthy of explanation; even being able to ask the question had been taken from him.
“Come now,” Crowley tried to aim for lightheartedness as he continued. “Let’s put an end to this ridiculous discussion and not spoil any more of this wine over theological speculation.”
Crowley raised his cup to force another sip down his throat. The initial excitement about their reunion had been considerably dampened and even the wine seemed to have soured without his help. It bore little resemblance to his very first cup Elifas had ever persuaded him to taste right at this table. Just as he put the drink to his lips, he met Elifas’ unseeing gaze again and froze immediately.
“You did not deny what he said about your eyes.”
“I—” Crowley’s mouth curved into a smile that convinced no one. “A whim of nature. I have always been told I am unusual.” It wasn’t even a lie.
Elifas’ hands tightened around his staff.
“You might think I didn’t notice, but I did,” the old man said softly. “The way your voice has never grown hoarser or thinner since the day we first met. The way your step has not slowed with age. Years pass, yet not for you.”
His beard trembled faintly as he continued.
“I am blind, Crawly, not senseless. I felt how the fig trees grew fuller after your visits. The cracked water jug was unbroken after you held it. The winter my hands stiffened so badly I could not grind the grain, you sat beside me and the pain lessened.”
Crowley said nothing. Of course, he remembered all of it. Remembered the curious adolescent who had silently needed guidance more than anything and whose bitterness had lessened over the years.
“I thought…” Elifas faltered, fingers fidgeting along the worn wood of his staff. “I thought that maybe I had been granted a miracle. More than once, I dared hope you were sent from—”
The silence stretched unbearably, before he spoke again.
“I see now,” Elifas said, voice thinning, “that I was mistaken.”
Crowley felt something cold settle beneath his ribs.
“All this time,” the old man continued, “our few meetings have given me comfort. I believed good had come to my house. But you waited. Patiently."
He swallowed before he spoke the inevitable conclusion.
“For my downfall.”
Crowley had not moved since Elifas began speaking. The hurt didn't lie in the accusation alone.
An angel.
He had thought the man’s welcome was meant for him, for the shared talks, the easy silences, the small jokes. But perhaps he had only ever been tolerated as long as he resembled something holy.
Elifas had corrected a mistake and Crowley had been replaced—from blessing to corruption in one single instant. The man who had been welcome could never have been a demon.
“I never—”
He stopped himself. He never what? Never tempted? Never lied?
“You said it was the Almighty’s will,” Elifas interjected quietly. “Yet the Flood came because we strayed. And is it not your kind that leads men astray? Tell me truthfully: are you free of blame?”
Crowley’s throat tightened. If only Elifas knew how close he had been. It wasn’t just his kind. It had been Crowley specifically. He’d started it, hadn’t he? A question in a garden, a possibility placed like a seed into fertile ground. He hadn’t forced anyone’s hand. He’d merely offered a choice: Knowledge.
Perhaps the blame was not misplaced. He had not called the waters down that day, but he had loosened the first stone and everything that followed—doubt, disobedience, division—grew from that moment. And every man since had lived inside its echo. Even if he had been innocent of the act and hadn’t drowned the world that day with his own hands, hadn’t he still made drowning possible? And if that were true, what right had he to protest their hatred?
“Elifas…”
The old man did not raise his voice, did neither yell at him nor curse him.
“You should leave now.”
The gentleness was worse than anger. Anger he knew how to endure. This he did not.
Crowley had disappointed Heaven once. He was cast down, dismissed, feared by strangers who knew nothing of him. Yet none of that compared to this quiet form of disappointment. This was someone he hadn’t meant to fail. Someone he had allowed himself, foolishly, to visit often enough for habit to form. He had become close enough to be missed.
And now, that, too, was gone.
Another place he could not return to. He would not sit at this table again, nor hear his name spoken in easy familiarity from the doorway.
Eternity was long if it had to be dealt with. And it had just grown longer.
It wasn’t possible for the man to truly see Crowley, but he looked at him through his damaged and opaque corneas. The hurt and the feeling of betrayal in his expression were unguarded and absolute. The purity of it seemed to be meant to reach the demon’s very core. Something inside him gave way.
Crowley still remained sitting, unable to speak, unable to move, unable to repair what had broken. It was only at the sudden outcry of the almost-forgotten merchant that he snapped out of the trance-like state he had been in.
“A weeping demon,” he suddenly scoffed, the initial fear all but forgotten. “Pathetic.” The merchant let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
Crowley had not realised that tears had begun carving their way through dust and shame alike. Shame not only for what he had done, but for what he had failed to prevent.
The tears drew further attention where he least wanted it—to his bright and inhuman eyes. They showed not only his nature, but what he carried inside. Each was proof enough for any onlooker that the accusation needn't even be spoken.
And now, faced with the fallout, all he could feel was the encompassing and overwhelming guilt. As though every grief humanity suffered traced back to that first choice he had offered, and he was sentenced to carry both the burden and its mark wherever he went.
At this point, Crowley had all but fled the hermit’s dwelling, heading to wherever his legs would carry him. He didn’t look back. He could not bear to hear Elifas call after him, nor worse, to hear nothing at all.
He never saw the tears the old man shed for him, lost in the first strands of his beard. What followed him instead were laughter and mockery, still ringing loudly in his ears.
And beneath it, a single word kept repeating itself relentlessly: Guilty, guilty, guilty….
He didn't know how long he ran. By the time the mountains rose around him and the cave’s darkness swallowed him whole, his hands were already moving, gathering sand and clay, shaping without intention, as though his body had already reached a conclusion.
Crowley could have completed his project in a fraction of the time by simply miracling his solution into existence, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. He used his powers only to compensate for tools humanity had not yet learned to fashion for themselves.
The slowness of it was soothing. The way humans worked, patient not by nature but by necessity. There was something about their ingenuity that fascinated him—the stubborn, patient unfolding of invention.
He understood that impulse. He always had. He remembered only too well the quiet triumph of holding in one’s hands the result of many failures and persistence. The satisfaction of witnessing a nebula take shape after countless setbacks.
He remembered holding starlight in place long enough for matter to gather, watching fire settle into structure. Creation had always been more than the single moment the result emerged. And now he watched humans do the same. They crafted clay into vessels, nurtured seeds into harvest. They asked questions no one had taught them to ask.
Perhaps, he thought, that was the cruelty of it. Having to cultivate the very curiosity he had been punished for. To admire their creation and then to be tasked with undoing it. To finally discover kindred spirits, beings equally enthralled by the act of creation, by the shaping of raw possibility into form—only to be cast out again and again in an endless cycle.
He paused, hands hovering over the fragile material.
Once, he had been light-bearing. Brilliant, inquisitive, certain that comprehension was not sin but praise of a different kind. He had been struck down for reaching toward another light that was not meant for him. For wanting to understand more than he had been permitted.
Yet the punishment had not ended with the Fall. Why was his own damnation insufficient? Why wasn't it enough? Why must he also play part in humanity’s unraveling, only to watch them suffer a sentence that echoed his own?
Crowley exhaled slowly.
He knew the answer. It had never been enough for Her. He had never been enough. Not when he had burned brightest, certainly not after obedience had been twisted into rebellion. He had not reached upward out of spite, had believed that asking why would show his love and devotion, not cast him out.
It hadn’t mattered. Even his ruin hadn’t satisfied the judgement. He had been found guilty once. And in Her eyes, guilty was all he would ever be. He was not a being who had erred. He was the error. And errors had to be corrected.
Crowley looked down at the cooling curve of darkened glass resting in his hands. The surface held no reflection he cared to examine. Perhaps, this, too, was fitting. If guilt was his to carry, he would bear it unseen.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted the lenses and set them before his eyes, and the world dimmed instantly, placed at a distance.
He would not shine again.
With the last heat fading from the shaped glass, Crowley sealed the only sentence that had ever truly mattered.
No one would look into his eyes and find longing or regret. No other being on this Earth should witness hurt written plainly across his face. He would not allow tears to betray him ever again or crave understanding where none was meant to be given.
Little did he know that this vow would hold for 4,727 years. He didn’t know that it would break not under accusation, nor pain, nor divine indifference—
—but at the quiet devastation of being forgiven.