Chapter Text
It was a peaceful night.
The moon was high in the sky, casting a gentle, shining white light over the waves, shadows cascading across the ship from the sails. The ocean had been a bit more rowdy than usual, but nothing to be too concerned about as they sailed fairly smoothly.
There stood Crowley, sharing a nice drink of old rum with one of his particularly close mates, Ellis. They had been sharing the Officer's Quarters for nearly three and a half years now, finding themselves growing closer as time went by. He was closer than just any normal drinking buddy.
The alcohol burned in their throats, coating their tongues in its flavouring, nipping at their taste buds. It was acceptable, though Crowley preferred a nice warm drink of mobby more than anything.
Crowley chose to stick around because he deemed Ellis the most sensible man on the ship. They shared a similar loathing for the Captain, along with a mutual confusion as to why everyone else seemed to praise and adore him. Other than that, Crowley was fairly well-respected, but still not more social than he needed to be.
He did his job, and he did it well. That was all that mattered.
The ship, which had been quickly named The Sea Raven by Crowley, was the latest vessel and home of the crew he had sailed with for nearly six years. He had taken excellent care of her, as he grew accustomed very quickly. She was his pride and joy— never mind that it was his job; he did it because he wanted to.
Before that, in 1713, he had been with a completely different crew on a completely different ship.
It wasn't uncommon for Crowley to move on from one place to the next.
Ellis's hair was a deep and rich brown, with short waves that he had refused to cut despite always getting in his eyes when the wind blew particularly hard. It was the colour of syrup, or rather, wet Orinoco Tobacco. He wasn't the type to stand out in a crowd; he wasn't very visually interesting, except for the scar running from his philtrum to his deep smile lines.
Crowley's, on the other hand, was long and curly. A bright, shimmering red that was almost to his waist, tangled in a few braids to protect it from the weather and his living conditions.
He couldn't exactly keep himself in pristine condition without his miracles, but he tried his best with what he had. Salt water mixed with dwindling soap bars that he had stolen over the years from royalty could only get him so far.
His clothes weren't in the best shape either, though he was certainly stylish for the time. They were ragged and stained through rigorous use, with leather bracelets decorating his wrists and a few rings methodically strewn about on his fingers, one of which had an engraving on the inside.
That ring had its lonesome place on Crowley's left hand, and by now, it had been worn so much that the colouring had faded, but it was clear Crowley took good care of it.
You see, Crowley was a collector of sorts. If there's one thing about the demon that you ought to know, it was that he loved the sea— hence why he chose to become a pirate— but most importantly, the ice age.
The pendant he cherished had once been part of something very large, and very dead. A fragment of a Woolly Mammoth tusk hung from a thick thread wrapped tightly around his neck, softened and weathered by age.
Ellis gazed out into the vast openness of the sea, squinting as he tried to observe the clouds that were only illuminated thanks to the moon, but not before a flicker of lightning tore across the sky ahead.
"Storm’s coming," Ellis said, but it came out lighter than he meant it to.
Crowley hummed, "Always is."
"No, I mean— proper storm."
Crowley glanced out toward the horizon, then immediately decided he didn’t like what he saw. The wall of incoming rain was closer now, thickening against the dark water, rippling the surface with heavy drops that hadn’t reached them yet but were already promising impact. The wind was no longer a gentle breeze whistling softly past them.
"Right," Ellis said quietly. "That’s worse than I thought."
Then, somewhere below them, a rope snapped taut as a sailor finally noticed the change too.
A shout went up from the deck.
"Reef the sails!"
The ship shifted from waiting to reacting in an instant— boots hitting wood, rope coils dragged into motion, voices rising into clipped urgency.
Crowley was already moving before Ellis could say anything else.
"Crowley—"
But he had gone, crossing the deck and heading straight for the rigging. Ellis exhaled sharply through his nose.
Crowley climbed the dark wooden rigging, hauling himself up the shrouds until he reached the sails. The ship groaned and bobbed beneath his feet as it tried to adjust to the restless waves of the sea, nearly taking his footing. The wind had already begun to shift, pulling at the canvas overhead.
"About time," he muttered, grabbing the lines and starting the reefing work before anyone else thought it was optional. The atmosphere was building into something unpleasant.
Below him, the deck was already flooding as the crew tried to prepare for the approaching storm.
"Hold that line steady!" he called down.
A voice answered immediately.
"Already holding it, Quartermaster."
That was Rowan. Old hand. Too calm for most people’s taste, which was exactly why Crowley tolerated him.
Another shout cut in, tighter this time.
“It’s slipping!"
"Then don’t let it," Crowley replied without looking down.
A younger sailor— Sykes, barely more than muscle and nerves— kept glancing towards the horizon instead of the ropes.
Crowley noticed. "Stop looking at it," he said.
"What?"
"The sky. Stop looking at it and work."
The boy nodded too quickly and went back to his task, hands shaking just a little more than necessary.
Rowan muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Crowley to hear:
"He’s going to wear himself out before the storm even gets here."
Crowley didn’t respond. At the base of the rigging, another man tied off a line with deliberate care, slower than necessary.
"Problem?" Crowley asked.
"No problem."
Rowan didn't look convinced, but he nodded and returned to securing a length of rope to the mast.
Crowley turned his attention back to the rigging. Rain stung his face as he climbed higher, fingers working quickly despite the growing storm. Below him, sailors shouted to one another across the deck, their voices nearly swallowed by the wind.
It took longer than he would've liked, but eventually the final knot was secured.
Finally finished, he slid back down the rigging, boots hitting the deck.
During his descent, something slipped from his coat. Crowley didn't notice.
A folded letter fluttered to the planks and skidded across the wet wood before sticking there.
Rowan spotted it first.
"Quartermaster," he called, stooping to pick it up. "What's this?"
Crowley leapt to grab it, but Rowan backed away before he could. He unfolded the damp paper and squinted at the ink.
"Rowan," Crowley warned.
"'Twenty-first of December, 1704. My dearest Crowley, I can only hope this letter finds you well,'" he began aloud, snickering, causing a few nearby sailors to glance over.
"Don't you dare," Crowley hissed.
The majority of the light was gone now, the moon swallowed by thick storm clouds. The only illumination came from the lanterns hanging throughout the ship, their warm glow dancing across the wet deck.
"'Not a day passes that I do not think of our last meeting. I often find myself wondering where life has carried you, and whether you still insist on getting yourself into trouble when nobody is there to stop you, though I'm glad we both chose to work together on this.'"
A few sailors snorted.
"'Though the years have been unkind to our correspondence, I hope they have been kinder to you. The world has felt considerably quieter in your absence.'"
"Rowan,"
"What?" Rowan laughed. "Just admiring your fan mail. Is this from your miss's back at home?"
Unfolding the letter further, something slipped from between the pages, a torn piece of yellowed parchment rested between Rowan's fingers.
It was the Lost Fleet Chart.
Or, at least, a piece of it.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
The Lost Fleet Chart was the map every pirate and adventurer on Earth had been searching for for decades. Men had crossed oceans looking for it, men had killed for it, and more than a few had died for it.
And Crowley had been carrying a piece of it around in his pocket.
The grin quickly vanished from Rowan's face, and the other sailors had gone silent too. They weren't looking at the map anymore, their attention turned to Crowley.
"Were you holding out on us, huh, Quartermaster Crowley?" one of the pirates growled.
His face twisted into something closer to disgust than anger, though the anger was definitely still there.
"Explain this."
Rowan held the letter and map fragment up to Crowley's face, though not close enough for him to grab them back.
Crowley's stomach dropped.
That was one thing Crowley had learned fairly quickly with his old crew. Suspicion turned into a wildfire and spread quickly, and once it reached more than two people, it was impossible to put out.
Crowley didn't belong to any group, but here? Here, he made it work. For as long as he could, anyway, and it seemed like his time was up.
Rumours had a habit of travelling faster than ships. And lately, rumours had been saying The Sea Raven was carrying something it shouldn’t.
"If you think I'll tell you anything, you're mistaken." Crowley was cut off by spit in his face, and he didn't take very kindly to that.
The men tussled, shoving and grappling at one another, boots skidding and squeaking against wet wood as they slammed into the railings.
A sudden shout from the masthead, "Ships off the port side— no flags we know!"
Crowley’s head snapped up in response, and he saw them then. Before he could piece everything together, shouting was all that could be heard.
It was the enemy pirates— more specifically, The Sons of the Sea, as they called themselves—lights off to camouflage themselves in the darkness of the night.
"Brace!" someone yelled, but it was already too late.
A cannon fired across the water.
The shot tore through the air and struck the ship just off their position, splintering wood and sending a shock through the deck. The blast missed Crowley by little more than a breath.
Sykes beside them staggered, pale and trembling.
"I’m getting the captain!" he shouted, already stumbling away toward the chaos.
The cannonball had torn a wide hole through the side of the ship. Water and wind poured through it instantly, and the deck lurched restlessly beneath Crowley’s feet.
He lost his balance, and for a moment he was weightless— then half of him was over the edge, fingers scraping for grip along wet timber.
"Crowley!" Rowan snapped. But to his surprise, Rowan wasn’t retreating.
He surged forward, grabbing Crowley by the collar and hauling him back just enough to keep him from falling completely, only to slam him hard against the railing.
The papers shook in Rowan’s other hand. Crowley tried to wrench free.
"Listen to me, I don’t know what you think you’ve found, but that is not—" he never finished, as Rowan’s hand lashed out, pain splitting across Crowley’s face as he was struck, the world flashing white for a second.
Crowley reacted on instinct, dagger already in his hand, pulled from his coat without thought. He drove it forward, leaving a deep gash in the younger man's arm as he tried to defend himself.
He fought dirty, but Rowan fought dirtier, somehow managing to grab Crowley's own dagger. Before he could react, Rowan slashed at him blindly, striking the demon deep in his torso.
Then, another cannonball hit, this time directly at Rowan, with no chance of survival. The ship was no longer soaked with just rain, but she had now been drenched in blood that had only been reaped by violence, seeping deep into the wood.
Crowley was thrown sideways by the shock wave alone, the world tipping violently as the deck gave way beneath him, leaving a loud ringing in his ears. For a moment, everything stilled except the ship itself groaning under the storm.
He barely registered the burning across his arm— too close, too hot, too fast. His vision was blurry as he trembled, trying his best to pry the papers from Rowan's lifeless hands.
That burning feeling didn't last long, however, as, through the fire and the flames, Ellis came out, and he didn’t hesitate.
He hit Crowley once, solid and deliberate, and Crowley went over the rail before he could even think to hold on. Thrown overboard, he fell into the deep, cold, salty depths of the relentless ocean.
It hit him like a second impact, stealing the breath from his lungs before he could even try to take it. The sound of the ship vanished above him, now faint and distant, like the sea had wrapped itself around his head.
He couldn’t tell which way was up, and he didn't know if he was floating or sinking. Soon, he couldn't think at all. His lungs burned, but even that sensation was starting to drift away, as it belonged to someone else.
For a moment, there was still something trying to hold on— something stubborn in the way his body refused to stop reacting.
His eyelids fluttered. Slowly, as if even that required effort he no longer had, they began to close, and when they finally shut completely, he was too far deep, and there was nothing left for the ocean to reflect back at him.
On a remote shore just on the outskirts of Cornwall, England, stood a lighthouse named The Eddystone Lighthouse. It was a quiet lighthouse, as it always was at this hour.
The structure had been feverishly repaired after the great storm of 1703, when the sea had nearly torn it apart and, by most accounts, left it beyond saving. People had called it irreparable.
Aziraphale had called it an opportunity.
Inside, he moved carefully between shelves and oil lamps, adjusting the wick of one with a contented sort of focus.
The study was his second favourite room in the lighthouse.
Not that he kept formal rankings, it simply had the right sort of quiet.
The glass of the lantern room was faintly streaked with salt, but the light still cut cleanly through the dark outside, steady against the restless sea.
He held a leather-bound book in one hand and set it gently onto his desk— organised in intention, if not always in appearance. He had a place for everything… mostly.
Aziraphale glanced toward the window as he often did, as if the sea might occasionally have something worth noting.
Observing a strange shape on the beach that he was almost certain wasn't there the hour before, the angel peered over the windowsill down onto the beach.
At first, it was still just driftwood. Something pale against the tide, half-submerged where the waves broke and pulled back again.
Aziraphale frowned slightly as he leaned closer to the glass.
It wasn't smooth, nor broken in the right way for wood.
He stepped forward, just a little. The lantern light shifted across the glass, and for the first time, the shape resolved itself into something with a spine. Something that lay too still for the sea to claim it casually.
A person, then. That was the thought. A person washed up on the shore below the lighthouse.
Aziraphale blinked once, then again, because the mind tried, briefly, to make it make sense, and failed very poorly.
The colour came next: dark fabric, heavy with water, and strands of hair clinging to the sand and surf like ink spilt into salt.
Something in his chest tightened, though he did not yet know why.
He moved down the stairs now, quicker than he meant to be, each step narrowing the distance between what he thought he had seen and what he was beginning to understand he had not mistaken at all.
It was no branch or rock, but a person, breathing— barely, but there. The sand shifted beneath his shoes as he reached her.
He knelt carefully, the fabric of his coat dragging slightly through damp sand, and reached out with practised gentleness. His hands slipped beneath the figure’s shoulders, turning their head just enough to see their face.
At first glance, too quick, too blurred by salt and dim light, he was sure this was a stranger.
A woman, perhaps, though only for a moment.
"Hello,” he said quietly, though there was no response. “Can you hear me?” Aziraphale frowned slightly, shifting his grip with care.
"You’re safe now," he added, more instinct than certainty. Then he looked properly at the face he held in his hands, and something in his mind refused, for a fraction of a second, to complete the connection it had already begun forming.
Because there were names the world did not prepare him to say in moments like this. "No..."
He opened his mouth to speak, breath catching and the words dying in his throat.
"No," he said again, though this time it was not denial of what he saw.
"Crowley."