Chapter Text
Mercenary and Prince
Far, far to the North, past mountains, past deserts, past even a great ocean, lies the kingdom of Abaddon. It is a poor kingdom, made poorer by the harsh rule of Lucifer, its king. Lucifer is a hard, cruel man who rules with an iron fist and does not tolerate any dissidents. All those who speak against him are either imprisoned in the dark dungeons of Castle Infernal or executed in a public spectacle. Lucifer once had a brother, Raphael, but no one knows what became of him, or of his husband Aziraphale and daughter Muriel. Anyone that tries to find out is swiftly and harshly dealt with.
If one were to leave Abaddon and travel due South for three whole months, they would find themselves in the small but prosperous kingdom of Utopia. Utopia is the complete opposite of Abaddon, with warm climes and happy, healthy citizens. The King, Gabriel, is a fair ruler who, while not the most powerful intellectually speaking, is still able to mediate disputes well enough. Gabriel has an only child, Prince Anthony Crowley. Anthony is a wild, headstrong child, willful and disobedient.
Deep in the Paradise Forest, a tent is set up by the edge of a stream. A black horse, a giant of the species, is nearby, chomping happily on grass. Inside the tent, sleeping fitfully on a bed of furs, is Aziraphale, former librarian to Castle Infernal turned mercenary. He whines in his sleep, caught in the depths of a nightmare he’s had for the past seven years, ever since he came home to find his husband and daughter cruelly slaughtered. No matter how many times he tries to fight it, whether by drink, staying up until he collapses, or forcing himself to remember better times, the nightmare still comes, as sharp and vivid as though he were living it.
In the nightmare, Aziraphale’s husband is climbing into bed with him. Aziraphale lies still, eyes closed, scarcely daring to breathe, his hands clenched at his side. Tears are tracking down his face, and he’s trying so very hard to not shake, but with little success. There was a time, once, when Raphael’s presence was everything Aziraphale could ever want, when feeling the bed creak as his husband settled behind him sent Aziraphale’s heart soaring to the skies rather than plummeting to the depths. He tries focusing on those moments. Moments when Raphael would nuzzle him, whisper in his ear that he knew Aziraphale wasn’t really sleeping, and tickle him on that spot behind his ear until, laughing, Aziraphale would turn and pull him into a tight embrace. Raphael’s kisses tasted of the finest wine, and he was an expert in making love.
An ice cold blast on the back of his neck jolts Aziraphale out of the pleasant dream and sends him plummeting back into the nightmare.
“Aziraphale…” Raphael’s voice is harsh, grating, and coarse. “Aziraphale, I’m cold. I’m so cold.” Raphael scoots forward, and Aziraphale wants to move, but he’s as frozen as if he were encased in ice himself. Raphael presses against him, and he’s so cold. Even through the layers of clothes he’s wearing, and the fur blankets, Aziraphale is shaking like a leaf. Raphael is so, so cold.
Cold as winter.
Cold as ice.
Cold as death.
“Warm me, Aziraphale.” Raphael’s lips press against his neck, and the freezing burn of them draws out a strangled sob from Aziraphale’s throat. Time was, the feeling of those lips on his body drew forth another sort of cry. Raphael’s voice too is different. Where once it was deep, soft, and loving, now it is harsh and grating. “You promised to always keep me warm. Remember? I’d come home from the archives, and my hands would be so cold, but you promised to keep me warm.” Aziraphale does remember. Every moment of his life before is burned like a brand into his memory. Especially that last day.
“Raphael, please.” It’s a sob that comes from the depths beyond despair, beyond grief and pain and agony. “Please, leave me alone. I cannot warm you, not any longer. It’s been seven years. Please, I am begging you in Her name, leave me be and be at peace.” Aziraphale knows that his prayers will never be answered. He never fully believed in The Goddess, even when he had been a child and his parents, devout believers, had taken him to witness the Ceremonies. He’s being punished for that disbelief, he knows. She won’t answer the pleas of a Skeptic. Aziraphale chokes on another sob as Raphael’s fingers dig into his sides.
“You promised to keep me warm.” Raphael whispers, and now there’s anger in the whisper. “You promised to keep me always.” Aziraphale sobs, eyes screwed shut. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you meant your promise.” Aziraphale cries out in anguish, knowing how this will go. No matter how hard he tries, how much he fights, he cannot stop himself from turning. He fights it for as long as he can, though, his heart pounding in fear and horror and crying silently. But he can’t fight forever, and he cannot brace himself for what’s to come.
At first, as always, he sees Raphael how he was when Aziraphale loved him, when they were happy. When they lived in Abaddon. Prince Raphael was the half-brother to Lucifer, the product of a love affair between Queen Lilith and a young noble, years before she married the Abaddon King, Belial. Belial had taken the young Raphael in as his son, treating him well. Raphael was the Archivist and Aziraphale the Librarian.
Those had been such wonderful times. Lucifer hadn’t yet made King, and Belial, his father, still ruled. But then Lucifer had decided that Raphael, gentle, kind Raphael, was a threat to Lucifer’s claim to the crown(though Raphael hadn’t wanted the rule). Raphael with his hair as black as ink and his eyes-one green, one bright blue-shining with love and devotion. Raphael, his beloved and his husband.
That’s the image that Aziraphale holds on to as tight as he can, knowing that it won’t last, it can’t last. And yet, when he finally opens his eyes, Raphael as he was is staring back at him. Aziraphale sobs. “Raphael, my love…” For a fleeting moment, he thinks he’s finally beaten the nightmare.
But then Raphael smiles, and his teeth drip blood. His eyes become distorted, and a deep gash appears across his throat, blood flowing down to stain the sheets. His smile becomes a rictus. “I’m cold. I’m cold, Aziraphale. You lied. You said we’d be safe. You said Lucifer wouldn’t care. You weren’t there for us.” Aziraphale sobs out. Raphael’s eyes are black with anger and rage. “You weren’t there for us. You should have come to our rescue. You should have died with us, Aziraphale. You’re a coward, a cringing, useless coward.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I….” Aziraphale dreads what’s coming next. But as with everything else, he’s powerless to stop it. “Please, let me wake up now, please don’t show me her, please don’t.” But he knows it’s useless.
“Papa?” A tiny voice, and Aziraphale screams in pain as Muriel, dear, sweet, innocent Muriel, comes out of the shadows, blood everywhere. “Why did you let them do this to us, Papa?” She’s so small, and Aziraphale remembers coming home and finding the door hanging off the hinges, smelling the blood, and running as fast as he can, knowing already that it was too late, and the smell of blood had nearly choked him as he entered the house, and he had fallen over something. He landed on his face, and found himself staring into the wide, dead eyes of his daughter, her body unspeakably violated and her throat cut from ear to ear. In the first moments of his extreme horror, he hadn’t realized the thing he had fallen over was Raphael. His husband had been stabbed so many times he was nothing but blood and flesh.
“Papa, they hurt us. They hurt us and you weren’t there! You weren’t there!” Muriel shouts, and Raphael joins in on the shouting, until it’s a din, and Aziraphale clamps his hands over his ears and screams himself awake.
Aziraphale lies awake, waiting for his heart to stop pounding, before leaving the tent and going to the nearby stream to wash. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the still waters, and chuckles mirthlessly. Raphael wouldn’t recognize him now, he thinks.
Gone is the soft, kind librarian who always looked for the best in people. In his place is a cynical, jaded mercenary who measures people only by how much they can pay him for doing a job. Scars mark his face and body, the results of many fights. Aziraphale has always been good with the sword, and the one he carries has seen him through many battles. He’s tall and muscular, with an ease of movement that comes from years of harsh living.
Only his hair, a blond that’s almost white, hasn’t changed. He keeps it braided, and hidden in the braid is a single strand of black hair. It’s the one thing from the past that Aziraphale has kept.
He strips out of his clothing and wades into the stream, wincing a bit at the cold water. He needs to look his best, because he has an appointment with King Gabriel himself. Aziraphale knows of Gabriel, but has never had cause to visit Utopia until now. Still, the money offered in the letter is too good to pass up.
Aziraphale finishes bathing and returns to his tent, dressing in his finest clothing. The letter from Gabriel, delivered by a messenger, rests in his pocket. It’s vague, merely asking Aziraphale to come to Castle Caelum as soon as possible and promising a great sum of money.
After packing the tent, Aziraphale goes over to the black horse. “Ready for a ride, my beauty?” The horse nickers happily. Aziraphale spends a few moments getting everything on the saddle before mounting. “Onward, Sable.” Sable whinnies and sets off at a brisk canter.
It doesn’t take long to get to Castle Caelum. Aziraphale rides right up to the gates, and the guards bar his way. “Halt and be recognized!” One says, coming forward. Aziraphale pulls the letter from his pocket and hands it over.
“Aziraphale the Mercenary come to see His Majesty King Gabriel on a matter of business.” He says as politely as he can. The guard scans the letter and hands it back. “Might I go in?”
“Go on. Dismount when you come to the second gate. Your horse will be looked after, and you can go into the palace.” Aziraphale nods, and the guards open the main gate.
Once Sable is taken care of, Aziraphale heads into the palace. It’s large, and bright, and the colors hurt his eyes. He finds himself thinking of his home in Abaddon, and he shakes himself. There’s no point in dwelling on the past.
A servant leads him into King Gabriel’s chambers. The king both is and isn’t what Aziraphale is expecting. He looks a bit dim, but at the same time there’s a sort of cleverness not found in book learners. He’s handsome enough, Aziraphale thinks, but it’s a crude sort of handsome. “You’re Aziraphale?” It’s a polite inquiry. Aziraphale bows. Gabriel, who is sitting at a table drinking and eating, inclines his head in return.
“At your service, Majesty. You said you had an important job for me?” Gabriel indicates for him to sit. Aziraphale takes a seat, and Gabriel tells him to help himself. Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a haunch of bird and pours himself a goblet of wine.
“I am in need of an escort, someone who can act as both bodyguard and protector. I recently came into an alliance with a kingdom to the North, and as a result of that alliance, I have arranged for my son the Prince to be wed to their king. I need you to accompany him on his journey there, to make sure he arrives safely.” Gabriel says. Aziraphale stops with his goblet halfway to his mouth.
“The only kingdom I know of to the North is Abaddon.” He says harshly. “Majesty, I am sorry, but you will need to find someone else.” Aziraphale sets the goblet down and starts to leave.
“I’ll pay you triple what I promised.” Gabriel says mildly. “Half up front, right now. I can have one of my servants bring you a purse full to the brim with gold pieces. Because we both know there is no one else. Your skills are legendary. Aziraphale the Wolf, I’ve heard you called.”
Aziraphale sighs. “Half up front?” Gabriel nods. “Then we have a deal, Majesty. But I want the money on my person before I leave in the morning.” Gabriel reaches behind him and tugs on a cord. Seconds later, a servant appears, bowing low.
“Fetch a purse full of gold from the Treasury and place it in Aziraphale’s room. Then go and find that wayward son of mine and tell him his father wishes to speak to him. If he refuses, drag him here bodily.” The servant bows again and leaves. “I hope your room is to your liking.” Aziraphale is about to say it will be when there’s a wild commotion outside.
“Gerroff me, I can walk! Rotten bounders, lemme go!” Gabriel sighs as the doors burst open and two guards come in, a young man flanked between them. “Yah, I’ll punch both of yer lights out! Lemme go, this ain’t no way to treat yore Prince!”
“Anthony!” Gabriel says harshly, and Anthony Crowley, Utopia’s Crown Prince, grins at his father. Aziraphale can’t help but admire this prince’s beauty. He’s tall like his father, but where Gabriel is muscular, Anthony is lean. His hair is the brightest red Aziraphale has ever seen, and it falls to his waist. The black shirt and trousers he has on accentuate the golden tone of his skin, and his eyes, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, are a deep golden color. If he’s over the age of twenty three, Aziraphale will eat his sword. He’s suddenly, painfully aware of how old he is.
“Where was he this time?” The king asks one of the guards. The guard salutes with his spear.
“Majesty, he was down in the village, drinking and fighting.” Anthony grins wider and spits out a broken tooth. “He smashed two windows.”
“Wasn’t my fault. The chap I was fighting decided he’d had enough and jumped through the window to get away from me.” Anthony looks over at Aziraphale. “Who the bloody fuck are you?” Aziraphale smirks at him.
“You’re an amusing little child.” He says with a grin. Anthony’s eyes go wide in rage.
“I am not a child! You...you..doddering old man! Let me go, I’ll show this blaggard that I can fight! Let! Me! Go!” Anthony writhes in the guards’ grip. Aziraphale shakes his head, then turns to Gabriel, who indicates for the guards to release Anthony.
“I can see why you made the arrangement. I would want to be rid of him as well.” Aziraphale says mildly. He finishes his wine, then walks over to Anthony. “You talk bold words, Princeling, and I’m sure you’re quite good at getting into drunken brawls, but you would not last five minutes in a true fight. So I am going to lay down the rules right now. One, you will follow every order I give you on the journey, no matter what. Two. You will treat me with respect. If you break either of those rules, you will not like the consequences. I would suggest that you get a good night’s sleep. I plan on leaving before dawn, and if you’re not ready then too bad for you.”
“Dawn?!” Anthony squawks. “As in, before the sun comes up?! What about breakfast?!” Aziraphale grins like a shark. “Couldn’t we stay a bit later, have a nice breakfast, maybe some drinks, or…?”
“Dawn, Prince Anthony.” Aziraphale repeats, and Anthony glares at him. Aziraphale glares right back. Anthony drops his gaze first, muttering harsh curses under his breath.
“Anthony, go to your room and start packing.” Gabriel orders. Anthony sneers and stomps out. “That boy, I swear. He was always wild and headstrong, no thanks to his mother, Goddess rest her, and a string of nannies that indulged his every whim. But he’s got a good heart, underneath, and he knows how important this marriage will be. Maybe three months on the road without all the luxuries he’s used to will help mellow him out even more.” Aziraphale sips at his wine and stays silent. He’s only spent five minutes in Anthony’s company and he wants to slap him. Goddess knows how he’s going to last for three months. Still, money is money, and for what Gabriel is paying, Aziraphale will put up with anything.
His room is nice enough, with a deep bed and a basin and ewer for washing. Aziraphale locks the door and climbs into bed, falling asleep almost instantly. As ever, the nightmare comes, and he’s barely able to hold back his scream as he wakes. He lies in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. For some reason, his mind drifts to Anthony.
The Prince really is rather beautiful, Aziraphale thinks to himself. Beautiful, and bratty, and one hundred percent not Aziraphale’s type. He’s nothing like Raphael, Aziraphale thinks. Anthony probably hadn’t read a single book in his life. No, there’s nothing there beneath that beautiful surface. Anthony’s a painting, nothing more.
The next morning, well before dawn, Aziraphale has a servant wake Anthony. To his surprise, the prince comes along with a minimum of protest, though this might be due to the fact he’s still half asleep. Aziraphale effectively brings him into wakefulness by throwing a basin full of water in his face. “You asshole, I’ll get you for that!” Anthony screams and charges at him. Aziraphale steps to one side, sticking his foot out. Anthony trips and falls flat on his face, spitting out dirt. Aziraphale’s boot is on the back of his neck, pressing down. “Mmggo!”
“Only if you promise to behave like a decent human being and not a bratty Princeling.” Aziraphale says mildly. Anthony spits out dirt and says something very nasty about Aziraphale’s parentage. “I’m sorry, what was that?” Aziraphale presses harder. Anthony mumbles assent. “Good, you can learn.” Anthony stands, glaring in rage at Aziraphale. “Do you have a horse?”
“Got the fastest horse in Utopia. We’ll outstrip you and that barrel bellied donkey of yours easy!” Anthony scoffs. Aziraphale doesn’t rise to the bait. He knows that Sable is much faster than he looks. Anthony goes over to a stall where a lithe black mare with white socks on her hooves is waiting. “Her name’s Bentley.” He says off Aziraphale’s inquiring look. “She’s the best horse there ever was.”
They saddle up and set off North, Aziraphale’s mind racing. After seven years, he’s finally, in a roundabout way, coming home.