Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Celestria was a kingdom of many stories.

Her Majesty knew this well. She appreciated a good tale herself, whether written or shared amongst adventurers. She missed those days. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel the warmth of the campfire, hear every crackle of bark as it was eaten to ash, smell the smoke as it wafted skyward.

The castle fireplace simply wasn’t a good enough substitute. There was such a lack of camaraderie here. There was no way to circle around the fireplace. There was no meeting another’s gaze over the flames. The spark was what she remembered most from her omega. The flash of his grin and the sturdiness of his broad shoulders. The shine of his eyes when they lit with his laugh.

The eldest son of a noble family. Skipped over in the line to inherit due to his presentation, but his noble family name had been acceptable enough for her own family to accept her wishes. Not that their disapproval would’ve stopped her. She, too, had been the eldest and always guaranteed to inherit the throne.

She missed him as much as she did the campfires, the wildness some described her youth as. Travels marked with skirmishes which had expanded Calestria’s holdings. She’d made enemies in her younger days, enemies with which she now had to make peace with. She wasn’t at all sure how she would manage it. Not now.

“Your Majesty!” a handmaiden gasped from the door. “Come away from the window! In your delicate condition, peering out those frigid windows. Your fire’s gone out! You’ll catch your death.”

She wouldn’t. As winter had set in, her body had remained warm. A secret she would take to her grave if need be. A story long before her own had changed the ways this gift would be perceived as, and she wasn’t yet in a position where she could alter the laws and still keep the peoples’ favour. They had sympathy for her now, but she didn’t expect that to last long. In some spaces, she knew, the tides were already turning towards the more vicious of rumours.

“I didn’t notice,” she replied, turning away from the window. Her skirts couldn’t hide the roundness of her belly, nine months drawing closer by the day. Nine months since the last day she’d spent with him. Since he’d given her a final gift. “There’s no need to relight it. I’ll be retiring shortly, and I’ve no energy to tend it to smulders. Nor will I ask any of you to stay up so late.”

“You know none of us mind a late night, Your Majesty.”

“I do.”

After all, some minded more than others. She wasn’t ignorant to the complaints some had whispered as her omega’s illness had grown worse. Years of medicines and healers from far and wide. Years of watching those broad shoulders slump. Jehoel had begun to grow frail, yet no one had held any answers. Not even when she’d reached out to healers whose particular skills were outlawed had an answer been forthcoming. Even one who held more power than others had only been able to give them so much.

All she and his family had been able to do was watch and hope and pray, yet no miracle had come and his family had left to mourn within the comfort of their own walls. All but his brother, a beta who’d asked to stay among his brother’s things to keep from losing his scent entirely.

Odd, though, that he would leave when her pregnancy could no longer be hidden.

She shook away thoughts of Met, a hand gently caressing the spot where the unborn pup aimed strong kicks. They would be as strong as their elder sister, she hoped, though six-year-old Michael had been sent with her beloved’s family. They would take care of her until she was ready to have her return. The girl had seemed happy to leave a home filled with her mother’s grief.

“Leave the tray, please. I’ll have my dinner here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” It was settled on a side table, the maid giving a deep curtsy before retreating to whisper to her fellow servants that the Queen had let the fire go out yet again. No one was foolish enough to throw an accusation out, yet all hoped the babe was born normal. For their sake, if no one else’s. Celestria was not yet ready for magic. Not even in the royal bloodline.

Though many would whisper of magic and miracles when Queen Frances and King Jehoel’s second child and only son was born nine months to the day after his father had breathed his last. At first wail, the queen loved him. At first sight of a familiar spark in equally familiar eyes, she vowed to protect him.

Prince Aziraphale began his story in a kingdom where he wasn’t welcome as he was, where his parentage was questioned, and where things were rarely as they seemed.

The boy had spirit and conviction, that much Agnes could admit. He also had a set of lungs on him that could put a fully manifested banshee to shame. She watched him unobtrusively from her work table as she removed imperfect leaves from the herbs she’d just picked before hanging them to dry. He knew she was there, of course, and her presence was probably why he was shouting so loudly at the potatoes. She’d noticed he didn’t do so nearly so loudly when he thought he was alone. He did it for her benefit, a plea for attention. Bad attention, of course, but when one was his age and feeling like he didn’t matter, any attention was better than none. She would give it to him, eventually, by telling him to knock it off, but she would also go over and ask which plant had earned his ire.

It was a delicate balancing act that Agnes knew she did not always juggle proficiently. Her own daughter had been easier, calmer, and the granddaughter she left in her care so much like her. She was also similar in stubbornness to young Anthony, who shouted at the plants in the garden and cried only when he thought no one would know.

His pain and his anger alike were not his fault. This, she knew. An accident of birth and an aligning of stars had ensured natural talents that were dangerous to have. And his magic was strong, not some piddly talent that would be easily hidden and forgotten about. Had someone discovered him… Well, she didn’t blame the parents for seeking her out. It was safer for him and them if he was raised by someone who understood his gifts and how to hone them. And she knew he would go on to do great things someday. She’d seen it in her dreams. Fire and ice and a grand responsibility he would only resent for a brief time. The boy had a grand destiny, and she could only hope she could make him ready for it when the time came.

Now, whether Anthony Crowley would accept his destiny would be an entirely different matter and not something even she could predict. That would be up to the boy.

Agnes set her herbs aside and made her way across the garden to him, hearing him scream louder when he realised she was headed his way. It was expected and one of the many ways she knew it was mostly for attention.

“Pustulant mangled bollocks!”

“Now what on the gods' green earth did that poor potato plant do to earn that?”

Anthony glared up at her expectantly, but when no proper scolding followed, he huffed and crouched in front of said plant. “‘S not flowered like the others.”

Indeed it hadn’t. While the other potato plants had bloomed little white flowers, the one Anthony was shouting at had yet to follow suit. “There’s an easy remedy for that.”

“I know. But if I help it along, then the rest’ll think it’s okay to slack off, and then we won’t have any potatoes.”

Agnes nodded sagely, as if that made all the sense in the world. “Then give it time, boy. Some living things need a little more time than others.”

Anthony scowled up at her, impatient, but not quite as fiercely as he usually was. “What if it never blooms?”

It was the sort of question she was used to from him; the hypotheticals, the what-ifs. The boy was full of questions, some more easily answered than others. “Then it doesn’t; would that be so bad?”

He never liked it when she answered his question with one of her own, but it never failed to make him to think and ponder. He’d have an answer for her eventually and a whole slew of new questions, even if it would be at the most inopportune time.

Agnes left him to his wonderings and to his disgruntled poking at the potatoes. She could see the late bloomer unfurling its flowers in just a day or two; the boy only needed patience.

Chapter Text

Most of the patrons knew to ignore the howl over their heads. A traveller blinked upwards, then looked curiously at the pubkeep. The woman grinned broadly as she filled a tankard with ale. “It’s best that you don’t think about it too much, lad, if you’re too innocent to know what’s happenin’ up there.”

“I-” His cheeks burned as he shook his head, casting another glance upwards. “Where I’m from, one doesn’t hear those sorts of sounds in broad daylight.”

“Sounds like you’re from somewhere dull, it does.” She dropped the tankard in front of him. “Havin’ a meal?” she added before he could protest, so he only sighed and nodded.

By the time she returned with a bubbling bowl of stew, he’d decided to forget all about the howl. Being in the capitol city meant all sorts of unusual things were bound to occur. Berwick was known for its vibrant, busy community and had been for years. Before Queen Frances had begun her reign, her parents had kept the town as small as it needed to be. More of a military base than a place to live and grow, but the Queen and her King had changed that. Him, especially, had garnered a loyal following and a love that had lasted nearly 27 years after his passing. The Queen had carried on, though her rule had… shifted. Where her parents had held a tight fist of control and made regular, consistent appearances to discourage any usurpers, Queen Frances was very rarely seen outside of the castle walls. Her rule was managed by messengers and dignitaries and…

His brows rose as a person made their way down the stairs on unsteady legs, clothes dishevelled. Though they weren’t nearly as shocking to him as the person behind, a steadying hand on the small of their back and a smile that was cheerful and calm and familiar. “Prince-”

“No,” the pubkeep cut in. “Not ‘im.”

He turned to her, mouth opening and closing like a fish on land. “Of course it’s him.”

“Dunno what you mean. What would a prince be doing in a place like this? He just looks like ‘im, that’s all.”

“Looks like him? He is-”

Someone sat on the stool beside him, his tankard making nearly as loud a sound as the very obvious sword that dug into the wooden floor. His skin was dark, black curls cropped close to his head. Not quite as well known as the prince, but familiar enough to the traveller. His royal highness's personal guard, Sir Raphael. He smiled, big and broad and dangerous. “The prince was never here, and if we hear tell that he was, well… There are laws against slandering the royals.”

His mouth shut so fast, his teeth clicked.

The bag clinked when it was tossed onto the wood table. Small, tied closed, a little ratty. Not bulging but certainly full. Crowley eyed the bag from behind darkly coloured glasses and moved not a muscle. He didn’t want to appear greedy or untrusting. Besides, villages like this rarely ever skimped on payment.

“As the listing said, that’s half upfront. The rest if you bring us the head.” The old man across from him fidgeted with the long sleeve of his robe. It was chilly in the little back room they were sequestered in, the space too small for any kind of fire and two bodies didn’t produce much heat alone.

Crowley could feel the cool air across the back of his own neck and nodded at him. He hated the cold, but as a village elder, the old man deserved at least a modicum of respect. “And you’re sure it’s a dire wolf? Not just a hungry pack?”

The old man nodded his head and looked grave, brow drawn in a serious furrow. “I’m certain. Jacob has seen the beast, and he’s lost more sheep to it than he can afford.”

But this elder hadn’t seen it, and farmers weren’t exactly known for being able to positively identify things if all they wanted was for it to stop killing their livestock. “Right. And is he the only one who’s lost livestock?”

“Not at all. Other farmers have lost chickens, ducks, even cattle to it.”

“No people?”

“Not yet, and we pray it is slain before such a tragedy can occur.”

Yeah, that didn’t sound like a dire wolf to him. Dire wolves were vicious killing machines that were more likely to rampage through a village, killing anyone and anything in their paths. Not settling for a few sheep or chickens. In Crowley’s estimation, this was probably just a hungry wolf pack whose territory ended up being pushed a little too close to the village. An easy issue to handle; much easier than a bloody dire wolf.

“Jacob was able to wound it last time. He said the sound it made…”

Crowley nodded, filing that information away with all the rest. A wounded wolf could make the pack more aggressive but also more cautious. It might also make them more easy to sway to leave… “Alright. And where was that? I’ll need to examine the area to track it back to wherever it’s sleeping.

The elder’s eyes widened. “So you’ll do it? You think you can slay the beast?”

“Sure do. I’ve taken care of them before.” Which technically wasn’t a lie. He’d handled plenty of wolf packs during his travels. Crowley scooped up the bag of coins and stood. “Now about where did this Jacob last see this thing…?”

“Oh! Yes!” The old man quickly followed him up and trailed behind Crowley as he pushed aside the pale curtain that separated this little office space from the main part of the town hall. It was large and empty this time of day and just as cold. The rafters high above could have been covered in dust or frost, winter clinging where it could. Old floorboards creaked under their feet. “Jacob’s farm is to the north, just past the large pasture there; you can’t miss the blue roof.”

Crowley gave another nod. He thought he might have passed a blue-roofed farmhouse on his way into the village.

The doors to the town hall were propped wide open, letting in a cold breeze, and Crowley stepped out of them and into the bright sun that promised a nearing spring. He was glad for the glasses, but still squinted at the change in light out of habit.

The village wasn't much: a small square with a communal well, a few trading booths that Crowley was certain were only used sparingly, the blacksmith who probably only made farming tools, and the town hall. The few homes were scattered about, none of them better or worse than the others - at least in the actual village. The farms he'd spotted on the outskirts had slightly larger homes, but that was to be expected when you needed multiple children to tend the land and animals. Besides, the landowners tended to be the wealthiest of folks in spaces like this. Knights or barons, considering its size.

He remembered living in a village like this as a child, the memory hazy but not entirely gone. They'd had a little garden, just like most of the simple homes he passed, and he missed it somewhat. The garden, anyway. His current nomadic lifestyle didn't allow for gardening. That was something for people with homes, families. People who had a permanent place to return to. For people for whom staying in one place for too long wasn't dangerous.

Crowley shook the maudlin thoughts away. It was no use to dwell on them, no matter how the occasional instinct insisted on it. He'd made peace with his lot in life, and travelling from town to town, solving issues which required the use of his blade, wasn't such a bad life. It paid well enough, and most people took one look at the longsword on his hip and gave him no trouble. The permanent scowl he wore helped as well, and made the villagers give him a wide enough berth to allow him to keep the mysteries he held close to his chest.

The farm belonged to a hulk of an alpha who smelled like tanned leather and greeted Crowley with a grunt and a pointed look at his sword. The lack of words continued even after Crowley explained why he was there but did earn him a nod and a, “The back fence, over the hill.”

Which was just fine to Crowley. He wasn't here to make friends and, so long as Jacob knew he was here to do a job and not some thief that deserved an arrow in the head, that was all he needed. That he also didn't get any second or third looks was also good. Crowley was confident in his ability to hide exactly who and what he was, but it was always nice to witness it in action.

Besides, he didn't think farmer Jacob would be particularly interested in letting a strange omega with a sword traipse through his land unaccompanied. Crowley could count the alphas he knew who didn't question his abilities on one hand - with room to spare - and he didn't want to get into an argument about it when he'd already been half paid.

The farm itself wasn't terribly large, consisting of two average-sized barns, a field that contained a few cows, sheep, and horses, a chicken coop, and a garden on the other side of the house. This wasn’t the land with crops villagers tended, Jacob not the baron or knight who owned it. Crowley didn’t know who he was to have been granted so much land of his own, but he wasn’t there to ask questions.

Crowley skirted around the outside of the fenced field, not wanting to hop it in case there was an ornery bull or two about. The hill Jacob mentioned wasn't difficult to spot; it was in the back of the pasture, past the barns and more towards the woods. Crowley followed the fence around, keeping a careful eye out for droppings or scratches on the fence posts.

Everything looked fine up to a point. Closer to the woods, at the very back, where the hill would keep one hidden, Crowley could see where the animals had marked their territory on the wooden posts. Deep scratches, tufts of grey fur. He even found week-old droppings not far away.

Heading into the treeline, Crowley noted a few arrows, their feathers ragged, scattered in the underbrush. A few more minutes of searching found exactly what he’d expected: blood. It was old - about as old as the droppings, as far he could tell - but definitely there.

He nodded to himself and stepped deeper in, past where someone could easily see without following close behind. Old underbrush crunched under his boots, and leaves brushed his face. Crowley closed his eyes temporarily, breaths even. The woods, the forest, nature was his natural habitat. He’d grown up learning the ways of the wild; first on his own and then at the skirts of someone older and wiser than himself. With barely even any focus, he knew the trees surrounding him were old Oaks, Ashs, and Beeches. Tall and broad, their thick canopies leaving the forest floor shrouded in shadow. He knew how old each tree and bush and sprout were, knew the last time it had rained, knew which plants were struggling to get enough sun or water and which were flourishing.

It was a talent and a gift and a curse he’d had for as long as he could remember. The plants spoke to him in a language all their own. A natural magic that could end his life if anyone ever found out.

Crowley listened to the leaves and followed where they said larger animals had recently tread. A broken branch here, a chewed leaf there. The blood, too, was a trail to follow. Metallic and sweet.

He knew he was in the wolves’ territory proper by the scratches in the dirt and in tree bark. Crowley hung the pack he carried on his back on a branch above the ground. He didn’t expect to be here long, but there was no telling what critters might find his things something curious enough to be looked through. Some of the jerky he’d bought in the last village was retrieved before he made a careful way forward. His scent was already masked, and it was no trouble to make that enchantment more robust, to use it to hide his true nature. The wolf pack whose den he approached would have no idea he was a human. He would look, to them, like a larger, more powerful wolf. A king of their kind. A little mental manipulation would make them more malleable to his suggestions, and they would be on their way.

The den, as it turned out, was more of a covered area protected from rain and sun by an overhang of stone. The small pack was no more than eight animals. A few pups and a few adults. All but one lifted its head at his approach, but none of them made a move to come near. The pups were curled up in the back, young. Very young. No wonder they’d been desperate enough to come near the farm. They had hungry mouths to feed, born at the cusp of springtime. It was harder to find a meal in the winter.

Crowley crouched just outside of the overhang and looked them all over. In the back, near the young, was an adult wolf. It hadn’t lifted its head and, to Crowley’s seasoned eyes and natural gifts, the stillness of its body gave away the truth. He would feed the next round of plants. He held out the jerky and shuffled closer, concentration split between judging the wolves’ collective mood and keeping his spell intact. One of the larger adults pushed itself to its feet and prowled towards him, the tip of its nose twitching.

“That’s right. ‘S food. ‘S good.” They couldn’t understand him, not really, but the intent behind the words was conveyed with an ease others like him couldn’t necessarily replicate.

The jerky was delicately taken from his fingers, and Crowley gulped at the size of the teeth and muzzle. No one ever really thought about how large a wolf was until they were right there, standing a head above him and whose back would probably come up to his waist if he was standing.

Food shared, the wolf retreated and the others seemed to take this as a sign that he wasn’t a threat. Which was good; he hadn’t wanted to harm them if he could help it. Crowley shuffled deeper in, towards the wolf who had not moved. He didn’t need to get far before he noticed the arrow. It was still in the poor thing’s side, the fur around it damp with dark, stale red. Crowley recognised the feathers, even as ragged and ripped as they were, as similar to the ones he’d seen on his way into the woods.

He winced in sympathy and felt around its cold neck. If the lack of movement and warmth had not given it away, the absence of a pulse definitely did. It was dead, but the pack had not yet decided to cannibalise their own. Well, that was technically good for him, if not for them. With that assured, Crowley sat. He watched the wolf who’d taken his jerky give it to the pups first, and they tore into the dried meat with gusto. He wished he had more to give, seeing as their journey would be a long one.

While the wolf pups ate, Crowley checked over the rest of the pack, ensuring none of the others had been injured. They were healthy- well, as healthy as wild animals usually were. The others had apparently avoided Jacob’s arrows, and being uninjured meant they could leave and hopefully be elsewhere before the village took more desperate measures.

Crowley sat, letting the wolves come up and sniff his hair. One licked him, but he ignored the distractions. Speaking to animals wasn’t an impossible thing to do, especially for someone with his specific talents, but it wasn't easy either. He needed to focus, to turn his attention to the creatures he wanted to communicate with. They could never have full conversations, their minds not the same as a human, but he could impart information, feelings. Crowley breathed slow, feeling the shape of their minds, and though his words still sounded human to himself there was a raising of the hairs on the back of his neck when he next spoke.

“You must leave. Go far from this place.”

Leave? No. Why? Home, safe, food.

“Dangerous.” Trying to express complicated ideas, he knew, would be futile. They wouldn’t understand that the humans wouldn’t be content for a pack to live so close or that the chickens and calves the humans kept weren’t for wolves to eat. “Two leg territory. Hate wolf.”

There were grumblings, ears and tails flicking.

Where? This home.

“West.” He’d just come from there, there were deeper woods closer to the western mountains and fewer human settlements. “Safer. Much food. Deer, rabbit.”

More grumblings came but looking like one of them and sounding like one of them worked in his favour. Crowley knew he had them when the adults turned their heads west. Unsure, still, but at least convinced enough.

“Go,” he urged. “Go.”

And they went, the adults scooping up the pups into their mouths and tails disappearing into the underbrush. The moment he could not hear them anymore, Crowley breathed a sigh of relief and let most of the spells he’d been holding onto go. They dropped off him like water, the feeling almost akin to disrobing after a long day. Or perhaps shedding one’s skin. He was lighter with just the one spell he kept going most of the year and could breathe easy.

Though Crowley only allowed himself a moment of rest before clambering to his feet. He had to slouch a little, his six feet and some change height doing him no favours here, and turned his attention to the dead wolf. It had been an adult, past its prime if the shaggy look of the coat was anything to go by, and the largest of them. He could understand why Jacob might have thought it was a dire wolf, especially if he'd never seen a real one. The pack would have to choose a new leader now, but Crowley was confident they’d be fine if they heeded his advice.

It was going to be a messy business taking its head, but needs must. So Crowley got to work. He used a knife he kept sharp just for this sort of thing - though he usually used it after hunting - and cut around the massive head first. The blade slipped cleanly through fur and skin and meat all the way to the bone. He cut the tendons and then, with a grimace, straddled the body and gave the head a sharp twist.

It came off messy yet neat, and Crowley wrinkled his nose at the smell. It wasn't so much metallic as… rotting. Desperately wanting to bathe and change his clothes, Crowley gathered his things and headed back the way he came, the wolven head in tow.

By the time he reached the road back to town, the sun was beginning to set, the air cooling even further into a frosty night. He'd left the body of the wolf, just in case farmer Jacob decided he wanted to go have a look. It would also lend to his credibility.

Though it wasn't needed. The village elder didn't even question whether the wolf head hanging from his belt was a real dire wolf or not. The old man took one look at it and turned positively green. The rest of the money was shoved into his hands, and Crowley was directed to leave the head at the butcher's door. Apparently he would know what to do with it.

Crowley did as asked and, tired and dirty as he was, retired to the little shed he'd rented out from the bare-bones tavern. They were too small and had too few travellers to have rooms available, but there was a well out back he could draw water from to wash his clothes instead of relying on his accursed gifts, and the hay was comfortable. Crowley was used to sleeping near his mare - Bentley - on their various journeys, and at least the shed had a roof. There would be no waking to any sudden torrential downpours tonight.

And when the morning dawned bright and early, Crowley was tacking his horse for another day or two of riding. He preferred sleeping later but… staying in this tiny town now that he had his payment wasn't an option. If anyone with actual knowledge about dire wolves saw that head or found the body… they would know, and he would be questioned. Better to leave now and be long gone. Just in case.

His early morning meant he saw the elder taking down the sign in front of the tavern asking for help with the wolf and putting up another.

Curiosity piqued, and against his better judgement, Crowley glanced at the new page. It was whiter and nicer than the advert about the wolf. It was also written in a fancy script.

Oh. Was it that time of year? Crowley's head tilted in thought. He was usually off elsewhere when the yearly royal tournament was held and hadn't ever had a chance to participate before.

He'd always wanted to, though.

Being a knight had perks. People trusted knights implicitly, even when they were actually big ol’ wankers. He could get better jobs, travel more freely and with less scrutiny, and the prize money wasn't anything to sneeze at either… Though the advert didn’t explicitly say how much that prize was worth - or that there was one - it was well-known throughout the kingdom that the royals handed out a hefty sum to the winner alongside that title. And land sometimes, too. A knighthood and money and land… one could do a lot with that.

It wasn't a difficult decision. Crowley was confident in his abilities and how he could supplement them where he lacked. And, well, Berwick wasn't all that far from here.

With his mind made up and the images of falling gold coins in his eyes, Crowley mounted his horse and headed out. What could possibly go wrong?

The man who looked like the prince, sounded like the prince, and had the prince’s guard paid for two rounds of ale for the entire pub and complimented the stew with gusto before he finally left. He didn't take the person he'd walked in with, but that wasn't unusual.

Staying, unfortunately, could be very dangerous indeed. More now than before, his stormy-eyed gaze drifting towards the castle at the heart of town.

“Your Highness seems less enthused than usual today.”

“Do I? Deepest apologies, Sir.”

“I know you’re worried about your mother,” his guard said lowly, the queen’s ill health unspoken of outside castle walls. “It’s alright to not have your usual cheer.”

He very much didn’t. Usually, they’d stay for far more than two rounds and one round of whatever the cook had made that day. The hardy stew had been delicious and would’ve normally enticed him to keep cosied up to the bar for some time. He likely would’ve even taken another person up the stairs, depending on whether or not someone made the mistake of addressing him by his title. He wasn’t Your Highness or even Prince Aziraphale when he came into the town proper, but Mr. Fell. He liked it that way. He appreciated the anonymity even while he recognised that it held a falseness to it.

It was good of the proprietor and the people who saw him most often to give him even that. A sign of his father’s influence, most likely. He took after the man so strongly, particularly as he’d grown older. Looking at the portraits and tapestries of the late King Jehoel was like looking into a mirror nowadays, the only thing which had helped quash the rumours that he wasn’t the late king’s son at all.

Then again, the most superstitious and the most against his mother’s unusual rule still whispered about Changelings and the Fae.

What would they say when they learned his mother had fallen ill? When she stopped demanding her deteriorating condition remain a secret? By all accounts from those who had been within the castle walls when his father had fallen ill, it was exactly the same. As a young boy, he’d often found his small hand in hers, had often marvelled over the softness of her palms. The last time he’d held her hand, it had been hard. The palm even more calloused than his own when he was the one who regularly practised with a sword and shield now. The Warrior Queen had fallen out of that habit.

She also developed lesions on her skin, her dresses made up of darker fabrics to conceal the blood spots when he’d grown up holding skirts of creamy gold or pure white. She also complained of cramps, would vomit even bread and water some days, and had developed odd patches to her skin. No salves or creams had solved them, so she covered them too when they couldn’t readily be healed.

Aziraphale could only help so much, but he could soothe her stomach and gentle the cramping and heal the lesions no one saw. Temporary relief, but nothing as permanent as she deserved. Nothing that would keep her going as strong and as vibrant as she’d been his entire life to this point. No matter how many times he reached in, he just couldn't see what part of her body was causing this illness. It was the most frustrating sort of thing, being unable to help her even with the gifts - curses, depending on who one asked - he’d been born with.

“Highness?”

“I’m failing her, Raphael. We should be celebrating Michael’s return. The future queen is back in the family castle, finally to stay. And with the tournament soon, the streets should be alive with celebration. Yet…” He sighed, fingertips hotter than they ought to have been until he quelled the heat. “Everyone is carrying on as normal.”

“Your sister would detest a grand celebration in her honour.”

“Would she?” Aziraphale asked, his guard’s wry grin saying more than words. She loved being the centre of attention, Michael. That had become very obvious very quickly, even on the few occasions they’d seen one another growing up. He envied her in some ways, something she seemed to enjoy very much. She’d grown up with their father’s side of the family, knowing their grandparents in a way Aziraphale never would as they’d passed only a year ago now. From Michael’s letter, they’d been ill for some time. His mother hadn’t let him go visit, them always having to come to Berwick instead. In Aziraphale’s opinion, it hadn’t been a fair request with them being so much older. As much as he'd detested his one and only visit to Hewin, so much travel couldn’t be good for their health. Unfortunately, she’d never been particularly fond of the idea of Aziraphale going anywhere. His only peacekeeping tour had been after their deaths, their funeral the excuse he’d been able to use, and he’d been burdened by so many attendants, he’d hardly been able to experience the villages they’d stopped at.

Yet Michael had seen every inch of their lands, had gone on many peacekeeping tours and even participated in a few battles. Aziraphale’s experience with weaponry had been relegated to practice and sparring sessions with knights and tournament participants. So, yes, he envied Michel her experience.

At least he had more memories of their mother. With her illness progressing, those were things he would cherish and things no one would ever take away from him.

“You aren’t failing her, Your Highness. You’ve failed no one.”

“I’m not so sure everyone would agree with that assessment, Sir.”

“Well. To the devils with them, then.”

The laugh felt good if not entirely deserved, but he could at least turn towards home with a little more cheer. No need for his mother to know he was worrying so. He wouldn’t want her to begin fretting over him as she’d done throughout his childhood. Each and every bump and scrape had been attended to until he’d simply gotten tired of and overwhelmed by all of the attention and had begun to hide his hurts from her. He’d hidden much from her in his life. Nearly as much as he’d hidden from the rest of the kingdom, but those things he'd withheld from his mother were far less likely to see him killed or banished.

The hiding was tiring, though, and he so often wished that those he took to bed weren’t fleeting. One day, perhaps, when he didn’t have so much else to worry him, he could properly turn his attention to courting.

One day.

Chapter Text

“We’ve received news from your uncle.”

“Oh?”

There was a sore on their mother’s face, hidden by a carefully adorned veil. Aziraphale hadn’t had a chance to tend to it before dinner, Michael monopolising as much of the queen’s time as she could. Learning from her, Aziraphale hoped, before it was too late.

“He should arrive within a fortnight.” That hung for a moment, Aziraphale quietly uncertain and Michael sitting up straighter, before she added, “I think we’ll have a ball.”

Aziraphale blinked at her, scent flaring in alarm. “Mother. We mustn’t.”

Her brows lifted high. “And why, pray tell, mustn’t we?”

“Mother, really-”

Michael’s tsk interrupted his protests. “You’d rob our mother of an opportunity to attend to her queenly duties while able?”

He didn’t glare at her only because it would be rude, instead carefully dabbing a linen at his lips to brush away imaginary crumbs. Really, it gave him a moment to compose himself. It wouldn't do to get himself worked up. He wouldn’t be taken seriously by any means. “It isn’t about that, Michael. I only want to avoid her exhausting herself. I have every right to express my concern.”

“And I have every right to question you when your opinions could be damaging to this family’s reputation.”

“That’s enough now, children.” Her own meal had only been poked at, food not eaten so much as moved about, but the spoon she clanged against the fine plate was enough to garner attention. “Aziraphale, I understand and respect your concern. However, I will not tolerate any questions of my authority. If I say a ball is due, one is due. I am still queen.”

He pressed his lips together. Michael looked smug. “Yes, mother.”

He wondered if they would also be celebrating his sister's return, but didn't voice it. Michael didn't either, but he could see the desire to do so in her light fidgeting. Michael was rarely entirely quiet unless she was thinking very hard on a way to phrase something in order to frame herself in the best light possible. There was no polite way to ask for something as grand as a ball for oneself. So quiet she stayed.

Their mother, however, filled the silence with plans. A scentless masquerade, invitations sent out far and wide immediately. The food she rattled off were her favourites, the idea of dancing her preference rather than that of their uncle's. Even having a masquerade was something she enjoyed. Their uncle preferred knowing exactly who he was speaking to at all times and always had. He'd be furious to learn his mother would be opening the doors for even the commoners of Berwick.

By the time Aziraphale’s plate was cleared, he knew this wasn't a welcome for Uncle Met at all. It especially wasn't one for Michael. It was a farewell from their queen. She'd accepted that her death was near. Aziraphale couldn't.

He knocked on her door later that night, cracking it open when he was bid entry. 

“Mother, you've let your fire die out,” he sighed, stepping inside. He closed the door behind him when she smiled, the mark on her cheek warping in the shadows and drawing the eye. Aziraphale carefully ignored it as he crossed the room. A flick of his wrist had the fireplace roaring to life, illuminating his mother's pale skin. She hadn't always been so fair. In the portraits with his father, she was tanned and grinning boldly. A pillar of strength beside a man who smiled so warmly. They were unique for that alone, smiles so rare in portraiture. He looked at it often, though less as he'd gotten older, and ached now to even think about it.

“Perhaps I knew you would come tonight.”

She always seemed to know. From his birth, she'd seemed to know everything. If he hadn't known she lacked magic, he would've been positive she had some sort of Sight.

“How could I not? Uncle's on his way, Michael spends so much of your days with you, and now you've gotten it into your head to host a grand masquerade.” He sat at her feet when she bid it, feeling far too much like a child when she began to stroke his curls. “Let me send someone off to find healers. Proper ones with far more training than what I have. There's still time.”

“Aziraphale... No amount of healers helped your father.”

“There are new ones now. Possibly even new methods. We-”

“How might these new methods develop? When children with magical inclinations are slaughtered by townsfolk or banished with the hopes that the elements will handle the brutal deed? Whispers are so easily lost to the winds.”

Her body may have been failing, but her mind was still sharp. “We can do more peacekeeping tours. Put the right words in more ears. There's no reason for magic to be distrusted so. Our ancestors have been proven wrong time and again for their infernal biases.”

“Magic is a weapon.”

“It’s a tool,” he insisted. “Like any farmer's scythe, it's only a weapon when wielded as such. We don't outlaw scythes because we see their use each and every harvest season. Magic is the same.”

“Clever one,” she said quietly and he sighed.

It wasn't fair to press like this. She was both his queen and his mother. Questioning her in certain matters was inappropriate. Still, he needed to hear it. “Why are you so ready to go?”

“You know why.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes, resting his cheek on her knee as he'd done countless times across the years. If he focused now, he could feel her aches and pains. He pushed warmth into her, disliking the chill that seemed to settle into her very bones. He fought against the lesion on her face, encouraging her skin to come back together. So her smile could come a little easier. How they had when she and her mate had gotten their portraits done so many years ago.

He did know why. He wanted to ask why he wasn't enough to fill that hole, why his sister wasn't, why her queenly duties weren't. But the only place he'd ever seen that bold, free grin had been in a painting or woven into tapestries. Nothing and no one had ever or would ever be enough to replace who she'd lost. 

“What if I'm not ready to lose you?”

“You are, my gift. You're more ready than anyone to move forward without my interference.”

“Mother...” He highly disagreed with that. Yes, he wouldn't mind her letting him go a bit so he could freely see Celestria. He wanted to see the kingdom she'd taught him how to rule since birth. The things Michael was seeking from her now were the things he'd heard all his life, and he would love more opportunities to see the lands she knew and spoke of with such love. She loved this kingdom with all her soul, and had instilled the same love in Aziraphale. “I don't see why moving forward should also mean leaving you behind.”

“I know you don't understand, Aziraphale, but you will one day. I have the utmost faith in you.”

That made one of them. “I’m still going to heal you as much as I'm able.”

She laughed, the sound low and warm. “I won't stop you.”

Two Weeks Later…

Berwick was so much larger than Crowley ever expected. The walls were tall, the gates massive, and even the buildings seemed bigger than they had any right to be. He was used to villages - small towns - not massive, fuck-off cities with whole bloody regiments of guards. Yes, he'd known Berwick was the capital and the largest city in the kingdom, but it was one thing to know and quite another to experience.

There were also so many people. He'd never seen crowds like this in his life.

It was invigorating.

There was a life, a buzz, about the place that small settlements just didn't seem to have, even during festivals. All these people living and working and sharing their lives made an imprint on the place that he could almost feel beneath his skin. A magic all its own, the magic of life.

Crowley took his time wandering the streets, head swivelling left and right so much that he almost made himself dizzy. There was so much to see - shops selling all manner of goods, traders and crafters peddling wares. He stopped momentarily to listen to a small group on a street corner playing music and watched passersby flick coins into a hat in front of them.

And the smells - the food - he wanted to stop at every stall and pub and try everything. He made himself wait for that. Finding a place to stay was priority number one, and he'd heard that people came from all over to attend the yearly spring tourney. The inns would be packed soon.

Not that Crowley had ever come to Berwick before, let alone during a tournament. Usually around now he would be heading eastward, to Agnes's place, where he could hunker down in the cabin on her land and ride out omega hormones in peace.

Luckily he still had some time before that started, and it should be plenty to finish this tournament and get there before nature made his magic a moot point. He could put off a heat for some time but not indefinitely. One way or another, nature would take its course, and Agnes had always warned that going against nature was a fight in futility.

He wasn’t in nature now, though, and the inn he settled on was decidedly middle-of-the-road. The recommendations he’d asked for had had to mostly be thrown out. He hadn’t wanted the best inn or the fanciest or the most popular - as those places tended to be busy and over-priced - but he also didn’t want the dirtiest and cheapest. Something average, something normal, something entirely unremarkable was in order and, while it took some time, he eventually found it.

The Waddling Duck Inn consisted of a large communal room, a bar in the back, and a staircase leading up to what he could assume were rooms. It was mostly empty except for a few customers at small tables and a woman cleaning pints behind the bar. It was clean, for the most part. Not brightly lit but not dark, either. The patrons were either drinking or playing cards or both (mostly both), and there was a small stage barely big enough for three people to stand on to one side that was empty but for an old ratty hat.

And it was just the sort of place Crowley had been looking for.

He swiftly paid for a room for long enough to finish the tournament, giving the barkeep just enough small talk to determine she was a beta who ran the place with her wife (who was the woman he'd met in the stables) and that he'd gotten there right before they anticipated the rush for the tournament. She even threw in free meals since he was paying for so long a stay. He was led to a room that he wouldn't have to share with anyone else, learning that the area was relatively private and not terribly far from the tournament grounds.

Now he just needed to sign up.

“Your Highness, if you're going to stare pensively at every person who comes to the table, we'll never fill our tournament.”

Aziraphale lifted his brows, meeting Raphael's amused gaze. “I don't believe I've scared anyone off. And,” he continued before his guard could say otherwise, “if I have, they're clearly not worth it.”

“We always need losers to fill spots, Highness. Perhaps you'll sign up this year.”

Would he if he could. “You’re being ridiculous,” Aziraphale scoffed as he rose. “I’m in no need of the reward money.”

“So sure you would win, are you?”

“I have trained with the best, Sir.” With Raphael most recently, but he'd always had his pick of knights. His mother had never explained why she believed he needed to know how to hold his own when he wasn’t permitted beyond Berwick’s lands alone, but he hadn't shirked his lessons. “I believe my uncle would throw quite the fit should I sign up.”

“Without any doubt,” Raphael said quietly, the closest he would get to badmouthing any of the royal family in public. Even the in-laws.

“Quite. But if my supposed negative attitude is driving so many hopeful combatants away, I'll see about fetching us a pint.”

He turned away quickly, mindful of the fact that Raphael wasn't supposed to allow him anywhere on his own. Mindful, too, that his guard gave him quite a bit of freedom. He understood better than anyone how little of it his mother had given him in his life and how adept Aziraphale was with the sword he kept at his hip.

Days like this required a certain amount of presentation, even his rarely worn crown atop his white-blond curls. He used to follow his mother to the tournament sign-ups. He could remember her laughing with the knights, could remember her making quiet wagers on who would advance and who wouldn't. She won those bets far more often than any knight would confess to, but Aziraphale had never been one to participate in the gambling. He enjoyed being surprised by people, all too aware of what it was like to be underestimated. Were he one for wagers, he likely would've bet against his mother each time.

He wished his mother was there and not tucked away in the castle, but she'd awakened in pain and had been unable to keep her breakfast down. He'd soothed her as much as he'd been able, and Michael had said the outdoors were no place for her. Not with the chill of winter still clinging tightly to the days. Even the sun couldn't quite chase away the frost.

The cold wasn't a factor to her illness, though, and Aziraphale had needed to bite back the fact that he could keep her warm regardless. He didn't like it, but he understood that his abilities had to be kept secret from his father's side of the family. And, as a result, from Michael. He wasn't going to reveal himself now - he didn't want to add even more stress to his mother - but it still grated.

The pubkeep greeted him by his title, the smirk curving lips just a smidge knowing as they all pretended he'd never been there in his life. It boosted his spirits nonetheless, so he was smiling as he returned to the table just in time to see a ginger approaching Raphael.

Long, richly coloured ginger hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, the waves rolling down to the small of their back. The red jerkin they wore seemed simply made, but of finely tooled leather. Black was a rarely seen shade beyond the wealthy - his own family's preference notwithstanding - so it was a surprise to see the dark colours on both shirt and trousers and heeled boots. The midnight tinted spectacles were also an unusual sight, even in Berwick, and they fascinated him instantly. 

The freckled skin, lean build, and little array of weapons and pouches on his belt fascinated as well, but Aziraphale’s eyes kept returning to the hair. He wanted to bury his hands in it. Use it to pull their head back and sink his fangs into the long column of their throat. Desire wasn't new for him, nor was attraction. He'd never been ashamed of his enjoyment of sex, however much some might think he ought, but it was very rare that he felt the urge to bite. He could count those encounters on one hand, yet his fangs had never punctured anyone before. Not at a place where the mark would stay anyway. Bonding was different. Bonding was for someone who would give him more than a rush or two of pleasure, and those who'd instilled that initial desire hadn't yet been able to reach that standard.

He wanted, though he hadn't been given the privilege to see it, what his parents had shared. He wouldn't settle for less.

Raphael noticed him first and rose. “Your Highness,” he greeted, “just in time to meet our newest challenger. He hasn't been to Berwick before.”

“No?” Aziraphale smiled, letting his scent unfurl a little. The warmth of smoky myrrh, sweet vanilla, and creamy toffee was usually enough to pique the interest of whomever had piqued Aziraphale’s. Even betas could at least smell him, even if they didn't have the instincts an alpha or omega did. “I do hope our city is able to live up to any expectations you may have placed on it.”

Crowley immediately stood up straighter (and not only because of the rich and smokey scent that waffed past his nose and made him want to lean in). Highness. He wasn't so pedestrian that he didn't know there was a prince and princess; he'd just never actually expected to meet either of them. And he definitely hadn't expected either of them to be handsome. The prince's blond curls framed a cherubic face which boasted eyes that didn't seem to want to be either blue or green, but something stormy and between both colours. Though the blue and white velvet he wore would have given away his status even if it hadn't been explicitly stated. His clothes were too finely tailored and neat to be anyone other than wealthy. That and the delicate crown of leaves that sat atop his curls. The talents he had suddenly felt much more dangerous in the face of royalty. Crowley's jaw clenching a little was the only outward expression of his sudden nervousness. “It’s definitely exceeded them, Your Highness.”

“That’s lovely to hear. We've certainly grown in my lifetime.” Aziraphale drew nearer, setting both mugs on the table before turning towards the newcomer. If there was a scent to him, it was difficult to find. Something that hinted at flowers, but he could be no more certain than that. Stronger was the scent of horse and travel. He may have worn the colours of wealth, but that was where any such impression started and ended. 

Aziraphale still wanted to bite him. He already wanted to find and trace patterns in his freckles, the spots utterly charming. “You’ve only come for the tournament?”

“Yup,” Crowley said with a little pop on the ‘p’. The prince was looking at him so intently, it was almost a little unnerving. He knew from experience that the spell he had woven around him wasn't something detectable, but now he was worried. “Just happened to be in the area, and it sounded like a fun time.”

“It can be that. I've been watching all my life. Sir Raphael here has won each and every tournament he's participated in, but we've seen quite a bit of talent come through our gates.”

“Which is why I’m not joining this year. Let a new person win.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Your gifts in battle are only surpassed by your humbleness, Sir.”

One of Crowley's hands landed casually on the pommel of his longsword. “That’s a shame. I like a challenge.”

Aziraphale positively beamed at him. As if the sun had lended him some of its light. “Confidence will get you far here, Sir…?”

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley. No ‘Sir’, not yet. Just a travelling swordsman using my talents to do what I can.”

“Ah! Many knights have come from this tournament over the years, so perhaps this one will be yours, Mr. Crowley. And if you'd like to see a bit of what you're up against, there are sparring sessions here and there on the castle grounds. Perhaps Sir Raphael will honour you with a challenge.”

Raphael had been privy to enough of Aziraphale’s flirting over the years that he didn't argue. Technically only knights were allowed on the grounds, but a royal invitation was a royal invitation. “It would be a pleasure. I'm sure you've come across many different fighting styles in your travels.”

The sparring sessions at least sounded like good chances to feel out the competition. So long as he didn't give away too much of his own training. “Ah, a few.” He didn't want to come off as a smarmy wanker, after all. “Honesty a lot of what people need is punks who don't know you stick ‘em with the pointy end taught a lesson or two.”

“Then you're welcome to test your metal tomorrow afternoon. I'll ensure the guards at the castle gates have your name, Mr. Crowley.”

Aziraphale’s eyes sparkled a bit. “I may have to take a peek. Newcomers are always… intriguing.”

Something felt… off. The prince's attention was a little too pointed, and he didn't know what him sharing a look with his knight was supposed to mean. “I don’t know if it'll be that interesting, but far be it from me to tell Your Highness what to do.”

Aziraphale didn't mind when partners were a little bossy in bed. He enjoyed hearing what they wanted, what pleased them. “Don’t fret, my dear. I'm not offended by refusals, and I've never been put off by someone willing to speak their mind. Sir Raphael would hardly still be my personal guard were my sensibilities more delicate.”

“Then I'll speak my mind now, Highness, and tell you to sit. Mr. Crowley wasn't quite finished answering my questions for the sign-up.”

“Of course, yes. I'd hate to keep you longer than you'd like.”

How interesting. He'd never expected a prince to be so casual. His lack of a bow hadn't even been mentioned. “It’s fine. I don't have anything else to do today.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale purred, sinking into his seat beside Sir Raphael. He sat on the simple piece of wood as if it were a throne, back straight and shoulders squared evenly.

“Ngk- y-yeah.” What was he even doing talking to someone like Crowley? He was a bloody prince and Crowley… well, he was nobody. “Just, you know, seeing the sights.”

“Well, I would be happy to-”

“Your Highness,” Raphael interrupted, brows arched, “we are committed to this for the day.”

Ah, yes. Responsibilities couldn't be neglected, unfortunately. And he couldn't spend time with this new person in the hopes of a distraction from the issues within the castle. “I would be happy,” he began again, “to tell you about some of my favourite places if you'd like.”

“Er… s-sure. You probably know the city pretty well, after all.”

“I do indeed. It'd be terribly dull to spend all of my time in the castle.” Which was very true, and he did at least enjoy chatting about the city he'd grown up in. It was such a unique place to be, so unlike anything he'd seen during his peacekeeping tour. The biggest on that route had been half Berwick’s size. Safer that way, he was sure. 

He cheerfully spoke of his favourite pubs and why, his preferred places to dine, the best times to visit the market that was set up every morning near the castle gates. Things had been sparse over winter, but they should be looking up soon. He even suggested a few inns that had rooms, though they would fill soon enough with a high number of anticipated visitors. For both the tournament and the impending ball, though he didn't mention the latter. He didn't think to, the masquerade not nearly as exciting to him as the annual tournament. That was an event which could truly change lives.

Aziraphale didn't realise, but he also came alive when he spoke of the city and its people. His eyes shone with simple delight and a quiet pride, the intensity of his regard for Crowley vanishing beneath the awe that he got to be a part of Berwick. It was not the typical way of nobles, let alone rulers. He shouldn't have known as much as he did about individuals. He shouldn't have known so much about the commoners. Regal were his clothes and his posture and his speech, but those were outer trappings. Within, he often felt as common as anyone else walking the streets.

“Have you a horse?” he eventually asked, mind drifting towards stables.

“Oh, erm- yeah. I do.” It was… odd. Very odd. The prince had favourite pubs. He talked about the city like he walked it every day, like he actually came down into the market and interacted with people like a person. He couldn't wrap his head around it. “She’s stabled in the inn I'm staying at.”

“Oh, a mare. What’s her name?”

“Um… it's Bentley.”

“A lovely name for a horse, I think. Very unique.”

Agnes had said it sounded like a fool name for a horse but that was Agnes speak for ‘it’s fine as is’. He'd only realised later a more apt name would have been ‘Demon’ for how willing she was to bite when she was in a bad mood. “Thanks… It was in a story I heard as a kid and it always stuck with me.”

“Childhood tales do have a strong tendency to stay in the mind,” Aziraphale mused, mind drifting back to his mother. There was a flicker, a dark cloud passing by before the sun returned to his smile. “I wonder if the storytellers know how much they’ll affect us even in adulthood.”

“Oh, probably. I mean, they were kids once right?”

“Sometimes I find that more difficult to imagine than others.”

That didn't make much sense, but so far, not a lot did about this prince anyway. “I suppose so… but, er, Sir Raphael, was there anything else you needed from me?”

“Nothing I can't acquire should you join me tomorrow afternoon.” He gestured towards Aziraphale, smile quietly amused. “Prince Aziraphale will gleefully chat your ears off if you let him, so don't be afraid to tell him you need to be off.”

It wasn't that he needed to be off; it was just… a member of the royal family, a prince, talking to him like he was someone interesting was both utterly terrifying and entirely removed from anything he'd ever experienced. Hells, he was pretty sure some of that had been flirting, and even the thought of that made his head spin. “I mean, I don't have anywhere I need to be. I just… wouldn't want to take up your time.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened, but Raphael sighed. “Go on, Mr. Crowley. You've an entire city to explore. Don't encourage His Highness.”

“Right- Yes.” Crowley straightened up, nervous, but didn't want to offend royalty. “Thank you, Sir, Your Highness.” He gave a polite incline of his head and absolutely did not run away. He turned and walked, like an entirely normal civilised person who had not just listened to the Prince of Celestria give him restaurant recommendations. 

“Stop looking at his arse, Your Highness.”

“Hips, actually.” Shameless, Aziraphale didn't avert his gaze. “He walks as if he's trying very hard not to fall down, and I'm not entirely sure why I find it attractive.”

“I have my opinions on that, but you do have full authority to order my execution.”

The laugh felt very good.

With a room paid for and his place in the tournament assured, Crowley had the rest of the day to himself. He had nowhere to be until the following morning, which gave him plenty of time to do some proper looking around. The recommendations from the prince were still rattling around his skull, and they seemed like the easiest places to start.

One would expect a prince to suggest restaurants with expensive tastes and supposedly high but actually subpar quality, somewhere Crowley’s meagre funds couldn’t afford and his sensibilities would scoff at. He wasn’t broke, necessarily, but paying for his own room and boarding his horse had taken most of his coin, so what he had left would need to last until he had the tournament win under his belt. So it was with the idea of just looking that he found the various eateries and taverns Celestria’s only prince had suggested.

Crowley had not been prepared for what he actually found. Small, unobtrusive, hole-in-the-wall restaurants - often without basic seating, taverns tucked in out-of-the-way places, a bloody food cart whose proprietor apparently changed where he parked almost daily, meaning that finding him was nothing short of an act of the gods’ collective will and luck.

Fortunately, Crowley hadn’t needed gods or luck when he was willing to ask as many people as it took to find such a thing. The prince had said it was one of his favourite places, yet it was just grilled meat and vegetables on a stick.

There was no way Crowley wasn’t going to get one just to try it, still a little amazed, a little astonished. He was even more surprised when it was good. The meat almost melted right in his mouth, the vegetables just the right mix of soft and crunchy that was almost impossible to get. It was hot and good and cost almost nothing, the little old man that ran it grinning with just one tooth at Crowley’s raised eyebrows and wide eyes.

“Were’n expec’in’ that, were ya?” he asked, grin stretching from ear to ear.

Crowley shook his head and leaned against the little cart, the mule used to pull it munching a stray weed which had tried to grow up between the street’s cobbles. “Not at all. Good first meal in the city, too.”

That raised the old man’s bushy eyebrows. “Firs’? Whooee, boy, you go’ lucky.”

“I prefer to think of it as fate.”

The old man laughed. “Still, you showed up at a righ’ in’erestin’ time. For the tournamen’, I assume.” This was said with a pointed look to the sword that hung from his hip.

“Yup. Why interesting, though?”

“There’s change in the air,” he said with a look skyward as a small breeze blew. “Queen’s ill. Same sickness as the late king, iffin rumours are true. The princess returns, the firs’ ball in... oh, ages now, has been announced. Jes in’erestin’.”

Crowley hummed around a mouthful of beef and green pepper. That was interesting. “So I guess the queen will likely go the way of her husband.”

The old man shrugged, but looked around before leaning in. “Didn’ hear this from me, but whispers say she’s in a bad way. ‘S why she called the princess home, to pass on the crown.”

It was possible and even likely. Best to have the next in line near when it was time to, hopefully, have a smooth handover. That was assuming everything went according to plan. If there was a plan, and surely there was? Crowley hoped there was; political upheaval always hurt the common folk the worst. “A ball sounds interesting too.”

“Oh, yes,” the old man said with an eager nod, no longer lowering his voice or leaning in to do so. “Me children were still young the las’ time we had a royal ball. The announcement said t’would be a masquerade. Oh, me wife loved the masquerades. We’ll have to dig out our old masks.”

Crowley bobbed his head, eating and only half-listening to the man. A masquerade did sound fun, and it wasn’t like he’d ever been any kind of ball before. The fact that the castle would apparently be wide open for guests - commoners - was also intriguing.

Agnes had always said his insatiable curiosity would get him in trouble one day.

The fortnight had passed too swiftly in Aziraphale’s opinion. He did what he could for his mother’s wounds, frustrated and aching for the way they seemed to open from within. As if whatever infernal disease was trying to burst free of her. She let him heal her at night. In the morning if need be.

The healing had always come easily. Something his mother had said had held true for his father as well. From what little she understood of magic, those with inherent flames were more capable of healing than those of the other three elements. Those who adapted best to the earth were more capable of connecting with animals. Water mages could perform the rather gruesome task of reanimating a corpse or forcing living persons to move how they wished - or capable of restarting hearts entirely, if Aziraphale’s research was correct, and if the mage was there quickly enough. Frightful thoughts for something which seemed as delicate as water, but as good or evil as the intentions behind them. Air users had an innate ability to alter the weather at a whim. He’d read that, with enough training, an air mage could create a raincloud between their palms for a source of freshwater. Unfortunately, those who were born with air magic flowing through them were the easiest to spot and the most in danger. Unless they remembered to allow it, no breeze would ruffle their hair or tug at clothes.

In some places, he’d heard, water mages were found by forcible drownings and fire ones like himself sought by setting a person ablaze. Those practices had been banned officially before Aziraphale’s birth. The official reason had been to avoid continued deaths of innocents, but the unofficial reason had been to prevent the finding of actual mages in those barbaric ways.

Not that an official law stopped some.

In any case, it was very difficult to locate an earth mage, but many common healers were very careful about their use of herbs lest they be accused of wielding more than an average skill in gardening. Such fear, in Aziraphale’s opinion, stunted progress. Who knew what herbs could be used for what if people were too afraid to study them to the fullest? Perhaps something could be used by his mother to cure her, something more substantial than Aziraphale’s untrained skills. A better natural healer he may have been, but he felt as if he would be better at it with actual training. An actual fellow mage to learn from.

As far as he knew, no one in or around the castle was a mage. His mother had never told him otherwise, and he hoped anyone within these walls who knew about his own magic wouldn’t be afraid to come forward. They had to know he wouldn’t harm them.

“We shouldn’t do this in the morning any longer,” Frances murmured, smiling at the wide-eyed look Aziraphale snapped in her direction. A far cry from the yawn and drooping eyelids which had prompted the words. “You don’t sleep enough to justify tiring yourself further with magic use.”

“I’ll sleep longer,” he promised. “Retire earlier in the evening.”

She ruffled his curls before nudging him away from her bedside so she could rise. “Send for my handmaiden. Your uncle is due today, and I doubt he’ll tolerate my being ill-prepared to receive him.”

“He likely won’t.” Aziraphale rose, holding back his next yawn. It was true that using so much magic as of late had proven to be exhausting. He wasn’t used to using it so much. As he’d gotten older, he’d gotten more nervous about using his power without proper training. He could hurt someone, after all, and would never forgive himself for dangerous recklessness. One day, he hoped to find a teacher. “I haven’t seen him in so long, it’s difficult to say what exactly he’ll say or feel.”

“He’s trained Michael well.”

He blinked at her back as she opened her armoire, unsure if that was a compliment or insult. She could say things in such a tone that they could be taken either way, and that wasn’t only because Aziraphale wasn’t as good at reading people as he ought to have been. He’d seen too many members of the royal court give his mother puzzled looks to believe he was the only one she could confuse. “She’s very polite.”

“And so is your uncle. Nothing like your father.”

That was an insult. Aziraphale nodded. “I think, considering how different Michael seems to be from me, that siblings aren’t guaranteed to be similar.”

“They aren’t. You remember the rule about your uncle, don’t you?”

It was the same rule he had to follow around Michael. His magic was to be kept quiet. “Yes, mother.”

“Good. Go fetch my handmaiden.”

“Yes, mother.” He couldn’t ignore the order a second time, so left the room and began to search for a servant. One was never far from his mother, though they had more freedom here than they did at his uncle’s home.

He ruled a city - a march - called Hewin, which was two weeks directly east of Berwick. Two weeks with a carriage and procession, anyway, as his uncle tended to prefer. He never travelled without a full caravan of servants and knights. Two carriages as he couldn’t possibly travel alongside his belongings, an attitude Aziraphale had never understood. When he’d gone to Hewin as a young pup, he’d only taken one carriage and it had felt excessive.

On his peacekeeping tour, he’d only had one and he’d travelled much longer than two weeks. He’d also been forced to sleep in the homes of nobility along the way, which had been nearly as bad as an extra carriage would’ve been. He’d spent most of that trip on the back of his horse, but hadn’t been able to get away with it as a boy.

Going to Hewin had been a miserable affair, though. As eager and desperate as he’d been to see the lands beyond Berwick, he’d been twice as eager and desperate to return home after only a few weeks with his uncle. The castle Hewin boasted wasn’t as large or grand as his mother’s, but that hadn’t been the issue. It had been the treatment of the staff, the servants shocked and uncomfortable whenever Aziraphale had acknowledged them. His uncle and sister had ignored them at every turn unless something was wrong. Punishment was a swiftly ordered and executed thing in their castle, and turnover had been unbearably high. In three weeks, he’d seen twice that many be dismissed and didn’t understand why.

By the end of those weeks, he’d been even more lonely than normal as every member of staff was too afraid to speak to him and he hadn’t wanted to risk it either lest he get them into trouble. Leaving the castle to explore the city proper had also been out of his reach as guards had whisked him right back inside each and every time he’d tried. Raphael hadn’t been his personal guard yet and the one who’d gone along with him had been as privy to his status as a mage as his uncle and sister. So even she hadn’t been much of a reprieve from the loneliness as he hadn’t been able to confide in her. 

He’d also found that not using magic for extended periods of time had made his stomach tighten and his skin itch. He’d also started to feel a sharp stinging, intense enough to double him over at the dinner table one of his last nights there. His uncle had been very irritated with him, sending him to bed without supper, and he’d buried himself in the fireplace after a maid had lit it that night. Only then had he felt better. And when he’d described some of the sensations to his mother later, she’d told him that was what burning felt like.

His father had felt that, she’d told him. When he’d been in the very same castle under the very same rules and the very same fears of being discovered, he’d let himself get that sick. Magic, she’d said, wasn’t meant to be suppressed.

A little ball of flame appeared between Aziraphale’s palms as he wandered the halls of the castle he’d grown up in. He tossed it from hand to hand with idle flicks of his wrist, an eye always out for his sister. It was a shame he couldn’t share this with her. If she had her way, magic would continue to be suppressed and its users squashed. He didn’t know how he was supposed to stop her from restoring laws his mother had allowed to grow lax and, in some cases, be quietly written out of existence entirely.

No one outside of the castle knew that, officially, magic was legal if used for healing purposes. But it was true and it was only one of many steps his mother had taken over the years. If she’d been able to convince herself to tour the country as she’d once proudly done, perhaps that would be a well known law. A shock, he thought, to many.

Perhaps he would start spreading it himself once his sister ascended to the throne, as he had absolutely no intention of remaining in the castle permanently once that happened. If nothing else, perhaps his uncle would allow him to take over Hewin’s castle and he could just take his staff with him.

Although he knew that wasn’t a likely possibility by any means. He already knew what his uncle wanted from him, and Aziraphale wanted no part in it. As secondborn, his role ought to be a profitable marriage. He didn’t want to marry for profit, for land, for connections. He wanted to marry for the reasons his own parents had. As… changed as his mother had supposedly become after her husband’s untimely death, he wanted that sort of love. Deep and abiding. The sort of love that lasted through loss and would be spoken of by outsiders with awe and envy. When he’d asked others about his father over the years - knowing and understanding that his mother’s recollections were coloured by that very same love - he’d been told just how obvious his parents’ feelings had been for one another. How the princess had left an angry, violent alpha and returned a proud, strong, kind Warrior Queen. 

He'd also been told of his father's kindness, his willingness to help whoever reached out. They'd balanced one another. And then…

Aziraphale supposed it was a good thing his mother hadn't resumed the volatile nature of her youth. She'd won Celestria back ancient lands in the north, but at what cost? Being so far, did they even consider themselves part of it any longer? Aziraphale wished he knew.

“Your Highness?”

With a little flick of his wrist, the flaming ball disappeared. His smile was easy. The staff weren't responsible for his troubles. He sent her off for his mother's handmaiden and made his way towards the kitchens. That door was closest to the barracks, and he wanted to speak to the royal guard about expectations during his uncle's stay.

Chapter Text

The tension was thicker than a hardy winter stew, sitting heavy in the stomach.

That could’ve just been Aziraphale, the prince quietly watching his sister inspect the front rooms as if a king was visiting them rather than someone visiting the queen. There was no need to say anything about it, however. His mother was more than capable of doing so.

“Michael, calm down. Met has been here many times before. He knows how everything looks.” A telling brow arched finely. “Unless you think things are lacking.”

Her skin looked nice that morning. Too tight in spots, perhaps, but she’d used paints and powders to her advantage. Aziraphale rarely saw her use the makeup, mind easily conjuring times when he had sat at her feet and gazed up at her with wide, curious eyes as brushes and fingertips worked a different kind of magic.

“Warriors aren’t the only ones who need paint before a battle,” she’d say, a half-smile at her freshly rouged lips.

Visiting dignitaries, her own council, magistrates seeking counsel on what to do with an unusually heinous criminal - it was those persons who she would don this armour for. And, it seemed, for her own brother-in-law.

“No, mother, of course not.” Michael finally turned away from the shelves she’d been meticulously scouring for dust, meeting their mother’s gaze evenly. She, too, had painted herself. But where their mother was only a warrior as needed, Michael was always prepared to do battle. She knew how to make herself look older somehow, more severe.

“I didn’t think so. The staff here are impeccably trained.”

“Clearly, mother. You never release anyone, no matter how many mistakes they may make.”

“No one is born perfect, daughter. Mistakes are nothing but lessons, learned from and left behind.” It was something she’d said before, enough times that Aziraphale found himself silently mouthing along with her. The half-smile she tipped towards him, brow arching again, said he’d been caught. Pink dusted his cheeks, his own smile bright if sheepish. “Mockery, Aziraphale?”

“Never of you, mother.”

“Of course not. He would have to remember that you, too, are a person born,” Michael muttered.

“A person who has learned from many mistakes,” she replied, Aziraphale unsure how she managed to keep that lightly amused expression when he himself felt a deep slash of irritation. No, the woman wasn’t a perfect one. She had flaws, but she was also their mother. Moreover, she was the queen and deserving of respect.

She was also ill. And while illness alone couldn’t erase the gap he knew lived between mother and daughter like a snapping dragon, it should help. He didn’t know why his sister couldn’t soften those sharp edges in their mother’s time of need, but it wasn’t his place to snap at her. If he tried, he’d only end up earning the ire of them both.

Aziraphale was not a person who handled confrontation well, not when it was with people he cared for. With no one, really, but most certainly not when he cared. When he cared, his tongue would trip over itself or tears would lodge themselves in his throat like a hot, impassable ball. When he didn’t care, that hot, impassable ball would flare outward and was liable to very literally burn whatever he was holding or standing upon. His tongue didn’t trip when he remembered to bite it, which was likely for the best.

His temper was a confusing thing, even to himself, and was something he had more in common with his mother than the father she spoke so reverently of. Who Michael did, too, on the rare moment where a memory could be dragged out.

“Majesty, Highnesses - the duke’s entourage has cleared the gates.”

Frances turned towards the butler, royally diplomatic armour firmly in place. “Excellent. Thank you. We’ll have tea here in the parlour while his things are taken to his room.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” After a low bow only Michael expected, he turned to leave.

Aziraphale tried to work up excitement, nearly convinced himself that the heavy knot in his stomach was eagerness instead of nervous stress by the time carriages - plural - arrived at the castle proper. A complete nightmare, he thought as he saw a few unfortunately familiar knights dismount from steeds with the air that someone else was expected to now deal with the tired beasts.

“That one looks scared enough to bolt,” Raphael murmured, low enough for only Aziraphale’s ears. He nearly snorted, but that would be terribly undignified. It wasn’t wrong, however. A powerful, if young, mustang shuffled his hooves. His coat was a rich chestnut but for a pale diamond between his eyes, his long mane a pitch black and tail as white as the diamond. His legs, too, alternated white or black to the knee. Fascinating, but very frightened indeed.

Of course that would be the horse belonging to, “Sir Gabriel,” his mother greeted. “How unexpected.” She scanned the other knight who was opening the main carriage instead of the footman who was clearly supposed to do the honours instead. He - Sir Sandalphon - and Sir Gabriel were as different as night and day in many aspects. Sir Gabriel was tall, broad-shouldered and square-jawed. His violet eyes held not a thought behind them, his smile as cheerful as it was absent. As if he was in a constant state of forgetting something.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” He bowed as properly as could be for the metal armour clanking and turning his broad frame broader. “Duke Met insisted on the best of the best coming to visit this year. So here we are!”

“I see. It’s very nice to see you again, Sir. Congratulations are in order, are they not? Captain of the Guard?”

Not rolling his eyes hurt somehow, Aziraphale keeping his smile plastered on his face as his mother continued to exchange niceties with the knight. Captain of the Guard, indeed. Of course his uncle would make someone like Sir Gabriel his Captain.

His uncle alighted from the carriage, expression pinched when he realised who was holding the door. Sir Sandalphon’s rounded face reddened with more than the exertion of wearing metal armour under the sun. With the weather rapidly turning towards spring, winter didn’t keep one quite cold enough for comfort in the bulky material. Under it, Sir Sandalphon was as ovular as his bald head. A solid slab of muscle, yes, and not afraid to be vicious with it, but still wrapped in an unfortunately egg-shaped package that was desperate to please.

His uncle was also well-padded, but in the way of someone who’d lived a long and comfortable life. If he had muscle, it was behind his eyes. Eyes Aziraphale knew were like his father’s, were the paintings and tapestries true to form. The only difference was his light blue being more like ice, entirely missing the warmth that had sparkled behind the late King Jehoel’s. A spark so bright even tapestry weavers had managed to capture it, Aziraphale not quite sure what to do with the ache in his chest.

“Good afternoon, Met,” the queen greeted.

There was a crack in Michael’s armour, her mouth trying not to smile. Her expression trying to remain proper and true. Aziraphale had no such trouble remaining flat, but she was happy to see him. Happier than she’d been to see her own mother, the thought nearly shattering Aziraphale’s neutral expression after all.

“Frances,” he greeted with a stiff bow. A man not used to being beneath anyone.

Even though he should’ve been. He was, by all rights, below Michael’s station. She was, after all, next in line for the throne. Their uncle would only have the throne should tragedy strike both siblings and mother. Aziraphale and Michael were also given a bow, just as stiff, and Michael looked briefly uncertain.

Odd.

“Uncle,” the siblings greeted in unison. Aziraphale almost winced.

“Aziraphale, you’re looking… well.”

There was an insult in there somehow. Aziraphale didn’t know how or why, but the sense of judgement rippled uncomfortably through him. “I… As are you, uncle. Though you must be exhausted after your journey.”

“Long journeys are merely a part of life when one’s a noble. Or they ought to be.”

That jab was aimed at both prince and queen, the former turning pink and the latter lifting her brows. “Long journeys should be worthwhile and measured with wisdom before being undertaken. Otherwise, they are indeed miserable, exhausting things. Good company, too, smooths any travels. Aelfric knew that.”

“Aelfric,” Met scoffed. “The way you go on about that man, one would think you knew him personally.”

“I know him as well as I know any ancestor, and respect him as keenly. As you ought to, being that it’s he who brought this kingdom together in the first place.” Her smile would’ve cut a lesser man. “And it’s me who followed in his footsteps and brought Noreir back into the fold.”

The northern territory had indeed seceded in the time of Aziraphale’s great-great-grandparents. It was whispered in the most private, hidden spaces that they’d separated to allow their magic users to practise in peace and that many mages still lived in the mountains at the very edge of the duchy. As far away from the kingdom’s capital as could be gotten and always at risk of breaking apart again.

If Aziraphale had quiet, private dreams of fleeing there when his sister inherited the crown, he kept those between himself and his pillow.

“Ah, yes. Our valiant Warrior Queen.” Met smiled jovially enough to fool anyone who didn’t look him directly in the eye, something queen and prince were polite enough to always do.

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say, but his mother’s smile glinted like a blade. “A legacy I’ll proudly wear into the heavens. Now, please, do come inside. We’ll allow your knights to get reacquainted with those of Berwick, and you’ll join us for tea.”

There was no going against her word. Not for any of them.

Raphael was, admittedly, surprised when Anthony Crowley appeared at the castle gates. He angled his head as he passed, stepping towards the bars and sending a simple wave to the two guards. “Mr. Crowley,” he greeted, “debating whether or not you'll actually come in?”

Crowley froze in place. He'd actually been walking by, trying to appear casual as he got a feel for the place. While the masquerade was interesting and intriguing, it wouldn't do to be somewhere unfamiliar and get in trouble. He wanted at least an idea of how big the grounds were. Well, and he might have been struggling to decide if walking right up to the gates and saying, ‘Hey, your prince invited me to spar with his guard for some fuck-odd reason so can I come in?’ would be appropriate or if it'd get him shot through with an arrow. “Something like that.”

“Come. I'll show you the grounds,” he offered, another wave having each guard turning a wheel at their sides that began to raise the barred entryway. “Her Majesty enjoys reports of curious people being given a tour, and her son has inherited that welcoming spirit.”

So both mother and son were strange as all hells, got it. Crowley ducked under the rising portcullis before it was actually above his head. He didn't want the guards to have to work harder than they already had too and jogged up to Sir Raphael. The dark-skinned man wore leather armour dyed a rich blue, his face clean shaven and tight curls cut short. Likely to avoid being caught in his helmet when or if metal armour was needed. It had been a peaceful quarter century - longer, really - but anything could change. Especially with rumours of an ill monarch floating around.

The castle rose high behind the knight, and it made Crowley feel a little small even with his considerable height. It didn't help that Raphael was nearly a full head taller and an entire width broader. It was really no wonder he'd be the prince’s personal guard. “Thanks. Wasn't really sure what protocol was here.”

“I did tell the guards to expect you, so you would only have had to say who you were.” He clapped a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, his smile broad. “But I understand how you feel. They were strange to me when I first came here, as well. For being the highest authority in the land, they behave less regally than even our nearest noble families tend to.”

He could say that again. “Yeah, I noticed.” Crowley wasn't a stranger to the occasional brush with nobles, especially when they wanted someone outside of their own guard to handle an issue. “It’s throwing me off.”

“It will continue to do so until you accept that they are like this, and it isn’t a trick or a trap.” Raphael angled his head, encouraging Crowley to follow as his hand slipped down to rest on his sword’s hilt. “That being said, should you see Duke Met or Princess Michael… Well, expect the typical treatment from them. Our prince and our queen have more of an understanding of those of differing stations.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” That, at least, would be familiar. He was used to that sort of thing from the nobility. Crowley followed easily, his glasses obscuring how his eyes darted, trying to take in everything and note possible escape routes. “Does the prince invite people often? I admit I'm not sure exactly what made me stand out enough to earn this.”

“As a matter of fact, inviting others to the castle grounds is outside of his typical… fraternisation. Frankly, I’m not entirely certain if even he knows why he did, but there are a few things currently happening within the castle walls which are outside normal operations. He’s… affected more than he would like to think.”

“I see.” That was more information to file away and ponder. He could read between the lines to see there was something the imposing knight wasn't saying. Maybe he couldn't or just wouldn't. The fact that he wasn't jumping to spread gossip was another thing to note. He was being discreet while still being honest… or he was lying through his teeth to make Crowley think he was more special than he actually was. The truth didn't matter so much; what mattered was that regardless of what the reality was, Raphael hadn't taken the chance to shit talk his masters. And what subordinates said, or didn't say, spoke volumes for the people above them. “Do you think he's actually going to come watch? I can't imagine simple sparring being so interesting to a prince.”

“Mr. Crowley, the prince participates in sparring when he's able. And, often, when he really shouldn't and has far more important things to do.” Raphael's lips quirked. “Then again, his training was his mother's idea. Perhaps he considers it to be vital.”

Well, she was the queen, after all. Surely she knew what was best. “Ah, my apologies. Most of the nobles I've experienced find watching much more boring than participating. And participating beneath them.” Or if they did participate, they expected to win.

“There’s no telling whether or not he'll participate. Not until he's asked to join or makes up his own mind, but he's also always been fascinated with the different fighting styles he can see and learn from. Even as a boy, he enjoyed the tournaments for the learning opportunities.” Only a few years older than their prince, Raphael had begun his training very early in life and had met the royal family multiple times before finally being named the prince’s personal guard. “In that, he differs from his mother. Our Warrior Queen would always rather heft a sword than watch someone else wield it in her stead.” Or, more likely in Aziraphale’s case, attempt to waylay the battle entirely.

The Warrior Queen… Crowley had heard Agnes call her such before. Hell, she almost spoke highly of Queen Frances. As if she'd known or met her… not that Crowley would believe she had. That was just the way Agnes was. “We would be kindred spirits, then. I'd rather fight my own battles than let someone do it for me.”

He wouldn't say the prince would rather that either. His peacekeeping tour, while briefer than the prince would've liked, had been very successful. Raphael still nodded. “As would I, though I'm also happy to share the weight of others. Knighthood appealed early in my life for the camaraderie more than for the potential glory.”

“You might find my reasoning for wanting to be one quite dull, then.”

“The freedom, the pay, the better opportunities - I may not be able to see your eyes, Mr. Crowley, but I can see that I'm correct. Wanting a better life for oneself is far from dull.”

Crowley let out a soft huff and a corner of his lips quirked upwards. “That obvious, am I?”

“A bit.” But it also wasn't unusual. “Tell me, Mr. Crowley, were you able to learn to read and write?”

“In fact, I was. The woman who taught me the sword also taught me my letters. She was committed to a well rounded education.”

“Then you're already so far ahead of many in your shoes.” He lifted a hand in greeting as they passed the stables, the stablehand waving in kind. “It’s difficult to be seen as a beta. Very easy to be dismissed in favour of an alpha.”

It was difficult to hold in a bark of a laugh and the ‘you should try being an omega’ that wanted to spill out. But Crowley was good at pretending to be what he wasn't. “Heh, yeah. Just means people like us have to work twice as hard to be recognised.”

“Having an education is a good step. Now this building here holds most of our weaponry.” There were a small handful of knights sparring with one another or with barrel-shaped scarecrows. They were best for letting out anger. “We’ll start before the prince comes to distract you. I would like to see how you fight, Mr. Crowley.”

“Yeah, alright.” He unsheathed his sword, simple and unadorned, and was hyper aware of the other knights who'd stopped to watch when they'd approached.

Raphael chuckled, two hand gestures sending one of them inside. “May I see that?”

Crowley blinked. “Sure, I suppose.” He didn't know what was so interesting about his basic blade but offered the hilt to the knight with little trepidation.

Raphael flipped it carefully, testing its weight and balance. “Mm. It isn't bad at all. A sturdy, satisfactory weapon. It likely serves you well.”

“It does,” Crowley said with a shrug. He was trying not to be embarrassed over it. It would be nice to have a fancy blade with a custom hilt and guard that he felt would deserve all the enchantments he wanted to work into it but he worked with what he could afford or trade for. “Don’t really have any complaints.”

“I would be very careful drawing it in the courtyard,” Raphael advised, stepping closer to push it back into Crowley’s sheathe. “The knights here can be rather jumpy if they see a stranger yanking their sword out. We use dulled blades for sparring here.”

A warm flush crawled its way up Crowley's neck and he thought that could have been made clearer earlier. “Dull blades would've been nice as a kid. Wouldn't have had so many injuries.”

Raphael’s laugh was like a boom of thunder. “I imagine you’re very good at dodging for it.”

His embarrassment soothed somewhat with a twitch of his mouth. “I definitely did. My teacher was of the opinion that you either learned to dodge and parry or you stitched yourself up after.”

“If you’re even alive for stitching. You seem to have made it out alright.” He took the training swords he was offered, holding one out to Crowley. “Since I don’t want to kill you, we’ll use these for now. We keep them clean and prepared for battle should Berwick one day need defending, but we always keep a certain number dulled for training. They can be sharpened easily should the need arise.”

It seemed a little presumptuous of the knight to assume he'd be capable of killing an unknown combatant. Crowley accepted the sword he was offered. It weighed a little more than his own, the royal ones a little thicker than what he usually went for. It wouldn't be a problem, it only meant it would slow him down a smidge. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“We do like to make sense as much as we’re able here.” Raphael’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, almost indulgent. “Now before we begin, what are you wanting from this session? A simple demonstration of skills or a lesson?”

“You’re the one who invited me,” Crowley reminded him. It wasn't like he would have ever invited himself to the castle. “But, since I'm here, a show of skills would be nice. It'll give me a chance to see what I'm up against.”

He laughed, but shifted into a starting position with ease. “Being that you're the guest here, we'll begin on your count.”

Crowley nodded, that seemed fair to him. He took his place and starting position a few paces from Sir Raphael. The knight was calm, watching him with an amused tilt of his mouth. Meanwhile Crowley's was set into a firm line. This wasn't a serious fight, there were no stakes, but Raphael wasn't the only one watching. There were other knights, guards, possibly even servants stopping to see before going about their tasks, and he was a stranger. An unknown. And this was a chance to prove he wasn't some wet behind the ears novice who just happened to pick up a blade and think he could win a tournament.

“Three… Two…” On one they both moved. He wasn't as quick as he might have been with his lighter sword, but Crowley still had the advantage of reach with his long arms and legs. His sword swung under in an arc, the blow parried by Raphael's sword coming down, and Crowley quickly side-stepped to slide his blade away to avoid becoming locked in close quarters.

Though Raphael didn't let up, the clangs of metal consistent between them. Crowley's skill was, admittedly, a surprise. It was rare for a sellsword to be able to match him, but he didn't push harder just yet. Experience showed him the few places Crowley left himself open, his long reach relied on a time or two when he would've been better coming nearer. Wariness, perhaps, from the slices endured in his early training. An interesting contrast to the recklessness occasionally displayed in sudden offensive strikes that no doubt caught many off guard.

The knight was, frankly, impressed. Their swords slammed together, each holding firm as they circled. A moment to both breathe and to search for openings. “Your trainer did a commendable job, Mr. Crowley.”

She'd also beaten him black and blue until he'd learned, until the lessons had sunk in. Agnes hadn't been an easy teacher, but she'd been a thorough one. “Not half bad yourself. I see why you've won so many times.”

“You’ve nearly convinced me to participate this year just to go against you in a proper fight,” he commented and feinted, pleased when Crowley parried. As they continued, he noted it wasn’t only the reliance on his reach that could be his downfall, but his balance. His trainer had been excellent, but differing builds had made an impact. As, more than likely, the training being done through the gangliness of youth.

Eventually, Raphael pressed that advantage. It was incredible indeed that Crowley didn’t entirely fall to the ground or even let his sword slip free of his grip, but the blade was knocked aside and his feet stumbled enough that the dull edge of Raphael’s blade was able to noticeable press against his side in what would have been a bloody blow in true combat. “Very good,” he praised, grinning when Crowley was quick to straighten and return to a fighting stance.

And then his gaze shifted just over Crowley’s shoulder, an amused sigh barely bit back.

Crowley smelled him before he felt him but only just. It was the prince's scent of myrrh and vanilla and something sweet he couldn't place just before hands landed on hips, adjusting him just slightly. Even with smelling him just beforehand, Crowley damn near jumped out of his boots and probably would have had there not been a firm grip keeping him in place. Crowley sucked in a sharp breath and was sure his scent would have been a riot had he not had it magically suppressed. His hold on the borrowed sword tightened, and it was only from years of training that he didn't immediately elbow the Prince of Celestria. “You shouldn't grab someone by surprise when they're holding a bloody weapon, you know,” he said through gritted teeth and pounding heart.

“Luckily for me, the weapon which could bloody me is still in its sheath.” A low purr rumbled in Aziraphale’s voice, as impressed as Raphael and simply grateful for a distraction from the goings-on behind the castle walls. Had Crowley not have made an appearance, he would’ve tried to slip off grounds entirely to disappear as much as one could in the city. “One would think a sellsword has more of an awareness of his surroundings.”

Normally he did, but Raphael was good. Scary good. And he'd needed all his focus to not actually get hit by his sword. “We’re in the middle of a match.”

He’d been hit. In a way that would’ve been debilitating with any real sharpness to the sword. Aziraphale considered that to be enough of a break. “It’ll be better for you if you focus on your body a bit more. Poor balance makes it more difficult to handle heavier weaponry, and you stand as if trained by someone who didn’t have your long legs.”

His balance was impeccable due to the natural magic he'd been born with but that wasn't something Crowley could ever admit. “I was.” And the fact that the prince hadn't yet let go of him was beginning to make him worry.

“Your defence is very good. Minimal wrist movement will keep you at this a while yet, and your offence is fascinating. You aren’t afraid to take any opportunity awarded, as liable to jab as you are to slash.” Aziraphale’s lips stayed close to Crowley’s ear, one hand staying at his waist and the other deliberately sliding down to one thigh. “Shift this leg forward a smidge.”

Crowley's stomach swooped. The instinct to listen to the alpha murmuring in his ear, who was touching him, was a strong one. He wanted to be good, wanted to do what was asked, and hated every second of it. So often the instincts he'd been born with grated and frustrated more than could be enjoyed. Not to mention the alpha practically rubbing up against him was a bloody prince. Though he did not actually want to, Crowley slid his leg forward just a hair, resenting any hope that he might have done well. “Satisfied, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale was familiar enough with body language to feel discomfort beneath his palms, so gave Crowley’s narrow waist a light squeeze before stepping back. “You do look as though you’ll be quite the challenge for opponents within this year’s tournament. We’ve quite a few new persons to contend with, as a matter of fact.” Only Raphael saw the way his expression shadowed. It wasn’t new contenders that was the issue, but where those contenders had come from.

He could breathe easier without the prince's hands on him, Crowley's eyes closing momentarily to calm his rapid heart and frayed nerves. “Well, I like a challenge and I've always wanted to participate.”

“You’ve picked a good year to do so,” Raphael offered. “Care to go again before our prince attempts to steal you away?”

Aziraphale let himself laugh. “He’s been invited to train, Sir. I would never interfere with progress.”

Crowley had the distinct impression that the prince hadn't agreed to the invitation to simply watch him spar with his knight, but he wasn't about to call him out on it. “I wouldn't mind another round.” So long as the prince kept his hands to himself.

“Excellent.” He looked over Crowley’s shoulder again. “Shoo.”

It earned another, far more genuine bubble of laughter. “Shooing your prince. You’ll cause quite the scandal with such insolence,” Aziraphale teased, but he did go a safe distance away to stand with the others who were interested enough to observe.

Raphael stepped closer to Crowley, lifting his blade to cross with his opponent’s and lowering his voice. “He may come on strongly at times, but you need only tell him you’d prefer to be friendly. He’d be appalled if you felt forced into anything.”

Crowley could feel the flush creeping up his neck. That was it? When he got back to his room at the inn he'd have to make sure his scent was entirely hidden. Being discovered as an omega now would ruin any chance he had of participating in the tournament. Not to mention the questions it would raise about why his scent wasn't as strong as it should be or how he was hiding it. “Right. Got it.”

Raphael studied him for a moment before nodding. He wouldn’t tell him not to worry, very aware of how unusual it would be to catch the prince’s eye. Well. How unusual it should be. “On your count, Mr. Crowley.”

This was more familiar ground. A corner of Crowley's lips twitched. “Me again? Just being polite, Sir?”

“We do try to be polite to guests here in Berwick.”

“I can see that.” Crowley tilted his head in acknowledgement and readied his grip. This time he knew the prince was watching but he also knew a little about how Raphael fought now. He knew the knight was cautious and rarely, if ever, left any openings. He was good and Crowley wasn't sure if he could beat him if they were actually competing. “Three… Two… One!”

They were both good. Aziraphale knew that already from the first session alone. He knew how skilled Raphael was from firsthand experience, having been smacked more than once by a training sword held in a very strong grip. Like Crowley, he’d learned from failure. Unlike Crowley, his trainers hadn’t given him a sharpened sword until he’d gone behind their backs and acquired one for himself. No one had ever told him he couldn’t go into the market and buy one, after all. Not even going behind anyone’s back, not really. It wasn’t his fault they hadn’t been specific.

He still had it in his room, kept sharp and prepared at all times. He’d taken it on their peacekeeping tour, but had worn the bejewelled sword of his rank at court. That silly thing would do in a pinch, but it wasn’t practical. The one in his room was.

Much like the one at Crowley’s hip, Aziraphale’s gaze travelling downwards more than once and not only to study his sword. It wasn’t a crime to look his fill, though he had promised with that last squeeze to not touch again without permission. The subtle scent of him had been there, a faint tease Aziraphale’s instincts desperately wanted to suss out. Really, it wasn’t only the sword and any other weapons he was scouring this stranger for. He must’ve been wearing a charm of some sort, which meant he couldn’t be overly against magic.

Aziraphale very badly wanted to meet someone else - anyone else - who had the skills he did and if this sellsword could give him a name and a means of correspondence, he’d leap at the opportunity. What he’d learned had been furtive, a trial and error process which had led to too many mishaps to count. His mother could have sent away for those people as she’d allegedly done when his father had been ill, but Aziraphale knew she hadn’t for the same reason she wasn’t now.

It hadn’t solved her problems, and she held grudges.

She was practical, even though she never discouraged Aziraphale from learning all that he could. She’d even given him books his father had left behind, some of which with faintly singed pages. She’d taken them back when he’d presented as an alpha for a brief time, but the scent she’d been so afraid to lose had long since been expunged from the pages a curious boy had turned again and again and again. They held stories as well as knowledge, and Aziraphale had always been weak against both of those things.

Wanting to know everything was what got him into trouble more often than not, and would likely get him into trouble with this Mr. Crowley as well. It would take some time to work up to asking about whatever enchanter had helped him disguise his presentation. Not even a prince could freely ask about such things. He shouldn’t. The poor thing would think it a trap immediately and flee to the countryside without a trace left behind for Aziraphale to track.

“Gods,” one of the knights nearest him muttered, “hope I don’t go against this one.”

The agreement of the others made his lips twitch. It also made whatever was inside him that quietly yearned for danger step forward when they paused, blades crossed. “Sir Raphael, I think I’d like to cut in if I may. Everyone else in the yard has the potential to go up against our new arrival, so I believe it’s only fair.”

Raphael didn’t look away from Crowley. He was almost snakelike in his abilities to strike at the first sign of vulnerability, and he didn’t want to risk a thump by that sword. Dull or not. “Interested in duelling His Highness, Mr. Crowley?”

There wasn't a winning answer to that question. The knight could joke and tease and tell the prince off all he wanted, but Crowley knew he, himself, didn't have such a rapport to do so. He couldn't tell him no, but sparring with the prince had risks. If he accidentally hurt him… that could spell big trouble. “So long as His Highness doesn't mind a few possible bruises.”

“As a matter of fact,” Aziraphale said, “His Highness would be more irritated were you to take it easy on him.”

“It’s very true.” Raphael stepped back, passing the sword to the prince. “But all of our knights have had to learn that lesson the hard way.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinkened as he shook his head. “It’s their own fault for forgetting who my teachers were.” He removed his crown, passing it to Raphael as if it was as important as a damp rag. “Here. So I don't drop and dent the silly thing.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted but he didn't comment. “Am I to take it I won't be executed for treating you the same as your knight?”

“My dear fellow, if you don't I'll be terribly disappointed in you. If knighthood is truly your intention, you'll have to impress me.” Though he already had. Even beyond the basic attraction, he was looking forward to seeing Crowley in the tournament. “I think it's safe to say you've already impressed our Acting Captain of the Guard.”

“I… have?”

Raphael sighed. “Must you? He hadn't realised I'm important yet.”

“Poppycock.” Aziraphale smiled, though knew it was true enough. “Please, Mr. Crowley, I could use a good sparring session. It's rare that I'm able to test my metal against someone new, and I have seen you fight twice now. I'll know if you're not doing your best.”

Well fuck. He couldn't back out now or go easy on him. Crowley sighed and tapped the flat of his dulled sword against his leg. “Yeah, alright. Since you asked nicely.”

“Asking rudely rarely goes well.” His smile brightened like an excitable puppy rather than a grown man, his scent flaring with delight. “We’ll begin on my count, if you don't mind. You've begun with the same move twice now, and I'd rather see a bit more of your defence.” He shifted his stance, bouncing lightly both in a simple eagerness and because he wasn't as warmed up as Crowley. “Ready?”

He was bloody adorable. Crowley wouldn't have thought he was a prince if this was his only interaction with him. He was too bubbly, too excitable. It went against all his expectations. And there was something a little exciting about not knowing what to expect. Crowley nodded at him and shifted his feet. “Ready when you are, Highness.”

It pleased Aziraphale even more that Crowley's front foot was where he'd encouraged earlier. Wonderful. “Three... Two...” On one, he moved. Like Raphael, he didn't have Crowley's quick footwork, but he had power. The first time their blades crashed, the steel wobbled. He was not going lightly, and wanted Crowley to understand that very quickly.

And so it almost instantly apparent that he not only came on strongly socially but also in combat. Crowley blocked two swings, the steel ringing, and strength of the blows making his arm feel numb. It reminded him of sparring with Agnes. The old woman was short and stocky and stronger than anyone would have assumed on first look. Just like the prince.

He dodged the next one by skipping back, putting some distance between them just to give his arm a break, and lunged for the prince's side. His sword was swatted away, as he'd expected it to be, and he followed through the motion, letting the momentum and force naturally carry his arm to keep from having to take the brunt of it. “Heh, I didn't expect you to hit so hard.”

“Many don't, but you handle it well.” Another reason why he'd wanted a chance to spar himself. Raphael was strong, but he kept his sword fighting light. His strength was reserved for other weaponry. He allowed himself to predominantly remain on defence, waiting for his opponent’s offence to turn sloppy. Aziraphale tended to do the same unless he wanted to see something specific. He enjoyed tailoring his sparring to what he wanted to see his opponent do.

Some might call that a smidge controlling. Or more than a smidge.

He let Crowley attack, feinting with a movement more often seen amidst a waltz than a fight. Another thing Aziraphale appreciated was combining the various things one was required to learn as a prince, and the momentary confusion on Crowley's face was exactly why. Skills and people didn't need to stay trapped in one thing.

The quick recovery made him smile, though. He seemed to take surprises in stride. When next their blades crossed, they held it. “You’re very good,” he purred.

A warmth spread up Crowley's face, he couldn't help it. It was an instinctual response to an alpha’s praise. Crowley did his best to shrug it off and pretend he wasn't affected. “Thanks. You're not half bad yourself.”

“If only I could compete in the tournament.” Perhaps that could stop surprising people. “I think you’ll do a marvellous job.”

“Well I'm glad I won't have to compete against you. My arm’s already going numb.”

“That isn’t the wisest thing to share with an opponent,” Aziraphale pointed out with a low laugh. “But I have faith you’ll be just fine.” As he made to lunge forward, though, he heard a sharp bark of his name from beyond the courtyard. He just barely kept Crowley’s sword from smacking into his side, fingers wrapping around the dull blade. “Stop,” he whispered.

“Aziraphale,” his uncle bellowed again, “what on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“Training, uncle. I’m-”

“Training with a group of commoners only bettered by their brawn,” Met sniffed, either not knowing or not caring how those words affected people who’d sworn to protect the royal family and their lands.

The knuckles on Aziraphale’s hand whitened, grip so tight even the dull edge pricked into his palm. “Uncle, that’s hardly-”

“What if one of them strikes you? A dangerous waste. Not to mention the impropriety. You should be observing from a distance only.”

Observing while never actually participating sounded like a great way to only get a partial education, in Crowley's opinion, but he smartly kept his mouth about that. He had the distinct impression this was the duke Raphael had mentioned before and he had no desire to draw attention to himself.

“I understand your concerns, uncle.” He released the sword, grateful when Raphael approached so he could swap it for his crown again. A smudge of red marred the golden surface when he secured it to his head. “Feel free to stay as long as you like, Mr. Crowley. You’re welcome to train here as many days as you like before the tournament begins,” he said quietly and quickly strode away to soothe his uncle’s angry disapproval.

Crowley watched him go with a slight frown that only got deeper when the prince approached a man dressed in fine black with a head of snow white and a close cropped beard. He could not hear what they said from this distance but it didn't look like a pleasant conversation. “Dunno what he thinks His Highness is supposed to learn from just watching.”

“Particularly since he started participating under his mother’s orders,” Raphael agreed with a small hum. “This may just be the opinion of an unintelligent knight, but one likely shouldn’t go against the queen.”

Crowley's eyebrows shot above his glasses. It was probably the rudest thing he'd heard the knight say all day and it wasn't even that rude. “Won’t hear any complaints from me on that end.” Not out loud, anyway.

“Wise. How about a brief tour while your arm recovers?”

“Sure, so long as the Duke doesn't get on your arse about it.” Crowley rolled his shoulder and switched which hand was holding the training sword so he could flex his fingers. “Coulda warned me he hits like a boulder.”

Laughing, Raphael clapped a hand on the shoulder of his uninjured side. “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

Chapter Text

“Mother, are you sure you should be attending tonight?”

The skirts she wore were wide and billowing, making her seem even more frail to Aziraphale's eyes. The long sleeves covered the marks on her arms, her neckline more modest than was fashionable due to lesions Aziraphale had been able to close but not completely heal with her nudging him away. She wore shades of crimson that were so unlike her, no one would recognise her. Aziraphale’s chest felt tight at the thought that they may not have known her even without the mask.

“I wouldn't miss tonight for all the world, my gift.”

He didn't feel like much of a gift, watching a handmaiden offer two different masks. One had beaded decorations and the other was adorned with an absurd amount of feathers. Both were the pale whites and sumptuous golds he'd always associated with his mother, the shades he desperately missed in her clothes. She picked the one with feathers.

“You’ll at least-”

“I,” she interrupted, “shall enjoy myself to my full capabilities. I've hardly seen the noble families who've been staying with us, and I know what rumours have begun.” True rumours, claims of her illness unable to be proven but known in the family. “Tonight, our people will see their queen, Aziraphale.”

Questioning her was something he'd been trained out of very early in life, so he nodded. “Will you at least find me if you're in need?”

“I expect you to enjoy yourself. Mingle with our people, dance.” She turned towards him. “You’re far too worried about me. It isn't healthy for a son to fret so over his mother.”

“Not many sons have you as a mother,” he pointed out, pleased by her laugh as she turned back to the handmaiden. She sat so the mask could be pinned into place, and he studied her back. Her waistline was too narrow, signs of her difficulties eating. He wished he could be more help to her there as well, but walked forward when the mask was in place. Then he bent and kissed her cheek. “I do love you, mother. However unhealthy you think my worry, I hope you know it's your own fault for being a person worth concern.”

She took his hand, holding silently for a few seconds just to take in the warmth that exuded from him without effort. “You, too, are worthy of much. Now leave me be. You don't even have your mask.”

“Yes, mother,” he reluctantly agreed, feeling the chill of her skin far too long after leaving her.

The ballroom was filled with people, some in the most intricate of masks and others in the simple ones they'd made available at the door. Not all commoners could afford something as unnecessary as a masquerade mask, so ones of all colours had been fashioned in the weeks leading up to the whole grand affair.

Aziraphale had deliberately taken one of them. He'd also used a touch of a new drink they'd received in a trade agreement to darken his hair. The black tea also served as a good replacement for his scent, Aziraphale’s magic muffling it far better than the crushed tobacco and flowers scattered about the room did. He didn't want anyone to know who he was. It wasn't often that he could disappear, and he was eager to do so that night.

With luck and a bit of careful manoeuvring, he wouldn't run across any of his family unless he wanted to.

The powder blue clothes he wore had silver stitched into the seams rather than the gold he tended to prefer, which seemed fitting for the darker hair. Whoever this person was, Aziraphale had decided he wouldn't quite be a commoner and he wouldn't quite be a noble. He wanted only to be himself and was going to be, no matter the outer trappings, and no uncles or sisters were going to stop him.

He pressed his lips together as he entered the ballroom proper, a smidge of magic ensuring the mask would stay in place as well. Heavens forbid someone bump into him and ruin his cover entirely, he thought with a faint sigh, and pushed further into the crowd in search of alcohol.

There might have technically been less people in the ballroom than there were in the entire city, but one wouldn't have known that from how packed the place was. Apparently the castle hadn't been this open to guests in over 25 years. Woven tapestries depicting battles and former monarchs and ceremonies lined the stone walls, thick and heavy. Crowley figured they probably kept the room a little warmer in the winter than it otherwise would be without. The high vaulted ceilings gave the grand ballroom a feeling of being much larger than its already considerable size. Chandeliers illuminated the multitudes of people in arrays of colours all mingling together regardless of station or rank.

Crowley edged his way around the far wall, keeping out of the way of mingling and dancing guests. Not that he wasn't interested, of course, but he'd rather observe from a distance before diving in. A band was playing something lively across the room, a tune he didn't know but that he found himself tapping his foot to. They were good, better than the entertainers he often encountered at common taverns and pubs.

But even jaunty music and the novelty of the castle being open to guests hadn't stopped the whispers and rumours. That the queen was ill and that there was discord amongst the royal family. Even tales that the queen was dying as her husband had before her.

Crowley didn't know how much of it was fact or fiction, and he figured he never would. The lives and dramas of nobility were so far and away from anything he lived. Tonight, though… tonight he could pretend. Tonight he could be someone of means who could actually afford to wear the billowy red silk shirt under the black waistcoat. His boots had been polished until his face shone in them, the shiniest they'd been since he'd bought them, and the scaled half-mask ensured no one would know he was the poor common sellsword the Acting Captain of the Guard had shown about. A simple spell had shortened his hair from the length he generally preferred but didn't seem to be in fashion in Berwick.

In his musings along the edges of the room, Crowley found the one thing that made all parties better: alcohol. There were nibbles too, of course - little sandwiches and fresh olives and tiny cakes that looked as if they wouldn't satisfy a bird - but the drinks were what he made a beeline for.

He snatched up a glass and took a testing sip. The wine was rich and full and probably cost more for a bottle than he might make in an entire year. The fact that glasses of it were just sitting out for the taking almost felt a little naughty. He sipped it again and wondered if he should try the dance floor just for a little fun when he spotted someone near one of the small tables, standing apart from the crowd.

Dark hair in great contrast to the powder blue outfit and one of the simply made masks they'd offered at the gates. Their mask was a soft white with delicate rhinestones decorating the edges and they were alone, seeming to be watching the crowd with fingers fidgeting around the stem of their glass. Perhaps they were nervous? Worried? The mystery of them drew Crowley in inexplicably. Like a moth to an open flame. Crowley found himself approaching, hip leaning against the table, and tried to follow their gaze into the crowd.

“Looking for someone?”

“At,” he confessed. His mother was going to exhaust herself, dancing and socialising as she was. His gaze slid away from her, though, to study the newcomer. “Though it's difficult to keep track of any one person in a crowd this dense.”

“I believe it. Why not go out there and keep a closer eye? It would probably be more fun.”

Aziraphale chuckled. She would kill him. “Oh, no. I'm quite sure the queen wouldn't appreciate someone pointing her out. The point of this soiree is the anonymity.”

Crowley's head swivelled to look again in the direction this strange man had been staring. “And how do you know it's her?”

He was not a very good liar, so it was very difficult not to say it was because he’d watched her pick out her mask. “She has the same hair as her daughter, who hasn't bothered to take the night seriously. Her mask barely covers her eyes, but she'd rather be treated like a princess than a person.”

“I see. And where is miss priss princess?”

Aziraphale’s laugh was soft, but full. This was the second ginger in a handful of days to intrigue him, so he decided to play along and gesture towards the wall diagonally from them. The drink table and the wall nearest the stage were the safest places to stay from either his uncle and his sister. “As far from the music as one can get, heatedly whispering with who can only be Duke Met. He's also clearly not fond of wearing masks.”

Crowley followed the motion of his hand and had no trouble finding the black suited duke and silver clad princess. Her mask, indeed, was barely a slip of a thing, as was the Duke's. Neither of them looked like they were enjoying themselves and a wide berth had been made around their table. “Ah, well, I know where I'm going to be avoiding all night.”

“A wise choice. The queen's at least more difficult to spot and seems happy to mingle.” No matter that he still thought she should be resting. A fresh scan of the dancefloor didn't reveal her this time, and he had no doubt she'd tucked herself into the middle of the crowd. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Crowley lifted his glass to his lips before answering. “So far. Getting to see the inside of the castle is interesting. It feels even bigger than it looks from the outside.”

“And this is only one room.” At a normal party, Aziraphale might wander a bit until someone caught his eye and then offer a tour that was always mutually beneficial. He couldn't offer a tour without revealing himself or at least providing a large clue. “People have been in and out all evening, from what I've seen. I do think the entire city is going to make an appearance at some point.”

“They very well might. If things continue as they have this might be the only chance for regular folk to get a glimpse. And, I mean, the wine is phenomenal.”

“As is the mead if you've a sweet tooth.” Aziraphale’s head tipped. “What do you mean, if things continue as they are?”

Crowley had glanced back toward the food and drink tables, looking for the mead, but turned his head back to his companion. “Well, there used to be parties and guests all the time.” He said it as if he knew and hadn't just heard secondhand. “But that's all stopped for the most part. This is the first party the crown has hosted in ages.”

With Michael in charge, they would indeed stop entirely. He wished the castle was open more, but he'd never quite been able to convince his mother to let the outside in. “There have been a few here and there, little ones with the sort of exclusive guest list nobles pay to be on. Of course the prince needed to learn how to utilise some of his education.”

“Of course he did.” The prince… who was likely mingling in the crowd with his mother. He seemed the type. “And have you seen His Highness? I get the impression he'd like these sorts of parties.”

“Like his mother, he's doing his best to blend in.” Aziraphale swirled his wine, trying to find her and failing again. “He does the same as much as possible in the city nearly every day, so he has practice. I don't believe he wears his royalty well.”

Crowley thought he might agree with that assessment, but he didn't want to appear overly familiar. “I wouldn't know. I don't think I've ever met him.”

“You would know if you had, I’m sure. You're more than handsome enough for a flirtation, and I'm sure that's true even without a mask in place.”

A snort made it's way out of Crowley and he took another pull from his glass. The prince had been flirting with him, but it was easier to take the compliments from this stranger. “Prone to flirting, is he?”

“Oh, you haven't been in Berwick long if you've not heard the rumours of our prince.” Aziraphale finished his own glass and sought one of the golden-hued meads. He knew the rumours about himself very well, had heard the whispers when others thought he couldn't. It wasn't entirely unearned. “They do say his favourite pubs have rooms to let for a reason.”

Crowley almost choked on his wine and had to clear his throat. “You’re kidding.”

“Certainly not.” Aziraphale’s lips curved, smile crooked in his self-deprecation. “Did you expect His Highness to be chaste?”

“Well, no.” It was also, he supposed, in the style of an alpha to have anyone they wanted. Though it did put the flirting he'd experienced into a new light. “I'm just surprised to hear about it. I guess he isn't worried about a future beau being turned off.”

“I think he assumes his uncle and sister are going to raffle his hand off as soon as she gets the crown. It is all he has to offer, being second born. A pawn for an alliance.” Aziraphale tried very hard not to sound bitter.

Crowley winced. “Yikes. That's awful. I'd hate to be in that position. Hell, I think I'd probably run away.”

Sometimes Aziraphale wanted to. When he'd first heard his uncle snap that at his mother when they'd been discussing future duties, he nearly had. But to break his mother's heart like that was unfeasible. He could never do that to her. “The only ones who aspire to become royalty are the ones who don't know how messy it can be. Or the ones who are greedy for power.” Running away was still possible, though. After his mother... Aziraphale shook his head. Noreir was supposedly safe. “Ah, well. Princess Michael had done and seen more than the prince likely ever will. She may be a bit... traditional, but Celestria will be better with her than him.”

“You really think that?” Crowley asked with a raised eyebrow that his companion couldn't see under the mask. “I don't know either of them, really, but at least Prince Aziraphale sounds more personable. And I've heard the Duke is a right tosser; isn't he the one she's been living with? I suppose we should hope the stick up his ass hasn't transferred to her.”

It shocked a laugh out of him, Aziraphale desperately covering his mouth to keep from drawing too many eyes. Both shocked and thrilled, his eyes sparked when he met this mystery man's. Most people he'd been near tended to agree with his assessment, that Michael was the best choice. “Goodness, you are a breath of fresh air. Really, I have faith in the queen and her decisions. Her love for these lands is second only to her love for the late king. She won't leave us with an intolerable or an ineffective monarch, of that I’m very certain.”

Crowley wasn't so sure, but then again he was technically someone the queen would have executed on sight should she know about his talents. He couldn't have faith in someone who would kill an innocent person just because of an accident of birth. “You seem to know quite a bit about the royal family. You wouldn't happen to be some steward, would you?”

“Now, sir, this wouldn't be any sort of fun if we were to go about guessing one another's identities. Besides, you have me at a disadvantage not being from Berwick. It's hardly sporting.”

Crowley stuck his lower lip out in a pout. “I suppose you have a point but I'm no one important. Just a traveller who happened to be in the area and thought a masked party sounded fun.”

“You're a person. Of course you're important. You've made my night better already.” He'd certainly helped with the melancholy he just couldn't seem to shake.

“You know, that was actually the goal,” Crowley said with a crooked grin. “You looked all alone over here and I figured if you didn't wanna be bothered you'd tell me to piss off.”

“Not in those words, but yes.” Aziraphale looked out at the crowd and didn't feel so anxious at not seeing his mother. “Why me and not any of the other revellers?”

“Like I said, you looked lonely and a handsome man shouldn't be lonely with this many people around.”

He was used to being lonely. He was used to surrounding himself in people in the hopes that it would just go away. He hadn't expected it here. “I suppose we should stick together, then, lest you find yourself feeling lonely. My conversational talents include telling you others of the castle who I recognise and their flaws.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and swirled the wine in his glass. This man had to be a steward or someone similar. He was too casual for a noble and too knowledgeable to be just a regular commoner. “I think I can get behind that. Always liked a little gossip, me.”

Aziraphale stepped closer, laying a hand on the small of his companion's back. He gestured with his wine glass to a pair of simply dressed men who were looking at their feet more than they were each other. “Sir Cornelius and Sir Edmund. Members of the royal guard who've been pretending they aren't wildly in love for years. They're not participating in the tournament only because they don't want to risk facing one another in combat.”

The hand on his back was warm. Crowley could feel it even through his clothes and it made something in his stomach swoop and want to lean closer to him. “Cowards,” he said instead. “What better way to confess than after a heated but sexually charged bout?”

“What indeed,” Aziraphale agreed with a laugh. “One of these days they'll be convinced. Over there now, with the orange hat? The one with the enormous blue feather. He's a local lord who's been attempting to marry the queen since her husband passed. He also has two daughters he's been trying to marry off to the prince and/or princess. He's only dancing so close to that woman because he mistakenly believes her to be the queen. She, in fact, owns a bordello in a far corner of Berwick.”

“Oh noooo.” Crowley had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing loud enough to make those around them curious. He gave in to the urge to lean in, however, and murmured quietly, “Sounds like he'd have more success at the bordello.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “He’s banned.”

That had Crowley's undivided attention. “And why is he banned?”

“A few too many nonconsenting pinches, a few too many attempts to get his money back, and one rather memorable scene where he was thrown out the front door entirely nude for sneaking into an already occupied room.”

“Oh my god. No wonder he was banned. He's a sex pest.”

“A sex pest,” Aziraphale echoed, fascinated by the label. “I suppose that isn’t inaccurate.”

“Sounds pretty bloody accurate to me. He's lucky no one stabbed him with a hatpin yet.”

“Once his eldest is old enough to take his place in society, someone very well might.”

Crowley snorted and leaned their shoulders together. This man might have been a stranger but he seemed an alright sort. “Guess we better hope his kid is less of a wanker.”

“She is. She and her sister have largely been raised by their grandmother, who raised their mother in turn. She was a lovely woman by all accounts, despite her unfortunate marriage.” Aziraphale pointed out others, happily replacing Crowley’s empty wine glass with mead as they giggled and gossiped in their little corner of the room. He was feeling the effects of his third glass, as well as being simply charmed by the man at his side, so felt bold enough to ask, “Care to dance?”

Dancing… Crowley looked between his new friend and the dance floor a few times, the alcohol making his head swim a little. He didn't consider himself a lightweight, but the mead was stronger than he thought it would be. “I- uh. I don't think I know how to dance.”

“I can promise you nearly everyone out there doesn’t know how to dance.” Aziraphale set his newly empty glass down and offered his hand, smile hopeful as a boy’s asking his first crush on a private walk. “Please? I’d enjoy a chance to be closer to you.”

If he'd been sober, Crowley probably would have been insistent that he really really didn't know and shouldn't even try. He might have had perfect balance and could manoeuvre his way around a fight like it was a breeze, but that didn't mean he knew anything about ballroom dancing. Unfortunately for Crowley, he wasn't sober and the mead was making him warm and agreeable and his companion was funny and intelligent. “Alright,” Crowley heard himself saying before he could think better of it. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he purred, beaming when he could finally hold Crowley’s hand and pull him onto the floor. It had been a while since Aziraphale had been able to dance with someone, but he knew the steps and was eager to draw Crowley close. “Would you prefer leading or following?”

“Er…” Crowley looked down at his feet. “Following? Maybe? I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“That’s alright. You can lay your hand wherever it’s most comfortable,” Aziraphale assured him, an arm wrapping around his back and the other hand staying in Crowley’s. “For propriety, some ladies hold their skirts.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled. He might have been playing the part of someone who belonged here but that was as far as it went. He hesitated a moment, before remembering this new friend had said he wanted to be close, and did what he'd read in books and laid his hand on his shoulder. “‘M not wearin’ a skirt.”

“No,” Aziraphale murmured, drawing him closer. Neither of them needed propriety. Not then. “It would be terribly uncouth if I said you'd look lovely in them, though.”

A flush creeped it's way up Crowley's face. “Y-you think?”

“You’re lovely now, so yes. You've also provided the most joy I've found in some time, so I thank you for that. Now just follow my steps, my dear. If you trod over my feet, I won't mind.”

Crowley would mind, though. This man had been nice, sweet with a little wicked streak, and he didn't want to disappoint him. Being a disappointment was the worst possible thing he could think of being right now. So Crowley looked down, watching his new friends buckled shoes that perfectly matched his outfit. They were shiny and nice and seeing them made him want to step on them even less. “Usually steppin’ on feet’s a bad thing.”

“I’d prefer you not, but I don't mind.” He dressed like a noble, his hair finely styled like one, but the more he'd drunk, the less he'd sounded like one. He ignited Aziraphale’s curiosity and it was very difficult not to ask him personal questions. “I’ll guide you through the steps, sweet.”

Oh. He didn't often get called pet names and suddenly having one used on him made Crowley feel even warmer. “Erm.. t-thanksss.”

The soft little lisp was as darling as the colour Aziraphale could see beneath the mask. Aziraphale turned them carefully, not quite on beat to let Crowley follow the simple box step. Most of the floor was taken up by more traditional dances, groups where nothing more intimate touched than hands. It made what they and very few others were doing nearly scandalous, but Aziraphale let that go. He let any thoughts beyond prolonging this nearness float away like the music in the air.

His natural warmth seeped through their clothes, their skin, where they touched. It was as unavoidable as the tides of alcohol. As unavoidable as the thought of watching this flower bloom under his hands. “You’re doing wonderfully,” he purred, the soft rumble giving away the fact that he had a designation but not what it might be.

The sound combined with the praise made Crowley want to melt and with the alcohol coursing through him he very nearly did. He couldn't tell if it was the alcohol or the movement but he was sweating under his clothes. It was probably a combination of both and yet everywhere they touched felt hot enough to brand. Even with the heat he couldn't bear to pull away, fingers a light squeeze on the shoulder they rested on. “You’re… good. At this. Dancing.”

“I like to,” he confessed, “but there's so rarely an opportunity for it. Especially with someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”

“Someone I actually enjoy talking to. Lovely and funny, who's willing to be... a little improper.”

Crowley snorted and leaned closer to him, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“I would be disappointed if you didn't.”

“I have never, not once, not ever, been proper in my life.”

Aziraphale laughed. He couldn't help it anymore than he could the closing of the distance between them. He really, really shouldn't do this on a dance floor. Even for a masquerade, it was too much. But that wicked smile was too inviting to not taste.

It was an exceptionally dangerous thing to allow. Even more so to press back, to tilt his head and encourage it to continue. A hot tongue swiped across his lip and Crowley was helpless to keep from parting them, letting it slip inside and taste his fill.

If anyone paid attention to them at all, they could each be in trouble. Even Aziraphale, but he didn't care in that moment. As many people as he'd kissed, they'd never tasted like this. Wine and sweet mead, but something earthy underneath. Something that spoke to the flickering flame he'd been born with, but he couldn't quite reach it. Who was he?

He was some who realised he was treading dangerous territory far too late. He was already kissing a complete stranger whose name he didn't even know. This man could be anyone but he tasted so good. Sweet and smokey. The heat of him almost seemed unnatural and Crowley might have wondered about that if he didn't so desperately want more. When they broke, all he wanted was to dive right back in. Their breaths mingled and he could barely manage a, “Wow.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s hand left his back, thumb brushing over his lower lip. “You’re a dangerous creature, sweet. Come to another room with me?”

He wanted to. Gods how he wanted to. Crowley closed his eyes briefly. There were alarm bells ringing in his ears. They could go somewhere secluded, private, continue what they started. It sounded too good to be true, it sounded like the exact thing he rarely allowed himself to have. “I want to,” Crowley whispered, barely able to be heard. “But I don't think I should.”

Such was his luck as of late. Aziraphale leaned in, gently nuzzling at his temple as he let the rejection settle. He wanted to push. He could have easily, made promises about the masks staying on or whatever it was that made the man shy away. “Dance with me, then?” he asked instead. “Just for a little while longer.”

That, he could do. Crowley nodded, hating that he had to say no to the thing they both really wanted. It wasn't fair but at least he could give him this. “I’ll keep dancing with you. As long as you'd like.”

A laugh bubbled up as Aziraphale encouraged the alcohol to burn out of his system. Just enough to keep himself level headed. “You’ll be here all night if that's the case.”

“Well, can't do all night. My feet’ll fall off.”

“We can't allow that.” Aziraphale stepped away just far enough to twirl him. “I rather like you whole.”

Crowley laughed, breathless and flushed and definitely would have stumbled without his natural perfect balance. “I- ah- I rather like- I like you. Whole, too.”

“Careful now, sweet. I'll want to kiss you again,” Aziraphale warned, tucking Crowley close.

It was easy to allow himself to be pulled closer, Crowley's nose rucked against a warm temple. He smelled a little… a little like tea though Crowley couldn't sus out a presentation which confused and intrigued in equal measure. “Wouldn’t mind that.”

“Troublemaker,” Aziraphale purred, guiding him towards the stage. There weren't many places to hide in such a crowded room, but no one wanted to be behind the musicians when all the dancing was in front. It wouldn't be private enough to let hands wander, but would at least be enough to keep from getting into too much trouble. “You’ve surely left a trail of broken hearts in your wake.”

“Dunno about that.” The lack of presentation he maintained usually meant he was left alone most of the time. “You, though, bet you got half this party jealous I'm taking up all your time.”

“The beauty of no one knowing who we are.” Though Aziraphale genuinely wanted to unmask his companion and discover what lay underneath for himself. He twirled Crowley again before tugging him off the floor. “Besides, my time goes where it's earned.”

“Is that what I've done? Earned your time?”

“Commanded it. As you said, I could've told you to leave straight away.” The small space behind the curtains gave him plenty of room to guide Crowley back into his arms. “I’m very glad I didn't.”

“As am I.” Crowley's hand found his hip and squeezed. “I don't even know your name and yet… I'm drawn to you. Inexplicably.”

That could change very easily, but Aziraphale distracted himself from that by swooping in for another kiss. He'd been the one to say no guessing, and to reveal himself almost seemed unfair. Or as if he'd frighten this newcomer away. After all, most wouldn't believe they could get away with this behaviour with a prince.

And maybe Aziraphale did worry a little that his casual sexual history would indeed be a deterrent.

It might have been, had he revealed himself, but as it was Crowley kissed back with a fervour. It'd been too long since he'd allowed himself to be close to anyone like this and the alcohol made it easier, made the worries and fears of being found out dull. He just wanted to feel, be held. The need for affection would only grow stronger in the coming weeks but this, at least, soothed it for the time being.

“Broken hearts,” Aziraphale insisted, lips trailing across his jaw. “Deny it all you like, but they're there.”

Crowley huffed out a soft laugh. “Are you sssaying I'm a heartbreaker?”

“Yes, I most certainly am.” Aziraphale kissed his throat, though Crowley's high collar kept him from finding out if there was a scent gland hidden away. He adored the easy way his head tilted, but didn't press the advantage. “You’re irresistible.”

“Never been called that,” Crowley murmured. He'd been called plenty of things, some more flattering than others, but irresistible was a new one. A good new one. “I like it.”

“It’s accurate.” Aziraphale cupped his chin. “You shouldn't settle for anything less than someone who wants you wholly.”

Crowley stared at him. He couldn't see the man's eyes clearly through the sheer black gauze that covered his own mask’s eye holes but they looked serious. Crowley shook his head despite the hope and want lodging itself in his chest. “Can’t say that,” he whispered. “I’ll start to reconsider that offer.”

“And if you say that, I'll start to push and neither of us wants that.” Aziraphale kissed him again, lighter this time. “If we ever find one another without masks and you don't find me lacking, the offer stands.”

That seemed impossible but Crowley examined what he could see of his face, trying to commit it to memory. The man had a strange familiarity about him, maybe he would know him, maybe without masks and anonymity between they could really see if they liked one another. He didn't put too much hope in anything close to permanence; mages like himself didn't usually get the benefit of that. But maybe, maybe, they could have a nice time together. “I’ll look for you,” he said softly. “I won't be in the city long but I will look.”

Aziraphale brought one of Crowley's hands to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to the knuckles. “I will for you. There aren't many pretty gingers in our city, so wish us both a bit of luck.”

Crowley flushed warm, lips parting. A wicked gentleman, this one. “You might not like me outside of here.”

“You may not like me,” Aziraphale pointed out. “I can still be hopeful, and I can promise you your memory will be the highlight of this night regardless.”

“So will yours.” He hadn't expected to find someone he so instantly connected with here in Berwick. It made the prospect of having to leave painful but the idea of returning sooner than he'd planned a tempting one. “Unfortunately, for now, a nice memory is all I can offer.”

“Excellent conversation, a charming dance partner, a distressingly good kisser - you’ve offered more than just a memory, sweet.” There was a hitch in the music, the song coming to a stuttering sort of halt. His eyes closed when his uncle began to speak, a heavy sigh nearly escaping, but he bit it back. It wouldn’t do to disrespect him that much, not even to a stranger who didn’t know him. “I need to see what it is he’s up to,” unfortunately. “I sincerely hope we meet again.”

“As do I.” Crowley kissed him lightly, taking the initiative for a soft peck that wanted to linger. “Go on, I'm sure there's new gossip to be had.”

“Most assuredly.”

So, while reluctant, Aziraphale left him to rejoin the crowd.

Frances frowned as she watched her brother-in-law upon the stage. It was a simple enough speech. One of gratitude for everyone’s attendance, for their continued support for the royal family. Well wishes for the continued health and growth of their kingdom. Things she would have done long before now had this not been a masquerade, but she knew her brother-in-law didn’t approve.

He didn’t approve of much that went outside of his scope of propriety. A scope which hadn’t included his own brother. Her husband had told her early that his brother was unaware of his extra skills, something she hadn’t fully understood until after he’d been gone from her life.

When he’d come to the castle boasting about the small family of mages he’d found travelling through his lands and the way they’d been executed... She’d understood then, and had kept Aziraphale’s skills hidden away for his safety.

One day, he would be able to be open with them. One day, innocent lives wouldn’t be put at risk for simply existing as they’d been born to exist. But she couldn’t rely on that sort of future from just anyone. She hadn’t even been able to rely on herself, something which brought her daily shame. She’d failed to uphold a promise she’d made her husband on their wedding day, no matter what the mage with Sight had said, but there was still time yet to change things.

Michael was never going to forgive her. Aziraphale might not either, but her mind had been made up - had been since before her son's birth - and it was past time that the entire kingdom knew it.

Her feet ached in satin slippers, palms sweaty in delicate gloves. The dancing made her limbs feel heavy, and the crowd left her unbearably lonely. It was that last one which had kept the big, bold parties she and her husband had hosted at bay. Jehoel had always loved to be in the middle of crowds, so very fascinated by people of all sorts. She had not been the only one to love him, but she’d been the only one he’d loved. Without her mate, she wasn’t sure how to handle a crowd. The early attempts after the loss had only rattled her and it was difficult to shake those memories. The people pressing in on her, apologising for the loss and so very fascinated by the fact that her belly was swelling with new life.

How, they’d wondered behind her back, had a sick omega king pupped an alpha queen?

Thank the gods and goddesses that Aziraphale had ended up looking so much like his father. The rumours of her infidelity had continued for years, but it was undeniable now. Her son was her beloved’s mirror in so many ways.

She’d still been surprised to see him kissing someone on the dance floor, however. He wasn’t usually so reckless. She’d been surprised when he’d only taken this apparent beau behind the stage rather than out the doors, too, sure he would’ve been willing to reveal himself to someone he’d be willing to cause a scandal with.

Then again, she did see him leave the space alone when Met had begun his silly speech. The protective boy was too much, but she understood and she didn’t envy him his grief. She only hoped he could be strong enough to rise above his when she hadn’t been.

It took a little while for his companion to emerge, and she neatly crossed paths with him near the food and drink tables. The alcohol hadn’t made her ill yet that evening, so she took a glass of honeyed mead and offered a smile. He looked familiar, but in a way of a remembered dream. “Hello. Are you enjoying yourself?”

Crowley blinked at the women, entirely unprepared to be spoken to by a stranger despite very much being at a party where that was very much expected. Her dress was wide, and a deep scarlet with a high neckline and matching gloves that covered almost the entirety of her arms. It was not the current fashion, but she wore it effortlessly and with a certain kind of confidence. “Uh… yeah. I'd say so.” Had she been dancing? He thought he might have seen her dancing. “Yourself?”

“More than I thought I would, but less than I used to.” Her smile shifted into something fond, but far away. “My mate and I used to prepare for masquerades in entirely different areas of our home, and we would arrive at different times. We always made a game of finding one another, and we always did.”

That was… “That sounds nice.” And romantic. Always being able to find the other, no matter where you were and without scents or faces. “You don't anymore?”

“Oh, not exactly. Even though I know he won't be here, I've found myself searching. He died many years ago, unfortunately.” She swirled her mead, looking towards one area in particular for only a brief moment. “He was... a great loss.”

“O-oh.” Well now he just felt like a fucking arsehole. “‘M sorry.”

“It’s alright. It's easier to be at a place I have to say that than it was when he was first taken from me. It wasn't always so simple,” she admitted. “Even the thought of being at a party without him made me feel ill for a number of years that feels embarrassing now.”

Crowley's eyes rolled, and he was intoxicated enough to not think before he spoke. “Don't be daft. ‘S not embarrassing. Lost someone you loved. That's like- Anyone would want to avoid places of happy memories.”

She smiled. “Thank you. Grief is as inexplicable as love, I've found. Ineffable. I don't suppose you've a mate of your own. Not with the way you were with that gentleman on the dancefloor.”

“Ngk-” Crowley flushed and took a sip of his mead. He hadn't even thought about them being seen. “N-no. I don't.” It would probably be nice. It would probably be very nice. “‘S not really in the cards for me.”

She wasn't so sure. She’d never fully understood the woman who'd given her more time with her husband than any other healer, but she’d hoped for her son as soon as she’d known of him. “No?”

“Nah. It's not- I’m not-” It felt too personal to say but wasn't it only fair since she'd said something personal already? “No one would want me. Not real me. Not actual me. An’ who wants to be with someone you can't even be yourself with?”

“No one.” She laid a hand on his wrist. “Love doesn't always happen where it's expected. I met my husband at a campsite. I'd gotten separated from my party, but he was there. On a journey of self-discovery.” He'd been an utter mess, but she had been as well. “He was and continued to be an absolute menace.”

It was a nice sentiment but Crowley was sure she'd never understand the terror of being that close to someone whom you could never be sure wouldn't turn you in. Another mage was his only hope, if he could actually find them. “‘M glad it worked out for you.”

“It did. We had two children in the time we shared.” Though that was a complication best left unsaid. “And being able to see him in them has been... quite a gift. My son’s here enjoying himself.” Her daughter was not enjoying herself. “He has his father’s kindness, his warmth, and his strength. I like to think he has my wisdom.” And their combined stubbornness. “Have you family?”

That was a very complicated question to answer. “Er… sort of. My… grandmother and sister. ‘S all. They're not here.” Because what else was he supposed to call them?

“Oh? Are you close?”

“As close as regular family, I guess. She's not- we're not really related. Too much of a hassle for my parents so… she took me in. Raised me.”

“Sometimes that's the way of it. My husband left his family for his journey because he didn't feel welcome as he was. He had to hide parts of himself from them, and it was...” Dangerous. “I didn't make him hide from me. And I hope those like him won't have to hide much longer. So don't give up just yet.”

Crowley stared at her, an old dread and fear rising up past the haze of alcohol. He'd been so careful. “You don't know anything about me,” he snapped, defensive. “I don't even know what you're talking about.”

“It doesn't have to be anything specific. There are many things which can make a person feel othered.” She tipped her head, encouraged by the fiery attitude. Relieved, too, that it was someone who would understand her son in a way she’d never been able to. “I don't need to know anything about you.”

It didn't ease his worry as much as she might have hoped it would. “Right. Exactly. You don't.” Crowley set his mead down, suddenly not as interested in it as he had been. “‘M just a stranger at a party.”

He was more than that. As surely as she’d known to come to him, she knew that. “You will likely always be that to me. And you won't understand this now, but you've pleased me. Thank you. Have a good night, fiery one.” She patted his tense arm and disappeared into the crowd with a swish of skirts.

Crowley watched her go, terribly confused about what the hell just happened. It felt like he was missing context for so much of that conversation.

It bothered him for the rest of the evening, Crowley deciding to keep himself to the utmost edges of the room and just watch. He kept an eye out for his mysterious gentleman and for the strange woman. Though whether he watched for her to avoid her or to go up and attempt to satisfy his curiosity, he did not know. Not until he did see her again, in front of the musicians and taking off a mask. The sight made his blood run cold for a split second before he realised how silly he'd been. Surely the alcohol had been the source of his paranoia because the king? A mage? It was almost laughable.

The music fell silent, drawing eyes towards the lifted platform which had been constructed for the musicians. They seemed as befuddled as the crowd until the source of their confusion revealed herself. The queen unmasked herself, rich curls framing her face without the feathered impedance. She cast her gaze about the room, smiling in a way Aziraphale hadn't seen in some time.

Mischief had always made her shine in a way little else did. She looked vibrant and alive and, gods and goddesses, Aziraphale prayed she would stay that way for some time yet.

“Nobles, townspeople, travellers, my dearest friends, and my family - I am so glad you could all be here tonight. It is a momentous occasion, truly. My daughter has returned home, my brother-in-law has managed to arrive for a visit, and we are approaching the 27th anniversary of my dear husband's passing. King Jehoel would have been delighted to see you all, truly. He loved parties of all shapes and sizes, no matter how poor his ability on the dancefloor proved time and time again.”

Many in the crowd had attended the wedding or had at least heard their parents’ descriptions of it, so a rumble of laughter followed the words.

“I miss him, of course. Even after all this time, I often awaken and find myself reaching for him.” Any remnants of laughter faded, Aziraphale’s heart clenching tight. She so rarely spoke of her feelings so openly. It felt dangerous. “But I have enjoyed my life as much as I was able in his absence. I raised our son without him, but I see his heart reflected in Prince Aziraphale as much as I see his face.”

In the depths of the crowd, Michael rolled her eyes. Met frowned and began making his way across the crowded room.

“As much as tonight is for the return of family, I also hold it in honour of my late husband. He would have enjoyed this, and he would've approved of the decision I am going to share with you all.”

She lifted up a signed scroll that even the nearest people to her couldn't quite read, though people did draw closer to try. Met was waylaid by the crush of them. “As your Queen, it is my right and mine alone to announce my successor. When better to do so than now, with so many of you in attendance?”

Met began to walk faster, nearly pushing gathered revellers out of his way.

“I ask that you share this news with others of Celestria. Nobles, let your workers know. Townsfolk, tell your fellows. Travellers, spread these words across each town and village you come across and encourage others to spread it as well. I want it known far and wide who will be continuing my family's reign. A proud tradition we've held since the fabled Aelfric the Wise, the first King of a united Celestria, a crown passed from generation to generation. To my family, both gone and here tonight, I know you will accept my decision.”

Aziraphale was ready to clap politely for his sister, setting his drink on a side table and privately wishing his mysterious beau had been interested in more than snogging behind the stage.

Until Queen Frances lifted her document higher and proclaimed, “Prince Aziraphale shall be the next person upon the throne. A noble alpha whose kindness and bravery is unparalleled, whose cleverness extends beyond the books he's gained so much knowledge from, and whose love for Celestria is unmatched. He will serve you well as king. As proclaimed by me, Queen Frances Estġeat, of Estġeat Castle of the Kingdom of Celestria.”

A glass shattered suspiciously close to where Michael had been standing, the only sound until some dutiful soul remembered to clap at a royal proclamation. Applause and confused, stunned whispers rushed through the ball room. Though no one was quite as stunned as the apparent future king himself, the movements of his hands mechanical as he struggled not to reveal himself. King? Him? Really?

He wasn't close enough to see his uncle reach the stage, albeit too late to stop the queen's words. Their gazes held for several quiet seconds before Queen Frances smiled regally.

“I hope everyone enjoys the rest of their evening. Music, my good men?” she requested and the shocked musicians busied themselves with readying their instruments whilst their composer composed himself. What song, after all, could be enough for this sort of announcement?

Met waited until she'd exited the stage to hiss, “What have you done, Frances?”

“What I want. Nothing more nor less, Met. Do remember to congratulate your nephew, won't you?”

Chapter Text

The party had changed a great number of things. Not only the roles of the royal children, but Raphael's. Still Acting Captain of the Royal Guard without any indication of that changing anytime soon, but he was now the personal guard to the future king.

It wasn't a title Prince Aziraphale was ready for, he knew. Well. It wasn't one Aziraphale believed he was ready for, which was really the same thing. An uncertain ruler was more dangerous in some ways than a certain, violent one.

An uncertain ruler wouldn't be able to stand against the likes of Duke Met or Princess Michael, each of them like stone in their own way. Unbending, unyielding. They would never lead towards the future the late king had wanted, one wherein his son would've been able to live life freely as he was. Where so many would be able to live without fear.

To die for nothing more than an accident of birth was maddening. Many in the kingdom deliberately kept their magic users hidden away, but just as many would gleefully give up their own children if it meant some coin and the lessening of a burden. Were they free to live safely, Raphael had no doubt that the streets of Berwick would be awash with healers.

The queen was fading fast, and he knew her son wasn't going to forgive himself for the loss easily. Another reason for the duke and princess to be able to run roughshod over the prince. As much as Aziraphale tried to see the best in his sister, her mourning period would be far shorter than his.

Far, far shorter would be the duke’s. Raphael had been a young squire when the king had died, but he remembered the funeral of King Jehoel. The streets had been awash with mourners, the city overrun by travellers even weeks after his body had been reduced to ash. Yet his own brother had stayed only long enough to accept the smidgen of ashes he'd been offered and leave again.

His own brother, with his head bowed to conceal the faintest of smiles.

Raphael had sworn then to become the strongest knight one could become. He was going to protect the crown from any threats, inside and out. It rankled that he couldn't figure out the queen's illness. The symptoms had seemed so sporadic before this most recent decline, and he couldn't think of anyone in the castle who would be able to harm her.

Except...

But even if it was the two of them, how? Neither had access to her food or drink. Neither were ever alone with her. Did they, he wondered, notice a guard or servant was always near if they were? Did they notice that only Aziraphale could be solely alone with her without anyone else near? If they did, did they resent it?

Would the prince be next?

Raphael gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, a snarl beginning to form as he heard his name. He paused, smoothing features and gentling grip before turning. “Mr. Crowley,” he greeted. “You’re lucky to have caught me. I'm on my way to the tournament grounds.”

“What a coincidence, so am I.” Crowley fell into step beside the knight, much more relaxed now that he wasn't some special guest of the castle. “But you know you can drop the mister. Most people just use Crowley, or arsehole if I've pissed them off.”

“You haven't yet managed the latter.” Raphael's smile stayed easy. “Did you enjoy the masquerade?”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “How’d you know I was there?”

Raphael had been privy to Aziraphale’s magic for years. Most of the royal guard was, the queen slowly building up a force that would be tolerant to the inevitable changes. He’d seen the prince do things that would get him hanged in certain lands, and had recognised the inherent skill in Crowley during their bouts of sparring. The inhuman balance, for one. The spectacles he never removed - and had never once so much as wobbled - another. He’d known who the man was as soon as he'd entered the ballroom. Of course he would be able to temporarily shorten his hair. Not to mention the mask which had hidden his eyes, staying on as securely as the prince’s without so much as a tilt. When Aziraphale had asked him to keep an eye out for the man, he'd very nearly laughed in his face. It was something they would have to learn on their own.

Aziraphale could be such a fool.

“Everyone made their way into the masquerade at some point or another. It's been many years since the castle was properly opened to the public, you know. Not since I was a boy.”

Ah, yeah, that made sense. Crowley rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “You caught me. I couldn't resist the temptation to see inside the castle. But yeah, I had fun.” He thought back to the mystery man he'd danced with and kissed and wondered where he was. “Hopefully with Prince Aziraphale in charge there will be more parties like that.”

“I have no doubt there will be. I was a boy when the king passed, but I remember him. The prince takes after him quite a bit.” In a fondness for parties and in one for wicked-tongued, headstrong partners. “The queen’s allowed grief to lead her in more decisions than I think she would care to admit, so the ball was a welcome one. What did you think of her announcement?”

Crowley shrugged. “Surprised, I guess. Like everyone else. I don't know either of them well enough to have much of an opinion. I just hope the princess isn't so jaded about being snubbed that it causes conflict. Noble upheaval always hurts the little people more than anyone else.”

That could be very true. Though jaded wasn’t the word he would use for how furious Michael had been, raging down the halls long after guests had filed out. “Things do trickle down, unfortunately. Have you heard any opinions whilst in the city?”

“Plenty.” But he knew what Raphael was really asking. Not just had he heard any but what he'd heard. “From what I can gather, people who aren't from Berwick or came from afar are just confused and wondering what the queen is thinking. People who're actually from Berwick and the surrounding area are… they seem relieved. There was worry about someone taking the throne who hasn't been here, who was raised elsewhere. They like the prince, are fond of him.”

“That is a relief. Confusion can be handled more simply than hostility.” He wasn’t surprised by the local opinion, but it was still a relief to hear it confirmed. Especially by someone who had no real reason to lie. “I suppose it was wise of her to make the announcement before the tournament, as our prince tends to be about in an official capacity more than usual. It’s difficult to get him away from the tournament grounds most years.”

“He seems to really enjoy it. Shame he's never been able to participate, especially since he won't be able to now since no one's going to want to fight the king.”

“Oh, yes, though it’s more about the fairness of things. If he were to win, what would happen to the prize money? Being that it comes from the royal family.” Raphael’s lips twitched. “He just makes sure to fight everyone before the tournament, so any prior contestants do know how strong their future king is. Perhaps you’ll have an opportunity for a proper rematch.”

“I’d like that,” Crowley said with a cheeky grin. “Not many opportunities to wallop royalty.”

“As I recall, you were saying your arm was going numb. But you most definitely held your own. Even if you aren’t staying, you’ll make for a valuable knight to have in the land.”

“Thank you. And it was going numb. I was still gonna beat him though.”

“We’ll allow the rematch to decide that.” Raphael smirked lightly. “He won’t have the same element of surprise.”

“No, he won't, and I still have a trick or two up my sleeves.”

So, Raphael knew, did the prince. It may not have been the same element of surprise, but that didn’t mean one was entirely absent. “Speaking about him seems to make you less nervous. Have you run across him? At the masquerade, perhaps?”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “Nah, didn't see hide nor hair of him.” He was sure he'd have recognised those fluffy white curls. “Shame, too. I bet he had on a real fancy getup.”

Ah. They were both fools, then. “I won’t be the one to give it away. He may use it in the future.”

“Aww, not even a hint? Or will I have to go ask him myself?”

“He wore his mother’s favourite colour.” Something which most had always assumed to be gold from her preferred clothes, but Aziraphale had gotten the truth out of her and shared it several years before when sending someone off for a very specific birthday gift. She’d wept over the blue roses, bushes and bushes of them now surrounding the castle and slowly climbing the stone walls.

Crowley groaned dramatically, head thrown back and arms hanging limp. “That’s like, the worst hint ever.”

One day, perhaps, Crowley would learn otherwise. “Regardless, a hint was given. You’re welcome.”

He hadn't actually expected any kind of hint at all but still blew a raspberry at him. “I’ll let you know when I figure it out. Which will probably be never.”

Raphael chuckled. For each of them, he hoped otherwise. He also hoped he'd be there for that particular realisation. It would likely be very amusing. “In the meantime, would you care to assist me in testing the mettle of new challengers today? I feel your assessment would be brutally honest.”

“Yeah, sure, so long as the brutal honesty is welcome.”

“It’s preferred. We've had to remove people from the competition before who'd clearly lied about their experience.”

Crowley winced. “Yeesh. Anyone with a brain in their head should know doing that will only end up with them or others hurt.”

“Precisely. Besides, we do consider these sessions training. We want the competition to be one. Hardly fun if the same people are in the winners circle every year.”

“Like how you've won so many times so far?”

Raphael grinned. “I’m not competing this year.”

“I remember. I also remember the prince is a little put out about that.”

“He is.” Or had been. He was so distracted with everything else going on, he'd likely become relieved that Raphael's only duty to the tournament was observing training. Participation was his own choice. “Tell me, Crowley, you've been in Berwick a few weeks now. The buzz of gossip isn't revolving solely around our tournament this year, is it?”

“Not at all.” There was a lot of gossip. He'd known villages and small towns could have a busy gossip mill but they were nothing compared to a city like Berwick. “Plenty of people are curious about Duke Met and the princess, lots of talk of the queen, why she's been so distant. The usual stuff, I assume.”

“Anything specific?”

Crowley rubbed his thumb over the pommel of his sheathed sword, not entirely sure what Sir Raphael was trying to suss out. “They say she's sick,” he eventually said. “That no one knows what's wrong and healers go away baffled and it's only getting worse. That it's like whatever the king had.”

They shouldn't know about the similarities to King Jehoel’s wasting. No one should know that. “I see. Even after her appearance at the masquerade?”

“That only stopped them from speculating she was already dead,” Crowley murmured. “Well, except for the one crackpot theory that her appearance at the masquerade was an illusion set up by a mage.”

Raphael chuckled, though any humour in it was forced. “I doubt a mage would boldly walk into the castle right now. Not openly enough for such a display.”

Crowley snorted. “Like I said, crackpot theory.”

“Well. Thank you for sharing. I appreciate knowing the goings on in the city. Most gossip tends to stop if I’m about, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Oh yeah, for sure. No one wants to say anything in front of the Captain of the Guard. Acting Captain, whatever.”

And especially not the prince when Raphael was with him. The prince who didn't show up that day or several days after, which only stirred the rumours more.

The tournament drew closer every day. Aziraphale didn’t spend as much time as he normally did amidst the competitors, typically delighting in his chances to spar with newcomers and eager others who hadn’t signed up and only wanted to feel a part of things. There were young ones who would become apprentices or squires or fall into less violent professions whom he delighted in seeing as well. There was also a lot of import on weeding out individuals who weren’t prepared for the tournament, be they too violent or too inexperienced. The weeks leading up to the tournament were always the most exciting, even more so than the days themselves.

Yet his mother’s illness had worsened, so it was with her that Aziraphale found himself most often. She could hardly get out of bed some days, so often unable to keep food or even water down. He exhausted himself with spells, quietly sending Raphael to the more secretive parts of the city to see if anyone knew of a healer who worked with more than herbs.

It was difficult to get a direct answer out of people, though. Between the taboo nature of the subject and the rank of the person asking, it was foolish to even try. But Aziraphale had to try.

Weak, rough skinned hands stroked through his hair as he knelt by her bedside, the latest bout of healing helping her sore throat swallow honey and tea. Aziraphale had prepared it himself and brought it from the kitchens, hoping to get her to try a little. Her voice was almost too soft to hear over the crackling of the fire in the hearth nearby. “Have I ever told you the tale… of Aelfric the Wise?”

“Oh, mother,” he sighed, holding her palm to his cheek. It didn’t feel like her hand anymore. The mother of his childhood had soft hands, well taken care of but still fully capable of wielding sword and shield. “More times than I can count. You should save your strength.”

“I will do as I please.” As she always had. “I know you’re frightened, my gift, and confused by my decision.”

He knew what she was talking about. It had been on his mind for weeks. Raphael had brought back rumblings from the town which spoke of it. It seemed that the people were as stunned as he was, but it was very possible that they weren’t… against him. Not as much as he’d expected them to be. He wished he could go into town, the man he'd met never far from his mind. But there'd been no word on one matching the description he'd quietly passed to Raphael. He'd likely left the city already, but Aziraphale couldn't let himself be disappointed in that. He had other worries. Vital ones. “I don’t have the training Michael does, mother.”

“Exactly.”

“Mother-”

“You have my training. You have your father’s spirit and heart and enough intelligence to utilise both.”

“That doesn’t at all mean that I have what’s required to rule an entire kingdom by myself.”

“I didn’t believe I had what was needed either, and I don’t believe anyone trusts they’re ready to rule when the time comes.” And he wouldn’t be alone. One woman had given her hope in the dark time during her husband’s illness, again in the darker time afterwards, and she hadn’t allowed herself to let that go. She’d lost much, but not that spark of faith. It would be hard won, but she’d done all she could to prepare him.

“It isn’t about belief, mother. I know I’m not ready. My education is different from Michael’s. What she’s learned about the nobility from our uncle-”

She silenced him with a single look, her glare still powerful even bedridden. “What your sister has learned is not compatible with the future our kingdom deserves. You know there are people in our lands who are suffering. You’ve spent your life learning our people, Aziraphale. You’ve seen their struggles and their triumphs. Yes, I could have sent you away from Berwick more.” It was her one regret, that she’d been too selfish and too devoted to her own grief to allow either of them the freedom she’d once had. “But that does not mean you’re lacking. You’ll do wonderful things, my gift.”

“There’s still time to send me out and about,” he insisted, refusing to let her go until she’d truly breathed her last. “Please let me send out word that we need healers. There’s a cure to this. There must be.”

She smiled. “Tell me a tale before you leave tonight. You’re a gifted storyteller.”

“Another thing I learned at my mother’s knee,” he murmured, shoulders sinking when her eyes closed. “Have you ever heard the tale of Aelfric the Wise?”

Her laughter was a quiet song, but it was still music.

She’d forbidden Aziraphale from entering her room that morning, though she’d accepted the tea he’d brewed and carried up. The only hands it had gone into were those of a servant who’d been his mother’s handmaiden since his birth, and he’d been very irritated with her when the door had been shut in his face. It would be easy to force them open, but he let it go.

He even left as she encouraged him to do, making his way aimlessly through the castle grounds at first. He saw his sister, her tightly pinched expression forcing a wince, and that was enough for him to leave. The barracks were nearly empty, only enough forces left to keep the guard detail steady. He knew where the others were.

Though the walk through the city was… odd. Uncomfortable. People who would normally have smiled at him and spoken easily either avoided him or gave him wide-eyed nods and almost reverent whispers of, “Blessed morn, Your Highness.”

Word had indeed been spreading, his mother’s proclamation managing to cast him in a new light he was wholly unprepared for. The sounds of battle were welcome ones, the scattered clangs of weaponry and shouts of taunts and encouragement alike drew him nearer. The royal knights, bless them, continued on as if he wasn’t even there.

When travellers saw him or even those knights who didn’t cover Berwick, however, there were stumbles and stares. If he got close enough, he’d earn a bow or curtsy with a too-quiet greeting, and it was very disconcerting.

“Sir Franklin, do you know where Sir Raphael might be?”

He went where he was directed, surprised to see him standing off to the side and watching a fight between a familiar ginger and a stranger. “Good morning, Sir.”

“Is it, Highness? You look a little too haggard for it to be good.”

His huff tried very hard to be a laugh. “Calling it a terrible morning may be accurate, but I wouldn’t wish such a thing on anyone else.”

A yelp caught his and Raphael’s attention, their gazes shifting towards the grasses where Mr. Crowley had been in the midst of sparring. The stranger seemed to have caught sight of him and, not one to miss an opening, Mr. Crowley had struck.

A laugh escaped after all. Served them right. “I see you’ve been keeping up with your training, Mr. Crowley,” he called.

Crowley smirked crookedly at the knight-in-training, who was glaring at him and rubbing where he'd just been smacked with the flat of his blade on the arse. “Always am, Your Highness.”

It was so nice to be spoken to like a normal person. Perhaps there was something in the genetics of gingers which made them so agreeable to him, the thought of the party both warming and chilling. “It should serve you well through the tournament.”

“And the rest of these people ought to get used to fighting in front of you or they won’t make it very far at all,” Raphael mused, knowing why Aziraphale was tired better than anyone else besides the queen. “Would you like to sit somewhere?”

“Oh, heavens’ sake, don’t start all of that. Please.”

Crowley approached them with a swagger in his step. This was the fifth squire he'd gone up against and all of them thus far had either yielded or been disarmed and he was enjoying it. “Is His Highness certain? I'm sure someone could be spared to fetch a cushioned chair.”

That was much better, Aziraphale’s eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiled. “I would hate to be a distraction from something as important as training. We’re only a week away from the tournament, after all.”

“If they can't beat me with you just standing there they sure as shit can't beat me in front of a whole loud crowd.”

“Your confidence is to be admired, Mr. Crowley. As are your skills. You seem to have improved from the last time I saw you fight.”

“Training with Sir Raphael most days will do that.” He could freely admit the sparring they'd been doing was a large part of recent developments. “I’m grateful for the hospitality.”

At the expectant look from Aziraphale, Raphael nodded. “He’s taken quickly to the lessons and been a pleasure to train. I won’t say I believe he’ll win, though. His ego’s grown large enough.”

Aziraphale laughed in a way he hadn’t in days. “So long as he can’t defeat you, I think all will be right in the kingdom.”

Crowley's smirk grew. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, I have no intentions of replacing your Guard Captain, acting or otherwise. I like being a free agent too much.”

Some of the cheer faded, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. People came and went as they pleased, particularly around tournament time. “No plans to remain in Berwick should you win then?”

“I’d like to stay longer,” Crowley replied, thinking of the mystery man from the masquerade. He had so little time to search for him. “But… I have important business to take care of elsewhere.”

Aziraphale bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Then I hope you return when you’re able.”

“I will. I… Berwick has grown on me.”

“Highness, why don’t I give you a tour? You haven’t been able to meet our entrants yet this year.”

“Thank you, Raphael, yes. That would be lovely.” His smile weakened, the exhaustion like a weight in his scent and on shoulders that tried to stay even. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Crowley? I’m sure you have fascinating insights on your competition.”

Crowley shrugged lightly. “As a soon-to-be knight I suppose I can't refuse the future King.”

“Oh…” His shoulders gave in. “You may. If you would rather continue to spar here, please do. A… potential future title holds little bearing over today.”

“For Aelfric’s sweaty stockings, if I was against tagging along I'd say so or come up with an excuse to not go.”

Rude thing. Aziraphale didn’t know why he found the attitude charming. “Then I would deeply appreciate it if any agreements didn’t include any mentions of my possibly being king in the future. Please.”

How odd. Crowley figured he'd be smug or ecstatic but he seemed… almost dejected at the thought. He rethought giving his congratulations and nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you.” He gave a nod to the silent squire whom Crowley had defeated, who didn’t seem to know if a bow or a nod would be better and ended up bobbing oddly enough to nearly fall over. Aziraphale bit back the sigh as he turned away, hands clasping behind his back to help keep himself straight. “I’ve heard we’ve gotten a few late sign-ups?”

“Travellers who were delayed,” Raphael confirmed. “There have been some unusual storms in Noreir, it seems.”

“Unusual?” Aziraphale wondered, curiosity easier to fall into than his wallowing. He detested the heaviness of despair. “For spring?”

“Supposedly there were funnels of air strong enough to rip trees from the ground.”

“Goodness. Has anyone been injured?”

“We’ve sent scouts northward already, Highness. I thought it best not to bother you or Her Majesty until we know more.”

Crowley bit his lip and wondered which mage had gone off the deep end and if he knew them. Such displays were… unwise and he knew of only one air mage in the north. “Sounds dangerous.”

“It does. When the scouts send word, let mother and I know. If anyone’s injured, we’ll send healers and supplies. And if there’s property damage, we’ll send supplies and workers to assist in rebuilding.”

Raphael managed not to lift his brows and point out how easily Aziraphale would - and had - disproved his own misgivings over his abilities to lead. He’d helped his mother make decisions in court since he’d been tall enough to see over the table in his own chair. “Of course, Highness. We sent our quickest people.”

Sending word to Agnes would probably be a good idea. She wouldn't be able to go herself and make sure no mage got caught up and blamed but Crowley knew she had connections all over. “Mighty nice of you to help the area out like that.”

“They’re part of the kingdom,” Aziraphale said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course we’ll provide aid where it’s needed.”

“Wouldn’t it be the local lord’s job to assess damage and casualties and request aid?”

“In some cases, yes. If we’re made aware of something sooner, such as in this case, there’s no reason to wait.”

Raphael scoffed quietly. “Not to mention the way some lords seem to think of themselves first, second, and last. Or some dukes.”

Aziraphale sent him an imploring sort of look, but didn’t admonish him otherwise. It was, unfortunately, very true. Particularly regarding one specific duke. His lands were ruled in a very specific way and there was no reasoning with him. “The last peacekeeping tour did quite a bit of good in that regard. With luck, those will continue soon.”

Crowley snorted. “If they've done that much good I shudder to think how it used to be. There's some lords I refuse to work with, and will only talk to their people, after they tried jilting me out of money owed for a job. Tight-fisted vultures.”

“They refused to pay after you’d held up your end of the deal?” At Crowley’s very bland, silent look, Aziraphale hummed. “Raphael said you were able to read and write. Do you think you could provide him with a list of names when you’ve time?”

“They refused to pay until I threatened them, but I could provide names if you wish.” And on one memorable occasion the lord had withheld his payment until Crowley had every farmer for a quarter mile march up to his door.

“I would like that, yes. It would most certainly give us a place to begin once normal business is able to resume.” And it would resume. It must. He tried to run a hand through his curls, Raphael catching his crown when he knocked it off. “Oh, that silly thing. Thank you.” He took it back, but he didn’t put it back on.

One of Crowley's eyebrows lifted above his dark glasses. “Should put a little string on it so when you knock it off it just hangs around your neck like an oversized necklace.”

The absurdity of the image made Aziraphale chuckle. “Truthfully, I’m not at all used to wearing it. I generally don’t, but it’s important to make my uncle and sister comfortable when they visit. They prefer all of the trappings of our stations for whatever reason. Otherwise, they’re left for court or other royal duties.”

Crowley glanced sideways at him. “It looks good on you, though.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale smiled, cheeks dusting a light pink. “Thank you.”

Damn it, he was cute when he smiled like that. Someone who was going to be king in the near future wasn't supposed to look so adorable. “Just callin’ ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“How kind of you,” Aziraphale purred and did finally return the crown to his curls. “I’ll still be glad to put it away again. Perhaps people will return to normal around me.”

“Have there been threats, Highness?”

“No, Raphael. Just... odd behaviour. As if I'm an entirely different person than I was before the masquerade.”

Because he was an entirely different person to them. He went from being the spare prince to the next in line for the throne in a single night. He was going to be king, and if the rumours were true it would be sooner rather than later. “Just keep being yourself. They'll get over it eventually.”

Raphael nodded. “You've also hardly left the castle grounds since the announcement, Highness. That isn't like you, particularly around tournament time.”

“I do want to be out and about. You know that. It's just a... a difficult time.”

“I’m sure your favourite taverns miss you,” Crowley said. Not to mention his various… dalliances.

“I miss them,” Aziraphale admitted to Crowley. “I would so much rather be amongst the people than...” He sighed. “Well. That's neither here nor there. I'm doing everything in my power to return things to normal.”

Which was why he was exhausted. It was a bone deep tiredness that was so far removed from Aziraphale’s usual countenance. It worried Raphael. “Highness... The scouts were also sent off with another purpose which aligns with your particular efforts.”

“Oh, Raphael, she’ll be furious when she finds out.” Aziraphale’s smile returned, a little wobbly but genuine. “Thank you. I’ll take any and all blame.”

Crowley looked between them, too curious for his own good. “That sounds awfully secretive.”

“By Queen's orders, it needs to be.” Not to mention for the prince’s safety. Raphael may have known certain things about Crowley's... extra capabilities, but that still wasn't safe information to divulge. Anyone could hear them. And he simply didn't know Crowley well enough to say for sure if the information could be bought or not.

“Yet you've already gone against her orders.”

“As I recall, Your Highness, you're taking the blame for that. You have gone against her.”

Crowley let out a low whistle, fascinated by the dynamic at play here. He'd only met the queen once and briefly but the experience had been intimidating enough to be glad he wasn't taking or breaking orders. “That’s some bravery right there.”

“Some things are worth a bit of... mischief, we'll say. She won't be angry long.” She’d understand, Aziraphale was sure. She’d done the same for her husband. “And if she is, she can return the monarchy to Michael and all truly will be normal again.”

“Has Michael spoken to you since the masquerade?” Raphael wondered.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together, hands wringing behind his back. “Not, ah, not as such. But she’ll surely come around to things. Mother's decisions are her own, however baffling.”

Crowley could understand that, at least a little bit. He often didn't understand Agnes or why she did things the way she did, and it wasn't like she was prone to explaining herself. “She sounds like a typical stubborn alpha to me.”

Aziraphale sighed gustily. “That is... very true.”

Raphael nearly smirked. “You would know, Highness, being one yourself.”

That, Aziraphale couldn't easily deny, so he very maturely stuck his tongue out instead.

It was such a childish, immature thing to do. Crowley stared for a moment, struck at how very unlike royalty he looked just then, even with a crown of gold atop his fluffy head. He looked like a person, a person who was under a lot of stress but who just wanted to be treated normally. And Crowley thought he might be able to do that. “That’s just an admittance of guilt.”

Utterly delighted, Aziraphale gasped at him. “An omittance is not always an admission. I can, perhaps, be a bit particular, but we must have some standards.”

“The more you deny it, the more certain it is.”

“He does have a point, Highness.”

“Having two of you against me is hardly fair,” Aziraphale complained, but his eyes held a sheen of gratitude.

Crowley grinned. “I have never claimed to play fair.”

“So you haven't. For your sake and the sake of your opponents, I hope that doesn't extend to the tournament.”

“He’s well aware of the rules, Your Highness. There are others who would benefit from hearing them from our prince, however. A few travellers seem to think they can be as... rough as they like.”

“Ah. New participants?”

“Indeed. Mr. Crowley dealt with one of them just yesterday. A Mr. LaVista?”

Crowley's head tilted. “The frog-faced one?” At Raphael's nod Crowley groaned. “Yeah, he was a cunt. The blades might be dull, but he still tried to stab me in the face.”

“The men and I have noticed another, a Mr. Melion, carrying a secondary weapon as well. As if they're attempting to take their competitors down before even entering the arena properly.”

“I see,” Aziraphale hummed, not liking the sound of either of them. “Alright. I'll reiterate the rules to everyone after I take a look around. Mother's banned me from the castle for the day, so I've nowhere to be.”

“Sounds like the perfect excuse to faff about to me.”

“Oh, no, it's very important to be here. Not out and about. Although, being out here hardly feels like doing a duty. It's my favourite time of year,” Aziraphale admitted with a warm smile. “There are so many new people to meet and warmth is returning to the lands.”

Crowley's lips curled upwards. “I generally prefer the middle of summer but I suppose now isn't bad.” Even if he didn't usually get to enjoy this time of year all that much and would need to rush back to the only place he sort of considered home as soon as the tournament was over.

“My second favourite time of the year. What is it about summer you enjoy so much?”

He was not going to say a spell had gone wrong when he was a kid and it had never been able to be fixed. “I get cold easy, so I like the heat.”

Aziraphale had never been cold a day in his life and wasn't going to admit that either. “There is something nice about a cosy winter fire, but I do prefer the sun. And all the greenery.”

“Considering that you can't keep a potted plant alive longer than a week,” Raphael teased, “it is nice to see nature actually able to work.”

“I’ve never met a plant I didn't like or that didn't like me,” Crowley bragged.

“Then perhaps you could teach me a thing or two if you return to us come winter.”

“You do know winter is one of the worst times to try and grow anything, right?”

“Yes, but I do have a book that explains the best ones to grow indoors when the weather cools. They just never seem to work for me.” Aziraphale hummed. “Perhaps I'll bring it to you and you can assist? Point out any flaws you happen to notice.”

Crowley chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, sure. Most of my know-how is… learned from being hands-on, but I could probably see where you're going wrong.”

Raphael nodded to himself, knowing right away what sort of element Crowley gravitated towards. Was it amusing that it was one Aziraphale struggled with even more than water? Yes. “With luck, you'll be able to be out here more often if you're planning on bringing one of your beloved books out of the castle.”

“One can only hope,” Aziraphale agreed, pausing as they came across a group paired off and sparring. Two of them had his brow furrowing. They were knights he knew, but not from the royal guard. “Raphael, you didn't tell me Sirs Uriel and Gabriel were participating in this year's tournament.”

“Sir Sandalphon is as well.”

“No.”

“Your uncle insisted, Your Highness.”

“Goodness.”

Crowley watched them; both were stiff and formal, but only one of them looked like they were enjoying themselves. “What’s the big deal about that?”

“Uncle has never allowed any of his guards to participate in the tournament. He... Well, he finds it to be something of a waste of funds.” An opinion his sister shared. “For him to have three of his personal guards involved is, ah, something of a shock. Sir Gabriel, in particular, as he's Hewin’s Captain of the Guard. He's normally at Uncle's side and unable to be disturbed.”

“I see.” How interesting, though Crowley was more interested in how they might fight. “So I'll probably get to fight the Captain of the Duke’s guard? I suppose if I can't face the royal one, the duke’s will have to do.”

Raphael smiled. “It’s cute that you think he could be second to me.”

“Don’t patronise the man, Raphael. You know how formidable they can all be.” Aziraphale watched Uriel in particular. She may have been stiff, but she could be very vicious. Sandalphon, too, though in a far more brutish way. And Gabriel wasn't as weak as Raphael pretended. If anyone could take Raphael in a fight, he wouldn't be too terribly surprised for it to be Sir Gabriel.

The real issue at hand, however, was why. For all his protests year after year, why now? Why, a quiet voice whispered, on the year his mother was ill?

He shook his head and stepped back. “Mr. Crowley, could I ask a favour of you?”

That sounded ominous. “Yeah, sure. Not like I got anything else going on.”

“Could you round up the combatants? Send them towards the royal box, if you would. I need a few minutes to speak with Sir Raphael.”

Crowley nodded. “Sure thing. I don't mind a polite way to tell me you wanna talk about something you don't want me to hear.”

“Mr. Crowley, your astuteness is nearly as fascinating as your bluntness.” Aziraphale couldn't help but smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, just know you owe me a favour now.”

“A favour owed by a prince. Whatever will you ask for?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” Crowley said over his shoulder as he turned. He'd also have to think of something but Aziraphale didn't need to know that right now. “I won't leave you hanging long, though.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened, but his response was cut short by Raphael's sigh. “Highness?”

“Yes, of course. We’ll make our way towards the box now.” Though he was reluctant to turn away from Crowley, he needed to know. “How long have they been signed up?”

“Three days.” Raphael held up a hand to Aziraphale’s wide eyes. “You've been in no state to be disturbed.”

“But all three of them? And so last minute.”

Raphael had his own opinions on it, but didn't voice them. Some gossip was best left amongst the commoners and not spread to royal ears. If the monetary troubles in Esteorþe, the lands which Duke Met ruled, were true, however... “You could ask him.”

“Well... I suppose. But for Michael to allow Uriel to fight as well. She's always been as vocally against the tournament as our uncle.”

She did, said, and believed a lot of things the duke did. Raphael bit back the desire to point that out. “You could also ask her.”

“I will,” he sighed, giving in. They were family. It shouldn't be difficult to speak with them. “You find it unusual as well, don't you? Have you asked any of them?”

“Of course. To both questions. Sir Uriel said she's participating under order. Sir Sandalphon claims he wishes to prove himself stronger and more formidable than any of our royal guard. And Sir Gabriel...”

“Yes?”

“He seemed rather befuddled by the question at first. Eventually, he said it was for the, ah, the honour and glory involved in participating in and winning the final annual tournament.”

Aziraphale’s brows drew together. “This isn't the final tournament.”

“Yes, I told him the same. He laughed and patted my shoulder. Supposedly under the impression that I was joking.”

“Sir Gabriel’s always been a bit of an... odd fellow. I don't believe there's any harm in him having his mistaken beliefs. So long as they all follow the rules,” particularly Uriel and Sandalphon, “we’ll welcome them as we do any competitor.”

“Yes. As you've welcomed Mr. Crowley?”

Aziraphale smiled, cheeks rosy. “Perhaps not quite so warmly as all that.”

Years Ago

“Jehoel…”

“Don't ruin my fun. I'm telling you they say this one has the Sight.” He smiled as he took her hand, eyes a pale blue and sparkling. His palms had roughened, not unusual considering how cheerfully he'd always thrown himself into training sessions with the royal guard. How eagerly he'd delve into the kitchens to stir up trouble in his curious way. How he'd even helped servants get curtains down from windows, the velvet heavy and cumbersome especially when in need of washing. He was a man who threw himself into life with both feet.

But his hands were rougher than they ought to be. His body was too weak to help in the kitchens or with curtains. Though he tried to hide it, he was struggling with the stairs now.

He couldn't even hold their daughter on his broad shoulders any longer, hefting her even to his hip a mighty chore. She didn't understand, but Frances hoped she would one day. They loved her as much as they had before the strange illness had begun to befall him, but showing her in the same ways simply wasn't possible.

Not until they healed him.

When she cupped his cheek, it was unusually gaunt. He'd always been soft to the touch in the past, but he still retained his warmth. It helped her lean down, kissing him where he sat before the fire he'd brought to life with a wave of his hand.

“They can say that all they like, whomever they are. It's the healing we need.”

He scoffed at her. “You’re fit as any fiddle.”

“Stop it, you buffoon. You know I need you healthy.”

He tipped his head as he lifted her hand to his lips, the bonding mark dark and well tended above his collar. Her thumb brushed over it. “You don't need me, beloved. You're strong enough without me.”

“Jehoel, I don't-”

“Your Majesties?” a maid interrupted, peeking only her head in. “Mrs. Agnes Nutter is here.”

“Ah. She arrived just in time to keep you from saying something stupid.”

“Shush,” she admonished. “Let her in, please.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The woman who entered the grand sitting room looked as out of place as a horse at the dinner table. Her hair was long and dark, greying at the temples, and while her brown dress was simple she wore it as if it were a gown of the finest silks. She curtsied as the doors were shut behind her, posture that of a noble lady. “Yer Majesties, yer invitation was late by at least two weeks.”

Jehoel grinned up at his wife, eyes filled with mirth despite the dire situation of his own health. “Was it?”

“It was.” Her eyes zeroed in on the ailing king. “Not that the timing will change anything.”

His smile softened, gaze shifting to her. His wife's grip tightened, lips thinning. “If you're only here to fear-monger-”

“Frances, don't be rude.”

“I’m not here for any such thing.” Agnes’s head tilted. “May I approach?”

“Of course,” he agreed before his wife could say otherwise.

Agnes came forward before the words had even left the king’s lips, as if she'd known, anticipated, the agreement. She knelt beside his chair and offered one of her hands and waited for him to place his free one there. When he did, she turned it to examine the palm. Rough and hard in patches, but not where one would expect for hard work. She turned it over again, looking at his nails. She tsked at the white lines running through them. “Ye are very unwell.”

“More than my alpha wishes,” he agreed with a small sigh. “She’s a worrier, through and through.”

“And you are too careless and carefree.” The things which had made Frances fall the hardest. Her impractical love. Gentle fingers stroked through his pale blond curls despite her sharp tone.

Jehoel smiled again. “You’ll have to forgive her, Mrs. Nutter. She thinks she knows all there is to magic, but she forgets there are still unexplainable things in the world.”

“None of us know all there is, on any subject, let alone magic.”

“So far, you’ve only given us facts. Are the rumours true that you’ve the Sight?”

“I only ever deal in facts,” Agnes said as she stood, her eyes twinkling with a playful mischievousness. “I understand yer wariness, Yer Majesty. Yer husband is ill and no one has been able to determine why; however, I'm not the horse that bucked you for wading too deep.”

“I-” She levelled a sharp glare at her husband, who laughed himself into a coughing fit that turned the irritation into worry.

He waved her away, a quiet wave of magic helping calm his throat and lungs enough that he could speak. “I didn’t tell her. Don’t look at me like that.”

“No, in fact I did not know that was either of ye I until I saw ye just a moment ago. But I prefer for my gifts to speak for themselves.”

Jehoel’s concern was instant. “Safely, I hope?”

“As safely as using my natural born talents to help those in need will allow.”

He could appreciate that. He did the same, was hopeful that having so many healers with those extra skills within the castle had let them know that change was coming. Somehow, some way, things would be better for people like them. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Will those talents help us now? He’s why you’re here,” Frances pushed, barely soothed by the gentle rub of Jehoel’s thumb over the back of her hand.

“I know,” Agnes said. She took his free hand again, the fingers that rubbed his palm were as warm to him as his hand was to her. “What has befallen His Majesty is… not unknown to me. These ailments are things I have seen before in the common folk. Ye hide the lesions well.”

“I do my best. Thank you.”

“If you know what it is, you can heal it?” She was, so far, the only one who’d claimed to know it. Especially if she knew of the lesions.

“It is a poison,” Agnes explained, brow furrowed. “Naturally occurring but dangerous all the same. At this stage he must have been exposed to it for some time. Magic can neither cure nor stop it… but there are herbal remedies that can ease the symptoms, make ye more comfortable. I have, unfortunately, never seen anyone live longer than a year or two past this stage.”

“That’s not possible.” All relieved faith fled in an instant, Frances stepping back only to be caught firm by her husband.

“Naturally occurring? I'm the only one who's ill. And Frances rarely leaves my side.”

“If ye are truly the only one in the castle who is ill, then I fear ye have made quite the enemy.”

“He doesn't have enemies,” Frances insisted.

Jehoel was quiet for a long few minutes before sighing quietly. There was one, though he was hesitant to give such a label to his own family. Especially when he'd seemed to have taken such a shine to their daughter. “You’re sure there's nothing that can be done?”

“I can make what time ye have left more pleasant than it has been. The poison is such that it does not leave the body like it should. It stays and, if done over a long period of time, can be built up with the victim none the wiser. The remedies I can make for ye will flush the body as much as they can but they cannot remove it all. Think of it as dyed wool, no matter how much ye wash it some colour remains.”

“Then we accept your kindness, Mrs. Nutter. We’ll pay you well for it.”

Frances pulled away from him, stalking to the fireplace to stare into the crackling flames. When they began to dance more playfully, deliberately so, she closed her eyes against it. Ridiculous man.

“Is there anything you need in life besides gold?”

Agnes Nutter's gaze was piercing. “Ye will not lift the ban on magic in yer lifetimes. Neither of ye.” She'd Seen it. “I require neither gold nor riches, only that ye heed my words, listen, and pave the way for our most discriminated to live their lives in peace.”

“We’ve been doing what we’re able. You must know. Everyone who’s our sort generally knows once they touch me that persecution… It won’t happen here.” And they’d slowly gathered together those nobles and lords and ladies within the kingdom who had also been quietly turning a blind eye to those in their own lands.

“Will our daughter be able to stop it?” Frances asked. It didn’t matter if she believed if this woman had some sort of extra gift. Any scrap of hopeful news was better than none.

“She will not,” Agnes answered simply. “Yer son, however…”

She turned back. “We have no son.”

Jehoel, however, smiled. A son. “I did always say I wanted two children, but she’s never agreed. I like knowing I get my way.”

“You’re not getting your way, you awful menace.”

“Yer son will be the beginning and the end of many things. His future is in flux.” Agnes’s eyes grew distant, as if she were not seeing the flames that danced behind the queen, but gazing at something far in the distance. “There are many paths he may take to his destiny, all stemming from a mage with head and tongue of fire and their little death.”

It was all she would say about the person whose destiny was intertwined with their son's. A mage with head and tongue of fire.

They still sent her on her way with gold, despite her refusal. And Jehoel did improve after her remedies, though it wasn't nearly as much as either king or queen would've liked. It didn't last as long either.

His next heat wasn't fruitful, the one after that barely lasting a blink of an eye. He only grew weaker, the supposed poison seeming impossible to get away from. No matter how tightly Frances closed up the castle, the king only grew weaker. Even when she started making his meals herself, it only seemed to work a short time before he was getting sick again.

There was no possible way they would ever have a second child, Frances dismissing Agnes Nutter’s prophecies as ludicrous as her husband's body began to truly lose the battle. Even his own magic wasn't enough. The internal fire he'd been born with couldn't burn this away.

He never got to meet the son Agnes prophesied. This beginning and end of many things. He also took his suspicions to the grave with him, unable to levy such accusations even at his deathbed.

The queen's last words were those same suspicions, whispered to her guard. A man who had served her husband before her. She wouldn't take those suspicions with her.

Lucian Morningstar Sr. patted her hand as it went cold and her eyes unseeing, then smiled.

Chapter Text

The rules of the tournament were simple. At the royal box, Aziraphale went over them. Many in attendance knew of them already, but the newcomers didn't. Particularly the newcomers who seemed displeased when Aziraphale said there were to be no killing blows delivered on the fields. This was for fun as much as for glory.

Matches would be decided by names drawn and posted with plenty of warning and explanation for those unable to read, only winners would advance per each round, and it would last a total of five days. All would have access to their personal weapons and a communal store arranged by the royal guard. This also included leathers and armour, should they wish it, though full plate was banned.

Aziraphale didn't mention how unwise it was to fight with unfamiliar equipment. He never did, and many past losers had taken it as a lesson well learned.

As he moved on to the reward, there was a shriek drawing closer. A maid, lifted skirts not keeping them out of the dirt, was running fast as she was able. “Highness! Highness, come quick!”

Mid-sentence, Aziraphale abandoned the tournament attendees without a second thought.

He knew. He knew before he left the box. He knew before he made it past the handmaiden. He knew before his lungs, unused to running, threatened to burst before he even saw the castle doors. Servants attempted to slow him, but he wouldn’t be waylaid. It was rude, guilt tugging at him, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

He knew, but he had to see. Faith wasn’t blind in this case.

“Sir Lucian,” Aziraphale said as he reached his mother’s door, finally forced to stop. “I… Is it…?” A single, grim-faced nod had Aziraphale’s erratically beating heart seem to stop, his panted breaths hitching. “She can’t be.”

“It was very sudden, Your Highness.” When Aziraphale reached for the doorknob, Sir Lucian side-stepped to block his path. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to see my mother.”

“No one can see her.”

“By whose order?” Aziraphale demanded, blinking furiously. The tears couldn’t fall yet. Not yet. Not ever. He had to be strong, for himself, for those in the castle, for those in Berwick.

For those throughout Celestria. They didn’t deserve a weak king, the thought alone stabbing through him and nearly giving way to the flood within. By the gods, he was a king.

“Duke Met believes it best that no one see her now. Not until her funeral.”

“A duke’s belief is below a king’s wish,” Aziraphale snapped, reaching for the doorknob again.

Sir Lucian staggered out of the way, brows lifting and jaw falling in surprise. “You-”

“I apologise, Sir. Keep everyone but my sister and uncle out if you must, but I will not be barred from my own mother’s side.” Before another protest could be made, Aziraphale neatly shut the door.

And then he leaned against it, brow resting on the cold wood while he reeled. His feet ached, his lungs still struggling to fill themselves as rapidly as they could, unused muscles sang something out of tune, and those wretched tears clung to his lashes like morning dew to grass. He didn’t have to turn to see her to know the state of her. He could feel every bit of warmth in that room, and he was the only source of any at the moment. Her skin was cold, her body still. The lock clicked into place before he turned, before he took the few stumbling steps to her bedside just to fall to his knees beside her.

Her hands were too stiff to hold. Aziraphale simply covered them with his own, and trembled while the salt of unshed tears painfully dried his eyes. “Mother…”

No one came to bother him. No one so much as knocked on the door for the hour Aziraphale spent kneeling by his mother’s bed. An hour spent wishing and quietly lamenting his own decision to go to the field. He should’ve known better than to heed her that morning. A woman so ready to go that she’d left him guideless.

More of her was stiff when he stood and carefully adjusted her hair, preparing her as much as he could to be viewed. Whatever his uncle believed, there were people in this castle who deserved to say farewell to their queen and pack leader. Their friend. It wasn’t something his uncle was likely to understand, particularly not the layers of a pack. He was only a beta, after all. Although the instincts involved in having and protecting a pack weren’t vastly different from a monarchy, there was a personal relationship involved that a monarchy couldn’t achieve.

A simple, quiet spell cleaned her, and he gently affixed her crown to her head. She’d been his pack leader too, and he wouldn’t let her lose her dignity even now. He had to use a small spell to keep her jaw shut as well, grimacing slightly. He didn’t want to manipulate her overmuch, but…

Well. She’d taught him the importance of an image and propriety well, even if his uncle and sister didn't think so. She’d taught him a bone deep respect.

He made his way to the door, straightening his coat and taking a deep breath before opening it and allowing the chaos to begin.

Years Ago…

Their son could no longer be hidden. She’d done her best to hide him from the moment she'd realised the meaning behind the changes of her body. The nausea, the sensitivity, the dratted mood swings, the lack of rut - by the heavens, Frances had never realised how boring a week alone was before having a symptom-free season. It had all been hidden as best as she'd been able from all the castle, but her handmaiden had worked up the nerve to ask about her clothing alterations and the chef had questioned her unexpected appetite.

They'd expected her to waste away to nothing after the loss of her mate and, perhaps without this new little one, she would have. Her own daughter was being neglected, she knew, and she wished she could focus on the girl how she deserved. Perhaps once she returned, she would have a better perspective on things.

The ride wasn't an approved one. It would take weeks, but she’d told only her handmaiden, the stablehand who'd caught her saddling her mare, and said daughter that she was leaving for a bit. Michael's big tears had been nearly enough to sway her, but she had to go. To be quick, she had to go alone.

Well... Not quite alone, the bump under her clothes a constant companion. One who kept her warmer than any blanket. She knew what it meant, terrified even as she was overjoyed that her beloved had passed something so important along.

Weeks went by right alongside the landscape, the southeastern direction ripe with gently rolling hills and dotted with trees that provided shade as well as hiding spots when the sun dipped beyond the horizon. A queen couldn't be too careful, and she was carrying the most precious of cargos.

When she arrived in the small village of Roughlee, she only had to ask for their wise woman to be guided in the right direction.

“I wouldn't say she's wise, though. She may have cured my son’s pox, but she runs about the village without anybody chasing her! Says it's good for her health,” one of the village women had told her. The openness was a blessing, telling Frances no one here recognised her.

She could travel through these streets safely, boarding her tired mare after a show of fumbling for a few small pieces of silver. She hadn't forgotten how to travel covertly, her opulent crown at the castle where it belonged. Right alongside her finest clothes, the dress she wore instead a muted yellow and her cloak a deep brown. They helped hide the extra curve that would only draw questions, and she was quite put out when the wise woman's door opened before she even lifted a hand to knock, Agnes's gaze falling right to the bump no one else had seen.

Frances pursed her lips. “Hello, Mrs. Nutter.”

“Yer Majesty,” Agnes replied, swinging the door open wider for her. “Ye’re only an hour late, impressive.”

“Dare I ask how I can be an hour late when we hadn't scheduled an appointment?” she wondered, stepping inside the cottage.

The old wooden door was shut behind her swiftly and Agnes bustled past towards a large pot brewing over a fire. The little cottage was clean but cluttered. Knicknacks, herbs, papers, and bottles - both empty and in various stages of full - were all scattered across tables, shelves, and hanging from exposed rafters. “Most visions predicted yer arrival an hour ago, though a few put ye at arriving tomorrow.”

“I considered waiting for tomorrow, but couldn't bring myself to.” Frances looked to the pot, doing her best to ignore her cramping stomach. “And I would've been here an hour ago had I not stopped and asked questions about you. Running is good for one's health?”

Agnes smiled over her pot, the lid lifted and a great puff of steam rolled out along with the smell of stewed beef and vegetables. “Indeed it is. The heart is a muscle and short runs strengthen it.” She sniffed and reached into a small bowl nearby to take a pinch of salt and then of crushed pepper, only then did she begin to ladle the stew into serving bowls. One was brought to the only table with a chair and cleared top. “Sit. Eat. Yer babe will appreciate it.”

“You see, had I come an hour earlier, I would've have to smell that until it was finished. Better to arrive now and not suffer,” Frances decided, crossing the room to sink into the chair. “Thank you for feeding us.”

“I wouldn't be much of a healer if I allowed an expectant mother to go hungry.”

“I suppose not.” She closed her eyes at the first spoonful. She’d never cared for food in her younger years, too busy to appreciate it beyond its being a necessity. Jehoel, though, had loved his food. He could make anything out of nothing, had been a constant presence in the kitchens, and he'd taught her much. Tears were breathed through, eyes not opening again until she was confident that they were gone. “If your visions have variety, am I to assume you're as fallible as any other mortal?”

Agnes’s smile was as enigmatic as any riddle. “What I see are possibilities. Potentials. The world has free will and ye could have decided at any point on yer journey to turn back and not come all this way. Most of what I see never comes to pass or changes the moment it's been seen.”

“Then how do you know what to believe? How did you... You knew about him,” she pointed out, free hand falling to the small bump.

“I did. Yer son features the most prominently in my visions of the future. Knowing which are most likely to come to pass is more art than fact.”

“Do you consider yourself to be a talented artist, Mrs. Nutter?”

“Has anything I've told ye been incorrect?”

“I wish some of it had been. He’ll never meet this little one, and Jehoel wanted him more than anything.”

Agnes softened and sank into the chair across from her. “Ye hurt and ye grieve. I lost my mate right before our only daughter was born. I do know yer pain, Your Majesty.”

“It’s one I wish on no one.” She ate another spoonful, wondering if the babe within would treat food the way Jehoel had. “You said the magic ban wouldn't be lifted in my lifetime. That it would be up to him. I want... For Jehoel, I want to ensure that happens. What does our son need to know? I want him to be ready. Since he won't have me one day.”

“Ye can already feel his fire, the way he warms ye from within. Ye must nurture that flame, allow it to grow. The babe ye carry must follow in Aelfric's footsteps, repeating his past and correcting his mistakes.”

“Aelfric?” Frances looked down at her stomach.

“Yes. Ye know the tale, do ye not?”

“I’m very familiar.” It had been her own favourite growing up. Magic, dragons, mysterious betrayals, and a united kingdom. It has spurred her to bring Noreir back to Celestria after the territory had broken away several decades before her time. “Aelfric’s stories are why I conquered the northern lands. I wanted Celestria united again. But to send our son on the quest...”

“He must. Even a tested king would be unable to bring the change that must happen. Only one who can pass Aelfric’s Quest can.”

Leaning back in the chair, Frances cradled her stomach. She looked towards the fireplace, watching the flames flicker. “And you see him passing?”

“As I said last we spoke, his future is in flux. He can pass, is the only royal child born since it was established who can. Whether he does or not will be entirely up to him.”

“What of this other person who's supposed to go with him?”

Agnes’s smile was as mysterious as it was knowing. “They will find one another. They always do.”

Like her and Jehoel. Every masquerade... Tears pricked her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. More than enough had fallen over the weeks. “I’ll teach him all that I know of Aelfric, then. Will he be... more ready for me to leave him than I was for Jehoel?”

“He will not believe he is; however, he will have the support he needs to carry on. He will be so much stronger than he knows.”

“Then I only pray the quest proves to him how capable he is.” She looked down at her stomach. “Jehoel named him Aziraphale.” The name had started as a tease made almost before Agnes had first ridden away from them. A tease and then a wish. “One day... He’ll be king. I'll ensure he's trained well. I wouldn't want your prophecies to go to waste.”

Agnes’s lips quirked in amusement. “That is a long way from yer previous opinion of them.”

“You can thank Jehoel. I spent more months than I would have gotten with him otherwise because of you, and all of them with him saying, ‘I told you so.’”

“Because he did.”

“He did. Awful man.” Her eyes rolled, but she didn’t need a prophecy to tell her she would miss her mate until the day she rejoined him. She would just have to do everything she could to ensure the future he’d yearned for came to fruition. “Thank you, Mrs. Nutter.”

“I do what I can. Now eat,” Agnes scolded. “Ye’ve a long journey home and a growing babe. Ye need all the strength ye can get.”

“How dare you order your queen about,” she laughed, lifting her spoon. She hadn’t laughed in weeks, so the sound was as rusty as her purrs surely were. But Agnes was right. The growing babe needed her to be well. In turn, one day, the entire kingdom would need him. Even though it hurt, she had to be ready.

For Jehoel, she would be.

Present Day...

Eventually, Raphael returned to the castle. It was to find Aziraphale had taken an irritable Sir Lucian’s spot by the door, the knight voicing an objection each and every time Aziraphale opened the door to allow the servants a moment alone with the lost queen. He ignored him, expression quietly determined. Velvet wrapped steel.

Raphael laid a hand on his shoulder, surprised to see Aziraphale’s eyes dry. He didn’t show any sign of having cried yet. Lips pressed together, he decided to keep his opinion on that to himself. The prince - gods, but he wasn’t that anymore, was he? The king. Aziraphale was allowed to grieve however he needed, and Raphael wasn’t going to scold his friend for it.

Voice as careful as the look in his eyes, Aziraphale asked, “Did you wish to see her?”

No. No, he never wanted to see that strong woman at her end. “Yes.”

No sooner had the door opened than his uncle’s voice bellowed from down the hall. “Aziraphale! What are you doing? I left specific instructions with Sir Lucian.”

“He told me, yes.”

“Yet you’re deliberately going against them.”

Raphael could almost feel Aziraphale spark beside him, as heated as iron striking flint. Yet his voice was calmer than a pool of stillwater. “Raphael, please. There are others yet who wish to see her, and I would hate to keep them waiting.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Though the address snapped Aziraphale’s gaze to his own, Raphael only gave his shoulder a supportive squeeze before entering the room. It was as deliberate an address as Aziraphale’s claim to have others queued for a visitation. When the door closed, he didn’t move from it.

“Others, Aziraphale?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“He’s let quite a number of common servants in,” Sir Lucian growled.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. And I will allow more in so long as they wish to pay their respects.”

“They could be stealing her things.”

He’d seen three walk out with a lock of hair, and they were welcome to it. “The people here are more respectful than that.”

“They’re too poor to afford respectability,” his uncle reminded him, Aziraphale having to take a deep, calming breath. “No one should see her before the funeral.”

“The public won’t, but those who live and work here were her pack. And I won’t insult any of them or her by denying them their opportunity to grieve.” It wasn’t often that Aziraphale so firmly and blatantly went against his uncle, but he had to here. There were more people to consider than him. There were more feelings than pride to worry over. His uncle didn’t have to understand, but Aziraphale wouldn’t back down on this. “You can’t punish Sir Lucian for this either. A king’s order holds more weight than a duke’s, does it not?”

“A…” It was like watching a shutter close. Met’s back straightened, his hands folding. “This is true. I wasn’t expecting you to take up your… appointment so quickly.”

“I won’t shirk mother’s wishes.” However confusing. “Though if Sir Lucian wants a duty he can accomplish without my interference, someone needs to alert the tournament participants that we will no longer be hosting the event.”

“Now, nephew, there's no need to be hasty.”

“Hasty?” Aziraphale echoed, incredulous. “The queen has died.” Gods and goddesses be with him, but that did so hurt to say. It was a reality that made his broken heart ache. “This shouldn't be a time for celebration.”

“Aziraphale, your mother has rejoined her mate. Isn’t that joyous?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth only to quickly close it again. It wasn’t wrong, but it was wrong. Yes, she’d wanted to be with his father. She’d mourned him from the day of his death until the day of hers, her grief affecting everything from her relationship with her children to her relationship with the entire kingdom. The Warrior Queen, famed for her reunification of Celestria and the battles she’d waged and won to do so, had been an inconsolable widow.

“Uncle…”

“Besides, what better way to find a suitable companion for you than a test of combat skills?”

“A… I… A what?”

“A companion, Aziraphale.” The duke sniffed lightly. “And not one with which to warm your bed. A travelling companion.”

He’d never had anyone in his bed, but Aziraphale didn’t correct him. That hadn’t been the point of the barb, though it didn’t land as effectively as he would’ve liked. Aziraphale wasn’t ignorant of his uncle’s opinions on the rumours - true and exaggerated - regarding Aziraphale’s love life. “This isn’t the time to travel, uncle. I need to establish policies and such within Berwick before extending myself towards the other duchys.”

Met’s brows lifted. “Aziraphale, I had no idea you were so confident in the peoples’ faith when it comes to your untried, untested abilities to lead. The majority of the kingdom wouldn’t even be able to recognise your face.”

The older generations would, being that he wore his father’s. That, too, Aziraphale left unsaid. “I realise I haven’t done as much as Michael, uncle-”

“And so do the people. Imagine the unrest, Aziraphale, if you were to be crowned without a trial. All of your parents’ hard work, undone. You would never be able to keep Noreir from breaking away again, separated as they are.”

Separated by mountains and the vast expanse of Westanfyr, which was separated by the Feod Inlet. Berwick sat at the very edges of that inlet, where it opened into the vast expanse of the sea. He paced to a window, able to just see the waters from this floor. “Then you’re correct. I do need to travel a bit. So that the people know who I am and what I stand for.”

“And where do you stand, Aziraphale?”

“With mother,” was the simple, true answer. He didn’t see the look Sir Lucian and Met exchanged.

“Well, you haven’t impressed anyone enough for that yet. Have you? Even in Hewin, you’re only known for your… recreational activities.”

Aziraphale winced.

“Obviously, your sister and I’ve done what we’re able to mitigate such things, but your own actions are damning. Why your mother allowed you to roam unchecked is beyond me.”

Oh, he’d gotten a reprimand from her a time or two when he’d been young and more reckless. Boundaries had been set, ones he’d agreed with and adhered to without trouble. He wasn’t going to explain that to his uncle, however. Or Sir Lucian.

“What are you suggesting, then, uncle?”

“A raising of the stakes. Quietly, of course, as we wouldn’t want every ruffian to sign up at the last minute. We want the winner to be truly deserving of this journey, being that its success will require… legendary effort.”

Alarm bolted down Aziraphale’s spine, putting him on high alert. An untried, untested king and legends could only mean one thing. “What are you proposing, uncle?”

He turned in time to see a smile spread slowly across his uncle’s face, deepening lines that should’ve made him seem like an elderly, friendly, harmless man. But there was something behind the eyes, slying the smile, that had Aziraphale’s heart skipping several beats. He knew the answer even before Met said, “Aelfric’s Quest.”

They didn’t discuss it in his mother’s room because Raphael would never even fathom forcing his friend to have such a serious talk with her… there. And damn that uncle of his for forcing him to make such a serious decision right outside the door. After he’d spent hours allowing others to grieve. He’d lost more than anyone else, yet had pushed it aside and stood in the line of fire to keep others comforted.

He didn’t leave her door until priests of the queen’s preferred goddess entered. There were rites to perform, ones done behind a locked door. They helped Aziraphale walk away, though his friend looked as though he’d aged decades and his footfalls were heavy.

When Raphael touched his arm, he almost felt cold. The flames which thrived in him so effortlessly seemed dangerously banked, the smile Aziraphale worked up weakly wobbling. “You can be upset, Aziraphale.”

It was so rare that Raphael said his name, the knight always one to keep them both at a level of propriety. It was something Aziraphale tended to appreciate and respect, just as respectful. They each worked well within those parameters, and Aziraphale was grateful every day that his mother had appointed Raphael to be his personal guard. There could be no one better.

Which was why the sound of his own name nearly shattered him to pieces. Guard and charge, knight and royal, but still friends under it all. With his mother gone, there was no one who knew him better. “I know. And I am.”

“I know you are,” Raphael murmured, giving his arm a careful squeeze before slowly releasing and giving Aziraphale - and himself - space.

It was that space that helped Aziraphale bring himself back together, hands linking behind his back as they walked halls his mother would never walk again. Neither of them knew exactly where they were going until they’d stopped. The grand tapestry, bearing the likeness of the late king… and the late queen. Aziraphale and Michael were without both parents, though Raphael was sure Michael had felt that way long before now. Her mother had seemed more of a hindrance, though Raphael would never say that and he was fairly certain Aziraphale had never thought it.

The kingdom hadn’t had a king in nearly thirty years, and the one they had was trembling under the weight of the title. “Were you listening to my uncle and I?”

“Of course I was.” It had been a distraction from the shock of the queen’s too-still frame in her bed. Some looked to be sleeping in death. Raphael doubted the queen had looked so peaceful in sleep since her mate’s death, but she’d looked almost happy in death. A half-smile frozen onto her face. Met had been right about that, at least. She was with him now, and there was joy to be taken in that. “To use the tournament winner to decide who’ll go with you on Aelfric’s Quest. No one’s gone on that blasted thing in…”

“Fifty years, officially,” Aziraphale supplied. “Unofficially, many have done it. Mother tried.”

“Did she?”

“Oh, yes. When she first set out, she wanted to test her skills.” He gestured to the man who’d been so carefully woven and stitched beside her. “She didn’t find the sword, but she found something else.”

Aelfric’s Quest. A journey to find four broken pieces of an ancient sword’s blade. Needles in a haystack. Raphael’s lips thinned in his efforts to not grimace. “It isn’t fair to send you off on something so… grand. Right after the tournament’s end besides. Your mother hasn’t even been carried to the next plane yet, and he’s already planning to send you away.”

It was a harsher tone than Raphael usually used, Aziraphale’s lips finding themselves curving. Leave it to his dear friend to be so angry on his behalf. “You know, there is still time to sign up.”

“I’m well-aware, but the field is already larger than normal.” Another thing Raphael had wanted to talk to Aziraphale about. No one else had the authority to remove people from the tournament, but Aziraphale hadn’t been there enough to see who needed to go. Nor had his mother for very clear reasons. “I have two who I suspect have the highest chance of winning, but I’m unsure about either of them going along with you on a journey like this.”

“I am capable of defending myself should the need arise, Raphael.”

“I’m well-aware of that as well, but you’ll need a body you can trust to be behind or beside you. And wise enough to know when to be where.”

“Someone like you, yes.”

“Precisely. But I’m-” Raphael cut himself off, the realisation silencing him. He normally caught on to what Aziraphale didn’t say much quicker, but the queen’s death had rattled him as thoroughly as it had anyone else in the castle. “You want me to sign up.”

“If my uncle insists on the winner of the tournament being the person who comes with me on the quest, I want someone I know and trust implicitly.” A small ball of flame appeared, illuminating the tapestry so the fine gold threads shone. “Being that you’ve essentially said you want the same, I don’t see a reason for it not to happen. I know you weren’t planning on joining, Raphael, and I’ll understand if you say no.”

They were both quiet, both gazing at the last monarchy. Had they lived, they would have been just as kingdom-shaking as Aelfric had been, even without the legendary sword. Apparently, Fate had had other plans in mind. Plans which now involved their son. The kindness, visage, and gifts of his father; the training, wit, and stubbornness of his mother. He, too, could be kingdom-shaking.

“How could I refuse such an offer, my king?”

Years ago...

“Mummy! Mummy!”

The queen's return home was a delightful one, one ripe with the promise of a party. Her son only knew that his mother was home, so broke away from his nanny to get to her. He was four, still chubby with a baby’s fat that would never fully go away, and he was hefted into his mother's arms without question.

The fierce queen melted, playful kisses peppering the giggling little boy's face until his laughter turned too breathless and his round cheeks red as apples. “Thank you, Ash. I'll take him from here.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Mummy, mummy, I did a new thing. Do you want to see?”

“Of course mummy wants to see. Let's go upstairs first so mummy can get out of these travelling clothes.” He didn't see the exhaustion lining her eyes as she carried him up the stairs, didn't feel the way her arms strained when she settled him in a nest that hadn't smelled of her husband in four long years. He didn't know how miserable the too-quiet, lonely journey had been as he babbled about all the exciting things he'd done in her month-long absence.

Neither of them knew she wouldn't go on another lengthy trip again. They wouldn't until the next time she would try to enter a carriage only to weep inconsolably.

“Alright, let mummy see what you can do,” she encouraged, trying to watch him and unlace her travelling boots.

The ball of flame that appeared in his hands had her blinking at him several times, her silence stretching long enough that the ball began to peter out and his giddy expression fell. “Mummy?”

“It’s beautiful, my gift. And so impressive. Mummy's very proud.” He didn't hear the tears in her throat, playing with the flame how another child would a real ball.

Soon, though, out of her travelling clothes but not quite prepared for dinner, she climbed into bed with him. He snuggled into her lap when he was placed there, not yet realising that his flaming orb was hot enough to burn her. That would be a lesson learned through trial and error, but this evening he had his soft mummy in her big, soft bed and her silky robe to rest his cheek against as he practised growing and shrinking the ball he'd made from nothing but a desire.

“Have I told you the tale of Aelfric the Wise?”

“Aelfric,” he repeated in a way that told her she hadn't. “Mummy, what's wise?”

“Wise is being smart in your heart as well as your mind. And Aelfric was. When Aelfric was a young man, however, he wasn't. He was very headstrong - stubborn - and very few people liked him. When he was named the next king of the lands before we were called Celestria, the people said no and there was a mighty uproar.”

“Uproar,” Aziraphale whispered. She didn't acknowledge it, used to his little interruptions. She knew he was only repeating a word he liked the sound of, a word he would ask for the definition of later.

“It was so rowdy and upsetting that members of the royal court decided that this would-be king ought to go on a grand adventure. He was to find a sword enchanted by the gods and goddesses themselves and use it to slay a mighty dragon. As proof, Aelfric was to return home with the sword and with two dragon scales.”

“A real dragon?”

She ruffled his curls. “A very real dragon. It had been terrorising villages throughout the land, so its slaying would save villagers and livestock alike. Everyone thought that if he did something so wonderful, no one could possibly object to his being on the throne.”

“Like you, mummy?”

“Like me, my gift.” She was quiet for a few, as if hesitating. Aziraphale didn't notice it, so focused on his new trick. “So Aelfric took his two dearest companions-”

“Compan-ee-ons.”

“Companions. Friends.”

“Companions.” It earned him another hair ruffle.

“He took two companions on his journey, travelling all across the lands in search of the enchanted sword and the dangerous dragon.”

“Did he and his friends have fun?”

She pressed a kiss to the top of his head, breathing in deep. Looking for something in his scent she would one day find and weep over. Close, but not a match. There would never be a match. “I believe they did. Even treacherous journeys can be fun with the right persons by one's side. And it was a treacherous journey. There were thieves and wicked people along the way, just as there were good, helpful people. Some Aelfric would bring home to sit on his court as advisers. One of his many wise decisions.”

“Decisions are choices.”

“Clever boy. You've done lessons while I've been away, haven't you?”

“Yes, mummy. I'm very good at lessons. Did they find the sword?”

“They did. And they found the dragon. It's said that it was a fearsome battle. The dragon could freeze the air with a single breath and had teeth taller than you.”

He gasped, reaching up to poke at his own teeth. Two had fallen away during her absence. “How did they fit?”

“The dragon was as big as our whole castle,” she explained, earning another gasp. “But Aelfric and his friends were cunning - clever - and well trained. They also trusted one another enough to rely on the others’ abilities to stay alive in the face of such a menacing creature.”

“Cunning. Clever.”

“Aelfric returned to a joyful town, carrying the two dragon scales as promised, and the people proudly called him King.”

“King Aelfric the Wise,” the boy remembered. “That’s a very good story, mummy.”

And it was one he'd heard over and over again as he'd grown older. She'd added more details over the years, telling him that the enchanted sword had been broken into pieces, which had then been scattered throughout the kingdom. That Aelfric had married one of the advisors he'd found on his journey. That the dragon was likely slain, but no one knew for sure. They could've simply locked it away somewhere or forced it into a slumber. One of Aelfric’s companions had been a wielder of magic and it was thanks to a rumoured betrayal which had led to magic’s banishment.

Aziraphale didn't know how much of the tale had been embellished over the years, but he knew the thought of never hearing it from her again caused an ache he didn't know how to face.

The thought of never hearing her voice again at all was a devastation. His head bowed, hands rubbing over his face and into his hair as if he could scrub away the very knowledge that she was gone, and his crown fell to the ground. It wasn't even his crown anymore, but the idea of donning his father's was ludicrous. Insanity.

He watched it roll away from himself a ways before spiralling in a circle and finally falling flat at someone else's boots.

He looked up sharply, trying desperately to rein in the grief that had turned his breaths ragged and his eyes shining wetly. “Mr. Crowley,” he greeted, voice oddly distant to his own ears.

Finding him here had been a surprise. The guards had been oddly muted, a shadow falling over the whole of the castle. He knew immediately why, the pain and heartache worn so clearly. Crowley bent and picked up the fallen crown, not bejewelled but a delicate twisting of metal to resemble leaves and branches. “Oh… I’m so sorry, Aziraphale.”

Few others had said it. Only a few quiet whispers in the castle, but they'd all addressed him properly. Only family called him very simply by name, and they weren't acting how one ought at such a loss. It made the castle somehow feel empty. “Thank you. I'm...” He shook his head, grasping at nothing. He knew how he was supposed to act for the people. There was a polite way to grieve, and letting the tears fall wasn't it. They fell anyway.

Crowley shook his head and approached. He sat beside him, crown dangling from his fingers, but wasn't sure what else he should do. “You don't have to be okay. It's alright to grieve.”

It didn't feel alright. It felt overwhelming. Like flames when he tried to keep them locked away too long, but the only way to get this out was burying his face in his hands, the permission breaking the tight hold he'd had on himself and allowing sobs to wrack his frame. As if he was safer next to Crowley than he was in the entire castle.

The sobs broke Crowley's heart and yet Aziraphale had never seemed more human. In that moment he wasn't a prince, soon to be king; he was just a man who'd lost the most important person in his life. Crowley couldn't help but reach out, a hand landing on Aziraphale's shaking shoulder. He didn't know what to say and knew even less when he suddenly had a crying man leaning into him as if seeking out comfort he couldn't ask for. His hand slid across Aziraphale's shoulders, holding onto him in the only comfort he knew how to show.

Aziraphale soaked it in, like a fire absorbed a log. He sobbed until his throat tolerated no more sound, wept until his eyes refused to let another bead trail. He stayed in Crowley's partial embrace even after his mind reminded him of propriety. “I knew not to leave her,” he whispered. “She was eating a little bit again, but only if I brought it to her. I knew not to go, but she sent me away that morning. Told me to tend to my duties elsewhere and not worry. I should've known that meant she was ready to see my father again.”

“You weren't ready for her to go.”

“No.” And, heavens, it did feel good to hear someone say that as if it wasn't a criticism. “I did everything I knew how to keep her here, but...”

Crowley nodded. He understood loss, had had to learn to live with it. “You did all you could to keep her here and she still left you.”

It earned a soft, watery laugh. “How brave you are to make it sound like her fault.”

“Well, it's certainly not yours.”

“It feels as if it is, but… thank you. I’m going to have to make an official announcement soon. It’s… I’m very sorry.” Since Crowley hadn’t pushed him away, Aziraphale continued to lean into him as he retrieved a kerchief to mop his damp, red face with. “There’s so much to do and to think about and to plan for. Yet my head’s done nothing but spin.”

“‘Course it has. You've just had a shock.” Crowley's thumb rubbed his shoulder. “You need time to process.”

“I won’t have much, I’m afraid. Everyone’s insisting on a quick… a quick funeral. I wanted to cancel the tournament for the year and split the reward money amongst the participants, but I was overruled there as well.” And he understood why, he did, but he would also rather choose his own guard than rely on a competition for what his uncle had in mind. “I’ll have to announce the new dates.”

“Well a royal funeral does take precedence over a tournament.” He hoped it wasn't too long, as he was on a time limit. “You can't have been given much time, though.”

“No. So many nobles arrived for the masquerade that they’ve largely stayed for the tournament. It’s part of the higher enrollment. Uncle wants to capitalise on the opportunity to have a lavish, properly royal funeral.” Exactly what she hadn’t wanted. “So the tournament has only been pushed back a week.”

Crowley winced. That didn't give him any wiggle room at all. “Yeah, that really doesn't give you any time to grieve.”

“Unfortunately, grief isn’t very dignified. I did put my foot down when discussions began over the emptying of her room. That is most definitely not happening.” There were things he’d been asked to take and hide, which he’d done. Things which had belonged to his father. He did feel terrible over hiding them from Michael, but he wasn’t going to go against his mother’s wishes. Especially not now. Some of them could even help him moving forward. After the tournament.

“Well that was rude as shit,” Crowley grumbled. “At least let the woman get buried first, fuck.”

Aziraphale managed a wobbly laugh. “You are a fascinating man, Crowley. I'm very grateful to you.”

Crowley shrugged lightly and did his best to pretend the warm smokey vanilla scent in his nose didn't make him want to lean in and smell him more fully. Especially now that the misery had begun to fade from it. “Just tryin’ to be a decent person.”

“You’ve done a very good job of it,” Aziraphale assured him, sitting up more fully. “You won’t speak of this to anyone yet, will you? It’s best to make the announcements formally to prevent misinformation.”

“I’ve got no one to tell.”

“Your fellow competitors?”

Crowley looked down at him and lifted an eyebrow above his glasses “The only one I talk to regularly is your Acting Captain of the Guard and, not only am I sure he already knows, he's also not actually a competitor.”

“Well… ah… Not, ah- It isn’t- er… hm. Yes.”

That was…certainly some words. “So he changed his mind and decided to join after all?”

“I asked him to,” he admitted. “It’s… My uncle’s made a few things difficult, so it’s for the best.”

“Ah.” Crowley knew it wasn't his business but that didn't stop him from being curious. “That’s… Duke Met, right? The distant one who thinks he's all that.”

“Ah… Well.” Aziraphale started to deny it, but… it wasn’t wrong. “It is. He’s been through several funerals now, so he does know better than I.”

His parents, his brother, and now his sister-in-law the Queen. It was a lot of people to lose. “Well, I hope he doesn't make things even more difficult for you than it already is. It might not be ‘dignified’ but you deserve a chance to grieve on your own terms.”

“I appreciate that very much.” Rarely was he encouraged to be anything but dignified. Even by his mother. Impulsively, he captured Crowley's hand, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re a unique one, and I appreciate that as well.”

Crowley felt his face heat, a warmth that mirrored the warmth of Aziraphale's lips, the fingers that grasped his hand. An alpha had just kissed his hand and likely had no idea the way it stirred instinct in him. “Ngk- Welcome. You- You looked like you needed someone to be here.”

It wasn't often Aziraphale’s needs which were tended, him far more likely to assist others instead. “Which causes me to appreciate you all the more. It takes a certain type of person to recognise a need in others, no matter how... obvious it might seem.”

Crowley couldn't help but wonder if Aziraphale intended for his ‘appreciation’ to go further than just that. “Guess I’m just good at helpin’ people.”

“I have no doubt about that, my dear. Raphael tells me you've been instrumental in assuring the tournament will go smoothly even with my absence.”

“Now I don't know about that. I’ve just been trying to practise and learn my opponents. I do plan to win, you know.”

Aziraphale was almost sorry he wouldn’t, but he’d receive the gold regardless. From what he’d heard, Crowley would doubtlessly take second with ease. It was hardly his fault that the stakes had changed so suddenly. “I have no doubts that you do. I look forward to watching you.”

Crowley smirked just a little. “Good. Watch closely, then.”

Though still damp, pale lashes fluttered. “Gladly,” he purred.

Ah, more than just casual appreciation, then. The thought wasn't as terrifying as it had been before. Maybe because Aziraphale seemed like more of a person, maybe he was just too pent-up horny to care, or maybe Crowley really was that stupid. Oh, he wouldn't let it get far but… indulging in a little flirtation here and there didn't seem all that dangerous. Especially when the alpha in question was handsome and wasn't just throwing his status around. “Well, if you like watching me that much, I'll try and put on a good show for you.”

Aziraphale truly did appreciate a good display of skills. Beyond simply finding Crowley attractive, he did look forward to the tournament every year for a reason. “I look forward to it. In the meantime, you and I could-”

“Highness!” Raphael interrupted. “There you are. You shouldn’t wander away from me right now.”

“I know, dear fellow. I needed… a bit of time. Not to worry. If any threats had come about, I’m sure Mr. Crowley would’ve handled it.”

“Can’t be a future knight if I let some arsehole attack the… the prince, can I?”

“You told him?”

“I didn’t have to, Sir.” Aziraphale pushed himself up with a sigh, holding out a hand for Crowley’s and received his crown instead. Ah, yes. “Thank you, my dear. And thank you for speaking with me. If you would like to tell anyone anything, the announcement will be tomorrow about midday.”

Crowley nodded, though he thought Aziraphale looked suddenly sad again. “Alright. I don't plan on it, but if anyone asks, that's what I'll say.”

“Thank you. Now I need to return to my duties. Ah. We’re to tell everyone that practise is cancelled for the day, so I’m sure curiosity is going to rise.” He secured the crown to his curls again. “Enjoy a day of relaxation, my dear. You’ve earned one.”

“Thanks. Just don't work too hard. You gotta rest sometime too.”

Aziraphale cupped his cheek, the touch as gentle as could be, as his smile warmed. “Who knew such a fiery tongued devil could be so very sweet? Thank you, Crowley. We'll meet again soon.”

He stepped away, reluctant but duty bound. He knew there wouldn't be any rest for him for some time, but he felt leagues better than he had before being found.

Chapter Text

Crowley did, indeed, do as Prince Aziraphale had suggested and took the rest of the day to relax. He couldn't work himself to exhaustion every day and expect progress; Agnes had taught him that. One of the earliest lessons he'd learned was how to rest, and Crowley took to it like a duck took to whatever it was ducks took to.

He lazed around the tavern, listening to the minstrel play her songs well into the evening. It gave him plenty of time to think about the tournament, about Aziraphale and the mystery man he'd met at the masquerade, about the queen. He could hear Agnes's voice in his head, scolding him for letting his guard down, for getting so involved. She'd probably box his ears for how often he thought about the crinkles around Aziraphale's eyes when he smiled or the way his smokey scent made him think of a warm campfire and clinging to her skirts at the stove the rare times she'd made sweets.

It wasn't smart to be thinking the way he was about the prince. Hell, it was down right dangerous. Mages were executed regularly and here he was getting cosy with the soon-to-be king. Had the queen known somehow? Had Aziraphale mentioned him to her? Was that why she'd said he'd ‘pleased’ her?

The thought that Aziraphale might have talked about him to the queen was almost too much to bear and when Crowley awoke the next morning that feeling hadn't faded. The prince was flirting with him, possibly talking about him, and as utterly awful and dangerous as it was… a part of Crowley liked it. He shouldn't have been encouraging it but he couldn't help but want Aziraphale to continue. He was getting attention from a handsome alpha, a handsome powerful alpha. Aziraphale was going to be king and he couldn't deny the thrill and satisfaction in knowing he was one of the people he wanted. One of many, if his acquaintance from the masquerade was right, but it was something.

Somehow it had leaked.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. “Are you sure, Raphael?”

“Yes, Highness. People have come pestering the guards at the gate all morning.”

Just as they'd known about his mother's illness, they did her death. There was a leak within the castle somewhere.

Neither of them mentioned Crowley. Neither of them believed for a moment that the sellsword would go against his word, and he hadn't known about any rumours regarding the queen's health until he'd arrived.

“Rally them. Those at the castle gates and the city walls. Don’t let anyone leave or enter Berwick unless a life is at stake until the announcement is made. We won’t let rumour leave the city if we can help it, only truth.”

Raphael bowed his head in acknowledgement, leaving him quickly, and Aziraphale stepped into his mother’s bedroom.

It was quieter than it ought to have been. The fire was banked, only ash resting in a hearth Aziraphale had sat in front of all his life. Or in, his mother’s light scolding often audible just over the crackles of comfortable flames in his ears. He’d never thought to hide his skills from her, his mother’s voice and embrace always ones which had made him feel safe.

Safe, secure, loved. Where ought he look for such things now?

“Aziraphale?”

He didn’t look up right away, swallowing his grief away. The man couldn’t smell his grief as well as someone with a designation would be able to, but he was sure tears were thick enough in his scent for even a beta. They were thick in the throat he cleared. “Yes, uncle?”

“I noticed the royal guard scattering.”

“Did you?”

“There’s no need to be short with me, nephew.”

Aziraphale rose to his feet and turned, hands clasping behind his back. “Deepest apologies. It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Hm. We are family, you know. We’ve all lost the queen.” Aziraphale watched his eyes move about the room, a space he’d never been allowed in without at least his mother’s guard at her side. “I didn’t realise you were going to begin ordering the guard about.”

“The guard has been under my many responsibilities since I came of age, uncle.” Which he would know had he listened to any of the other times Aziraphale had told him just that. “They are very used to taking orders from me, and I’m used to giving them.”

“And what exactly have you told them this time? The captain doesn’t seem to know.”

Because the captain was only such in title, not in duty. Raphael had the knights’ respect and their ear. Sir Lucian was older. Capable, yes, but for an ageing queen who rarely left the castle. Not for a busy kingdom. The one certainty in Aziraphale’s reign was that Raphael would have the title he deserved. “I didn’t realise you and Sir Lucian were still close.”

“While my personal guards have been training and your mother effectively bedridden, he’s offered to assist me as needed.”

Aziraphale’s jaw didn’t lock, but it was a near thing. He pushed a smile instead. “Good of him. Sir Raphael will remain acting captain, then, and be who I will continue giving orders to. Should Sir Lucian wish to know, he will continue to receive nightly reports or he may come find me directly.”

His uncle’s nose twitched a bit, his sniff disapproving.

“We don’t want the persons of our guard getting confused with unnecessary, abrupt changes in leadership,” Aziraphale added, keeping his shoulders straight when his uncle gave him a careful onceover. He didn’t enjoy feeling as if his every move and every word was being measured against some unknowable standard.

“As your uncle, I am asking what the knights have been asked to do.”

“We’ve secured the city and have passed instructions along to the people. Voices carry well at the tournament grounds, and I want them there by midday so the announcement can be made.”

“I thought you didn’t want the announcement made so soon.”

“I don’t want any of this rushed,” Aziraphale corrected. “The people deserve to know their queen is gone and they especially deserve to know the festivities they’ve travelled all this way for have been rescheduled. Not everyone can extend a stay easily. Not every inn or tavern or market person can supply this many extra people easily. Notice needs to be given and-”

“And what, Aziraphale? You’re not thinking of paying any of those merchants and whatnot, are you? If their supply isn’t adequate, it’s their issue. Not the crown’s.”

If he’d known Aziraphale better, if he’d ever cared for him the way he had for Michael, he would’ve seen the way stormy eyes turned icy. The silver in them nearly glittered. “The crown’s duty is to ensure this kingdom is fed and cared for. Anything which affects the tournament is also under my responsibility. How those people are taken care of is under my control.”

“My, my, nephew. I thought you didn’t want to be king and, yet, here you are. Behaving like a petulant version of your father.” Aziraphale faltered, but Met shrugged lightly. “Jehoel was willing to hear my advice.”

He’d heard that before from his mother, her tone accompanied with an eye roll or frown. His uncle, however, sounded quite pleased by that. “I am always willing to hear you, uncle. I wouldn’t have agreed to the changing terms of the tournament otherwise.”

“Then I would advise you to keep the coffers as they are. A change in monarchs is typically riddled with strife. And with you as untested as you are, well… I can’t imagine every lady and lord within the kingdom will be satisfied to let you remain unchallenged.”

Save money for a potential war when his city could go hungry? For Aziraphale, that was an easy decision to make. “I will take that into consideration, uncle. Thank you. If that’s all?”

“Are you going to stay in here all day?”

“No. I’m… seeking guidance.” In a way. “I’ll be at the tournament grounds by noon, and I hope you and Michael will also be in attendance.”

“Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.”

He didn’t close the door when he left, so Aziraphale remained standing until even his shadow left. Then he sank down and buried his frustrated growl in his hands. The blasted crown fell to the floor.

If he'd thought the masquerade was packed, it had absolutely nothing on the tournament grounds at this very moment. Citizens and competitors and those from afar were packed like sheafs in a cart. Crowley decided to stay at the very edge, back to a wall. He was tall enough to see over most heads anyway.

The entire royal guard was out, or at least it seemed that way. Crowley was sure there were still guards manning the gates and doing their rounds but it was probably a skeleton crew considering how many people in royal regalia were present.

Not only the people and guard but also the entire royal family was there. Crowley had already spotted the princess and the duke sitting in the royal box, murmuring to one another. Uriel, the princess’s personal guard, stood behind and slightly to her left, back straight as an arrow and face impassive.

The cacophony of voices around him made Crowley wonder how anyone was supposed to hear anything like this, let alone an important announcement. And the noise only got worse as they all saw the prince and his own guard appear in the royal box. It was his duty to do this, but it was still rotten work and Crowley felt bad for him. No one should have to announce their own parents' passing.

He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Aziraphale would rather not do the announcing at all. Had things been how they’d always been meant, it would be Michael with this duty. Michael with her stony expression and ability to remain calm even amidst a tragedy. As it was, she tipped her head in just enough of an incline to be a clear dare and his uncle’s greying brows lifted. It was a clear sign that they would take over if they didn’t think Aziraphale could handle it.

He had to handle it. As much as everyone was pretending His Highness was still his title and prince his label, the moment his mother had breathed her last, he had ascended to king. He just had to make it to coronation, and he wasn’t going to let his people down in his very first official duty. He wasn’t going to let his mother down, no matter how badly he wanted to turn around and leave.

Aziraphale took strength in the encouraging nod from Raphael, took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. When his hand lifted, a hush didn’t immediately wash over the crowd. He stayed firm and still as he waited for the waves of silence - an almost unnatural sort - to take over the grounds.

And then he spoke. A touch of magic carried his voice further than it ought to go, but no one who lived in Berwick noticed and their non-reaction tended to be enough for everyone else. Like his father before him, all believed Aziraphale’s bellow naturally carried far enough to be heard. Especially here in the tournament grounds, where he’d been speaking for years.

He only hoped no one could hear the way his voice wanted to waver.

“People of Celestria, you have come to the capitol to cheer on competitors in our annual welcome to spring. Some have come for the masquerade Queen Frances called in welcome of returning and visiting family.” There were a few cheers when he gestured to his sister and uncle, but not as many as they would have liked. To Aziraphale’s ringing ears, it may as well have been a roar. “But for all the joy which comes with spring… I must share a sorrow.”

Whispers began, but Aziraphale lifted a hand and waited again for quiet. It gave him enough time to breathe away threatening tears as well. “Your queen, our mother and sister, has joined her husband and her parents in death.”

Crowley's heart broke for him then just as it had yesterday on the bench they'd shared. Whispers and murmurs and talking spread through the crowd. Even though the rumour mill had leaked the queen’s death early, it was so much more real coming from their beloved prince. Crowley ignored the crowd and watched Aziraphale, watched the way his lips pressed together as if trying to hold it all back. He knew Aziraphale wanted, or at least felt he needed to, put on a brave face and quietly hoped for his strength.

Aziraphale didn’t wait for quiet to fully fall this time. He couldn’t. It was out now. It was in the world. It was true. “Many of you know what was decreed at the recent masquerade. Our mother, while sound of mind and… and as strong as will as she ever was, decreed that I would be her successor. And with her passing, I will be assuming the role she expected of me.” He didn’t see the way his uncle and sister’s expressions tightened behind him. Many others didn’t, either, so focused were they on Aziraphale, but some saw. And word of their displeasure would be spreading as readily as all the rest.

“During this time of accession, we will mourn her.” Gods, would he mourn. “And though our tournament was to begin tomorrow, it will instead begin seven days from tomorrow. Mother-” He cracked a little, had to take a deep breath. “Her Majesty would not want us to set aside our joys. She is with her mate, death first separating and now joining them together anew, and nothing would ever have been more joyful to her than seeing him again. So with that in mind, her services will be tomorrow. And our celebration of spring and of those who have been training so valiantly for an opportunity to test their mettle against others of our kingdom will still take place this year.”

It both seemed like too long and not long enough to Crowley. What was the typical mourning period for monarchs? Was it just a week? Agnes had probably mentioned it at some point, but he couldn't bloody remember. It had never mattered before. He also wondered if he shouldn't be so familiar with Aziraphale now… He was the king, after all. Should he bow? Crowley wasn't sure Aziraphale would like that, but if people saw him being so casual… He was just going to have to play it by ear and hope he didn't royally (ha) screw up in front of the princess or duke. They would surely take exception to him just doing as he pleased, especially with the sour looks Crowley spied on their faces.

“Being your king is… an honour,” Aziraphale continued. He couldn’t also say it was an absolute shock. No one would take well to that. “I pray those who know me already understand just how much and those who are new here will one day. Moreover.” He very deliberately did not look back at his uncle. “There will now be a change in our royal guard. Sir Lucian Morningstar has been an indispensable member of the guard since my father’s time in this world. He served Duke Met before being transferred to King Jehoel, then Queen Frances. He has been the Royal Guard’s Captain as long as I have been alive. That honour now goes to Sir Raphael Tobit, our longstanding Acting Captain. Please give him all of your congratulations.”

He glanced back at Raphael, smile small at the wide-eyed stare he was getting in return. “Questions can be asked of any of the royal guard, and they will share what they’re able. We hope to see many of you in the town square tomorrow after sundown to share your final farewells to our late queen. Thank you all,” he finished, and stepped back to escape the box as regally as an escape could be, Raphael on his heels.

Crowley watched him go, a painful something lodged in his chest. A part of him wanted to sneak out and follow Aziraphale, offer him comfort. It was a ridiculous thing to want. Aziraphale was the king now. Doing such a thing would be highly presumptuous and, besides, he probably didn't want some mostly-stranger doing that anyway. The day before had been a fluke that was unlikely to happen again. So he stayed and just so happened to notice the duke glaring for all the world at where Aziraphale had just been standing.

“What in all hells have you done?” Raphael whispered. The crowd was a dull roar behind them, but it was still wisest to keep quiet.

“Raphael, we both know you should've been granted the full title years ago. Sir Lucian has only held it in name only. You know that.”

“He’ll be upset about it. Your uncle is going to be upset about it.”

Considering their discussion that morning, Aziraphale was willing to say he'd be downright furious with him. “I would hardly be my mother's son without upsetting him now and again.”

“Don’t make enemies your first day as king, Aziraphale.”

He stopped, turning towards him. “He isn't an enemy. He's my uncle. He's already even taken Sir Lucian back into his employ. He told me so this morning. All I've really done is freed the knight to go home. He's wanted to return for years, has always spoken of the ways in which my father's homeland was better than Berwick. Once I explain and they're done being upset, all will be okay again.”

He could be naive. It was a sweet quality, but it could be very dangerous with a new title over his head. “Alright, Majesty.”

“Oh... Must you?”

Understanding, Raphael's hand left the pommel of his sword to lay on Aziraphale’s shoulder instead. The title was as heavy as grief. “It’s something we both need to get used to.”

“I wish I'd asked her what it was like, taking the title her parents had held. How long it took her to know someone was addressing her and not immediately seeking one of them out.”

“Your Majesty, I don't know if grief ever fully goes away. I think the better memories eventually overwhelm the sorrow, right alongside the memories you make as the days go. But sometimes, the worst of grief can still be triggered.” As most who lived and loved, Raphael had experienced the death of a close one too. He squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Your mother's mistake was in letting the sorrows keep her away from making new memories. Don't make the same one.”

Aziraphale sighed quietly. He would try. “For now, I’d like to return to the castle.”

“If you spend too much time in her room, it'll smell more of you than of her.”

“I know. When that happens, I'm hoping I'll be ready to dismantle it. Use it for guests instead.”

Raphael nodded. “Alright, King.”

At least that title didn't have him looking for her. It simply sounded... odd.

The square was as full as the tournament grounds had been. The dull roar of people reached all the way to the castle. Aziraphale had wanted to wear blue for her, but his uncle had thrown such a fit about it that Aziraphale simply didn’t feel as if he could. He’d already thrown a fit over his “dismissal” of Sir Lucian.

Why, his uncle had demanded, would he throw away a man with so many years of experience in favour of his simple guard dog?

Well, Raphael was far from being a simple guard dog. He’d been acting captain for nearly seven years at that point. Additionally, Aziraphale had reasoned, hadn’t his uncle already taken Sir Lucian under his own employ? It seemed unfair to expect him to do both when his uncle wouldn’t be remaining in the castle forever. And it was always best to give people a bit of good news alongside the bad, and losing their queen was a lot of bad news.

His uncle hadn’t been able to argue, though Aziraphale had known he’d wanted to.

So when he’d gone purple at Aziraphale’s casual mention of possibly wearing blue to the funeral, it had been simpler to change gears and don a colour he simply never did.

He stared at himself in the tall mirror, the crown atop his head the one he would continue to wear until the coronation gave him his late father’s crown or one of his own devising. He liked the idea of wearing his father’s, but if he ever did find himself a mate, he would want them to have whatever they chose. Even if it was entirely new.

His mind drifted briefly to the mysterious ginger he’d met at the masquerade, but just as easily went to Crowley. Both had intrigued him in ways none had before, one with a cocky attitude and a smirk, and the other with a shameless ability to throw himself into anonymity and… Well, the sweet taste of him still lingered on Aziraphale’s tongue.

He hadn’t seen anyone matching his description, though also hadn’t been able to leave the castle as much as he had before. Hadn’t wanted to, if he was being entirely honest. It was as difficult to be in a place where he could see his mother around each corner as it was to be away from the memories. He didn’t know how he would ever find the mysterious man again, and doubted he would be interested in him once he discovered just how he’d known so much about the royals and nobles scattered about the room.

It was harder to find a mate once crowned king, and Aziraphale was sure he’d squandered any true chances of finding one now. Perhaps he should’ve been more particular about his bedfellows or even been less particular about who he might seek out again. There had never been an again in his life, which… A mate probably wouldn’t like that.

Sighing, Aziraphale clasped his ceremonial sword to his belt and stepped out of the room. He thought he looked too pale in black, washed out and weak, but his uncle seemed pleased with him. His sister, too, who had dyed her auburn curls a darker shade. Oh. He decided not to say anything about that. It was best to pick one’s battles when it came to them, and he had an unexpected one on the horizon.

“What do you mean Sir Lucian won’t be carrying her?” he asked.

The duke shrugged delicately. “He’s no longer Captain of the Royal Guard, Aziraphale. It’s no longer his duty.”

“He served her and my father for years,” Aziraphale protested. “Longer than I’ve been alive. Why would he refuse to do this?”

“I understand that, Aziraphale. But he’s no longer captain, no longer her guard, and… Being that he has indeed been working longer than you’ve been alive, perhaps he doesn’t want to show… weakness. Perhaps he can’t help carry her.”

There was something that didn’t quite ring true in that, but Aziraphale pressed his lips together and decided not to argue those points. He couldn’t very well call his uncle a liar, and he most certainly couldn’t force Sir Lucian to perform an expected duty. “That’s quite alright, uncle. Someone will most certainly be able to fill in.”

His uncle and sister both glared at him when they saw he was the one who filled the space. It wasn’t the way things were done. He should’ve been on the platform with his family, not carrying the late queen through town with five members of the Royal Guard. They were pleased with him, at least. Raphael had tugged him into a firm embrace, murmuring that the queen would be proud of him. He’d nearly shattered into pieces, held together only by the knowledge that he needed to do this.

On a board surrounded by spring soft blooms and anointed in oils that would both help her body smell less of decay and burn with more ease, they carried the queen from the castle to the centre of the city. Crowds hushed as they passed, as much as out of shock at seeing Aziraphale as in respect, but only his own family glared.

They set her atop a pyre constructed of wood and foliage gathered by the townspeople. There were things people had included in her honour, and flowers would be brought and tossed upon her too. Until the sun fell, people lined up and gave more fuel to the upcoming flames. It was said that the smoke would guide her spirit along, but Aziraphale privately believed it would be the flames themselves in this case. His father would find her through them, the tale of their first meeting one he was well acquainted with.

When the sun finally began to set, speeches began. A druid who spoke of the symbolism of what this ritual would do, who spoke of his mother’s deeds as queen, and the way she had honoured the gods and goddesses of her choosing. His sister spoke of their mother how Aziraphale might an acquaintance, but surprised him by speaking of a tale from before he was born. A childhood memory of their father’s broad shoulders and mother’s soft hands, of a love and affection he didn’t remember in the same way as he’d only had one of the set which had made up their parents.

Interesting, though, that she spoke as if she was an only child. That was a feeling they shared, raised as they’d been.

His uncle’s speech was a bit more expected. Almost rehearsed, but it was also the fourth funeral he’d had for a close family member. One could easily swap out sister-in-law for brother, for mother, for father. He touched on the good she’d done for the kingdom and why the royal family needed to continue to be supported. It was more of a rally for support and funding than a warm farewell for a lost loved one.

Sir Lucian also should’ve spoken, but Raphael did instead. Somehow, he spoke more warmly about the late queen than daughter and brother-in-law had. Still a rally for support, but in Raphael’s kind way and not his uncle’s formally abrasive one. Uncomfortably enough, it was also a rally specifically for Aziraphale. As much as Aziraphale appreciated it, it also made him want to squirm.

Too soon, it was his turn to rise.

Aziraphale took a deep breath as he faced the crowd. He felt as if he’d already given the speech he wanted to give when he’d announced her death. But that had been for the people, to tell them what had happened and to guide them towards a healing. This, however, was different. This was a goodbye and it was not, by the gods, going to be a rally for support. His mother didn’t deserve to have this night be about the politics she’d detested.

“We have all lost this week,” he began, looking out to the people. “We have all been under her rule for many years now, and we have celebrated with her and we have grieved with her. As you heard yesterday, she would not want us to wallow in that grief. She no longer grieves, and that’s something worth celebrating.

“As much as she was our queen, however, she was my mother. She raised me, taught me. The first time I ever held a sword aloft, it was one she placed in my hands. It was a small thing, the hilt adorned in jewels. It had been my mother’s before me, her father’s before her, and his mother’s before him. Many of you remember what happened to that heirloom - I gave it away to a traveller who needed something to defend themselves at night on their way across dangerous parts outside of our borders. What many don’t know… is that she forgave me. She laughed.”

There was a brief murmur of surprise, many locals having thought he’d been punished quite severely for the tale the queen had told many times. Enough that it had left the tables of nobles to travel through servants and across the common townsfolk.

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I knew the sword’s value. She hadn’t neglected to teach me that, yet I still gave it away. She still laughed. She taught me then that it was our people who matter more than any gemstone or gold piece. With that laughter and that forgiveness, I learned that Celestria is a place which takes care of its people no matter the cost.”

The few nobles near the front of the crowd who winced or scowled were taken note of as Aziraphale eyed them, but he kept his opinions quiet. It wasn’t about the politics. It was about his mother. “She taught me to love these lands and these people as strongly as she and I loved one another. That is something which cannot and will not be killed easily. Her love for King Jehoel, for my father, never died either, as so many of you can attest to. When she set her sights on something, it was forever.”

He turned away to pick up a torch, his own magic wafting through it even though he pretended to light it a conventional way. It was another gift for her, using the magic he’d inherited from his father to send her to him. When he turned back, he held it aloft. His hair took on the flame’s hue, eyes like dark diamonds. His crown glinted with all the pride he’d felt the first time it had been placed on his head, far too big to fit and with his mother smiling behind him.

“Tonight we wish her well, we wish her safe travels, and we try to give her back just a little bit of the love she held for us all.” He turned, encouraging the flame to leap from the torch to her. “I’ll see you again, mother,” he whispered. “I do hope you’re happy.”

Aziraphale stayed long after the rest of his family left. He hated the smell and it would put him off smoked meat for a while, but he stayed regardless. He stayed after Raphael sent most of the other guards away. He stayed after the crowds dissipated, the city not used to staying up so long.

He stared up at the stars, blinking away tears he pretended were from the smoke. Booted feet approached and he sighed. “Yes, Raphael, I know I'm too close to the fire. You know I won't do anything foolish.”

“Pretty sure what I think is foolish, what you think is foolish, and what Raphael thinks is foolish are three entirely different things, Your Majesty.”

He looked away from the stars, blinking for an entirely different reason. That was most certainly not Raphael. “Crowley,” he realised, mustering up a smile. “You’re very likely correct. Opinions do differ.”

Crowley strode up to stand beside him, watching the flames flick in the dark. “You know the guards could keep watch over this for you.”

“They could,” he agreed, “but they weren't her son.”

“Well, you got me there. Are you gonna be out here all night?”

“No.” He was keeping the flames hot enough and strong enough that it wouldn't take the whole night. He wanted her back home before then, thinking of his father's ashes and what his mother had asked of him long before she'd ever been sick. “I’ll be here as long as she needs. People tried to steal my father's ashes, so I have no doubt they’ll try with hers as well.”

Crowley scowled and glared at the pyre. “That’s rude as shit. Why would someone even do that? Bragging rights?”

“They say bits and pieces of my family are lucky, which is rather foolish since they expect good luck. We've... not experienced that as of late.” Aziraphale shrugged lightly, hands clasping behind his back. “People were trying to clip her hair as they walked through today and needed to be, ah, dissuaded.” The servants who’d known and loved her, who had been loved in return, had different rights than those who would be selfish. “They’ll sell what they can get, unfortunately, and I’m sure not everyone was caught.”

“What the fuck,” Crowley swore under his breath, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear. Here he was, terrified to do any single wrong thing, while ballsy motherfuckers were trying to clip the late queen's bloody hair for luck. “Aelfric’s sweaty balls, if they got away I don't know how much more luck they can expect.”

For the first time that day, Aziraphale laughed. “I’m not sure how you manage it, my dear, but you have an uncanny ability to make things a little better than they are. You're very good at getting to the heart of things. It's an admirable quality.”

Crowley grunted and shrugged. “I just tell it like it is. Don't have a need for beating around the bush.”

“I suppose only the nobility can afford such things. Perhaps that's why there are so many rules and proper mannerisms to learn.”

“Maybe. It all just seems pretentious to me.”

Some of it did to Aziraphale as well. His scent unfurled from the tight coil he'd had it in that day, shoulders sinking a little. “Manners have their place.”

The scent came to him slowly, like a vine he'd encouraged to wrap around his finger. It was sweeter than the smell of the pyre and Crowley had to resist the want to lean into him, to press his nose to Aziraphale’s neck and breathe deep. It wasn't fair that the bloody king should smell so good. “Sure, except plenty of the nobility use manners as a cover to being awful little shits.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned just a little impish. “I've no idea what you mean.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you don't.”

“It can be rather delightful, admittedly, to win a polite argument.” Aziraphale wiggled cheerfully. “Knowing someone is utterly furious, but can't do anything about it lest they prove themselves brutes. Manners are as much a trap as they are anything else.”

“Just colour me a brute, then, ‘cause I'd rather stab someone than try and fancy talk someone into a trap. It's much more straightforward.”

“Oh, it can be. A sword has its place in the world as well, but they wouldn't have been very useful on my peacekeeping tour. Words worked far better there.” The dark lenses of his glasses shone in the firelight, his skin like freckled porcelain. His hair was as vibrant as the fire itself, and Aziraphale had always been drawn to flames. He reached out, finger twirling a lock that had escaped its binding to splay over a shoulder. “I’ve always been taught it was the balance of the two which really mattered.”

Crowley didn't move but for a slight twitch of his head. He couldn't decide if he wanted to discourage this or not. On one hand the touch soothed the gradually building need for attention. On the other, Aziraphale was the king and so much attention on himself felt like playing a dangerous game. “A balance is probably wiser.”

“Likely so. Or do you also not have patience for wisdom?”

“Patience isn't generally my area,” Crowley murmured with a slight twitch of his lips. “More of a man of action, me.”

“I think it depends on the situation for me, though I do like to think I have quite a bit of patience.” Aziraphale wanted to pull him closer, give his hair a gentle tug to guide him nearer. He reminded him of the dashing, sweet fellow he'd met at the masquerade. But Crowley was so much more skittish. He made Aziraphale want to take his time, to woo him in a way others hadn't seemed to need or want from him. If things had been normal... “When it's deserved.”

“Deserved, eh? Sounds like you have a good balance already.”

“I hope so. I'll need it going forward considering everything ahead. At least I won't have to worry about the coronation for a few months.” He sighed, leaving Crowley's hair wrapped around his finger as he looked back at the pyre. “Michael wanted this so badly,” he admitted on a low murmur, “and I can't fathom wanting something less.”

He sounded so sad and more than a little alone. “In my experience, the people who want power the most are the ones who should have it the least.”

“Most people would be very upset at a ruler who claimed they didn't want to lead.” Aziraphale smiled again, taking a step closer to Crowley instead of tugging him nearer. “Don’t misunderstand, of course. I will rule. Mother believed in me, and I won't let her down. But if the cost of that rule is her life, I... It's too high a price for me.”

Crowley turned to him just slightly, just enough to see him and the way the flickering flames made shadows dance across his face and made his hair look more golden than the snowy white it really was. “A life for a crown. No, it's really not comparable, is it?”

“No.” He couldn't see his own reflection in the glasses, the flames making them seem as if they were molten instead of black. “I can't even begin to tell you how much it means to me that you would understand that. Others seem to think I should be overjoyed.”

“That’s just callous,” Crowley grumbled with a grimace and twist of his mouth. “There’s nothing joyful about losing a loved one.”

“That sounds as if it comes from experience.”

“Yeah, well… It does. I've lost. I know what it's like.”

Aziraphale wanted to push. He wanted to prod and pry. He wanted to know everything there was to know about this man who could frustrate yet could so effortlessly buoy his mood in the darkest times of his life. He was a fascinating, locked trunk, and Aziraphale yearned for the key. “Speaking from fresh experience, I know how hollow apologies sound. But I am sorry you've felt this. I'm sorry for anyone who has.”

Crowley shrugged, deceptively lightly. “It’s alright. It was a long time ago. I've learned to live with it. It… it never really goes away, just gets easier to deal with as time goes on.”

Raphael had said something similar, but he'd spent his entire life watching his mother grieve. In the deepest part of his heart, he believed she’d allowed herself to die just to be with him again. That deepest part of his heart also being the darkest, he resented her for it. And that, too, ached. “I’ve been praying that it will. As much as I've been praying for guidance.”

“The fact that you want and are looking for guidance in the first place means magnitudes. You just gotta give yourself time to heal and grieve and feel whatever it is you feel.” Crowley looked down, seeing Aziraphale's finger still curled around that lock of hair. “I was angry. I was so angry. Still kinda am, to be honest, but I was lucky enough to have someone who let me be as mad as I wanted to be for as long as I needed.”

Anger only tended to make Aziraphale’s stomach hurt. And his fire harder to control. He'd learned very early on that anger simply wasn't safe. The sadness of grief was far less harrowing than the anger. “I’m glad you have someone like that in your life, Crowley.”

Though... Who? A mate, perhaps? The very idea had something new squirming uncomfortably in his gut. It would explain why Crowley was oftentimes so unresponsive or so skittish to his advances. It wasn't a thought Aziraphale could handle at the moment, so it was dismissed with a shake of his head. “I’m beginning to think there's danger in not having someone who’ll allow one proper space to grieve.”

“And it sounds like your family doesn't really give that.”

“No, but I... I do understand.” His hand slipped away from Crowley's hair so they could lace behind his back to wring in peace. “It’s... Decisions have to be made. Plans finalised. There's an entire kingdom to think about, and I can't allow them to suffer. People already find me weak and foolish.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted above his glasses. He couldn't say he hadn't heard that or variations thereof but… that wasn't what most people said. “Who told you that?”

“My uncle. Apparently there are a few nobles who may rebel unless I can prove myself to them.” Aziraphale quickly looked at Crowley, realising the magnitude of what he'd admitted to. “Though I promise you I already have plans to send diplomats to those lands. There's no need to get into violent conflict if they can be avoided.”

“Ah.” Crowley didn't know what pretending to be an emotionless statue had to do with proving yourself to the nobility, but he figured the duke knew more about how they felt than he did. “Well, for what it's worth, the citizenry of Berwick seem to like you quite a bit.”

“Oh?” Most of the stress faded again. “Really? I was... I thought they'd be most worried.”

“Nah, they like you. Honestly they seemed more worried about someone strange and unfamiliar taking the throne and are relieved it's you, someone they know.”

Relief and his own comfort in Crowley's presence had him forgetting himself. The fire, which had begun to burn low, abruptly roared to life again. Enough so that Crowley took a full step back in surprise and Aziraphale reached out to capture his wrists to keep him from stumbling. “Oh-! I-” His cheeks burned scarlet. The people of Berwick may have had faith in him, but Aziraphale truly thought the restless nobles more correct. He was foolish. “Must’ve... must've caught something suddenly.”

“Yeah, fucking hell.” He was still looking at the suddenly roaring fire. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

“No.” No regular person would have, and Aziraphale hadn't even begun taking strides towards irregular being seen as normal. He couldn't unless people had faith in him. “Perhaps we are a bit too close?”

“Y-yeah. Maybe.” Aziraphale was still holding onto his wrist, his hand warm from the flames. “Should probably step back a bit. Just in case.”

Aziraphale did so, ensuring Crowley was steady before releasing him. It was the least he could do in lieu of a damning apology. “Thank you for coming. For approaching, too. Only one other person has really spoken to me today, and it's very nice to have an outside perspective.”

Crowley grunted and shrugged. “Just noticed you still out here an’ figured you needed someone to talk to.”

He reached out again, taking Crowley's hand with both of his. “More than I realised, my dear.”

“Well, you're welcome, then.” Crowley looked down at their hands. Aziraphale's felt soft against his palms, his nails cared for. He probably had callouses from wielding a sword but they were still better cared for than his own. “Feeling alone when you've just lost someone is the worst.”

“It’s proving to be. I find I’m understanding my mother a bit better than I did before.” He should probably let go. He didn’t. “One day I’ll be able to tell her she was right, but I hope it’s not for a long, long while.”

“Yeah, you better stay with us for a while. You still gotta see me win the tournament.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Are you very sure you’re unable to stay after its end?”

Crowley shook his head. “I can't. The tournament being pushed back is already pressing me for time and… staying would be unwise.”

It would probably be the right thing to tell him not to win. It would be equivalent to telling him to not try at all, to just leave now and not bother. Although it certainly wouldn’t be fair to tell him and not the other competitors and, well, Aziraphale didn’t want him to go. “Then I won’t pester you further on the matter, though I will be happy to see your return.”

“I do plan on coming back.” Even if only to look for the man he'd met at the masquerade. He hadn't had nearly enough time to search for him and… he did want to. Though… maybe not only for that. “I’ll make sure to let you know when I'm in the area. Knights are supposed to report in, aren't they?”

“They are indeed. So sure you'll be knighted by the end of the tournament, are you?”

Crowley smirked. “Sure am. Raphael's the only one I've seen that would be a challenge.”

“Be careful, my dear. I may need a new personal guard with Raphael properly titled as captain.”

“Don’t start that. I'd be a terrible personal guard. I'd get into too much trouble tellin’ some fancy-pants to piss off.”

“Raphael does have a way with being polite in his rudeness. You'd have to train especially hard,” Aziraphale teased.

Crowley flushed and gave a soft huff, forgetting himself just for a moment. “What? You wouldn't rather have me as I am, rudeness and all?”

A hand left Crowley's to cup his cheek instead, smile softening. “Your rudeness is admittedly full of charm.”

Gods, his hand was warm. Crowley swallowed thickly and struggled to resist tilting his head into the touch. “Ngk- Better than annoying.”

“You, my darling terror, are as far from annoying as I think one can get.”

What was it with people in Berwick and handing out pet names like they were candy? “Guess I’m not tryin’ hard enough.”

Aziraphale smiled, but his hand fell away. He needed to stop overreaching with this man. The signals were mixed enough to drive him mad, but that still gave him no right to be a... A sex pest or some such. Yes. “Or perhaps I'm more tolerant than most you've come across.”

He shouldn't have wanted Aziraphale to keep touching him, it should have been terrifying, but it felt like more of a thrill than anything else. “Might be. At the very least you seem alright, for the King.”

Aziraphale laughed. “For as many different sorts of persons there are in this world, intolerance seems far more senseless for a monarch. Genuine evil would be the line I would draw, but it's difficult to imagine anything else I simply wouldn't tolerate.”

“Evil can be pretty subjective.” In his experience, lots of people considered mages evil regardless of how they used their gifts.

“Mm. Injuring an innocent for no other reason than opportunity, I think, could fall under that category and not have a caveat. Otherwise, I do think you're correct.” His hand finally left Crowley's, gaze drifting back to the flames. “My father was driven away from his family because there were... aspects to him they wouldn't have accepted. Especially not from a younger, omega child. It was luck, perhaps, or fate that he found my mother and was able to teach her to allow those things to flourish. Some would call my grandparents evil, yet others would call my father that.” The same would call Aziraphale evil for the same reason. “Perhaps knowing that has helped shape my own moral compass. To make it broader than others might assume.”

It sounded good. Hell, it sounded great. It sounded just like the sort of thing Crowley wished he would hear. He wanted to believe that Aziraphale could be accepting enough to not order his execution on the spot… but the risk was too great. “Sounds like you'll make a fine king, to me.”

“Oh... I do hope so, Crowley. For everyone's sake,” Aziraphale sighed, tipping his head back to look at the stars again. For those he'd lost, too, he wanted to be a good enough king.

He could only hope the journey went as well for him as it had in the tales.

Chapter Text

Having never attended a tournament before, Crowley wasn’t sure what to expect. The entire city had been in a weird state all week, some wearing the darkest clothes they owned and a veil as their mourning clothes, others going about their days as if nothing had happened at all. And even now the enthusiasm and excitement he'd expected seemed oddly muted. The people weren’t as loud as they had been at the announcement last week.

Crowley stood in a group of the other participants, waiting with anticipation as spectators filed into the tournament grounds and filled seats. The first bout would begin just an hour after their names were drawn. Everyone had to be ready, no telling who would be up first.

While most of the other combatants murmured amongst themselves, Crowley kept himself apart. He’d practised with more than a few of them and was sure they didn’t want anything to do with him. Well, Raphael might have but he was surrounded by squires and those of the guard who wanted to test their mettle so Crowley felt it would be awkward to approach and insert himself into those conversations. So he stayed to the back and waited for the trumpets to announce Aziraphale’s arrival and the start of the drawing of the names.

It was the first thing that had felt familiar for Aziraphale that entire season thus far, no matter how quiet the crowd was compared to normal. After spending most of the week amidst the royal guard, sharing meals and time with them, he was almost feeling normal himself. He’d been able to spar, to expend some of the anger he had so tightly tucked away, and he’d been able to avoid the stressors of his family. He’d even been able to stay away from his crown, only taking it out that morning.

So he was able to smile as he lifted his hand in search of attention. It was a different tournament than usual, in both circumstances and reward, but it didn’t have to be sad. “I welcome you all to Berwick, those who have travelled here for this annual tournament. For those who are always in our fair city, I hope you are as proud as I to host this once again. While late, the memory of the chill of winter isn’t a memory so far gone. Flowers have begun to bloom, thriving under the sun just as so many of our youngest or newest fighters have thrived under the tutelage of past winners.” His smile turned a little impish, his time in the barracks also having given him time to hear complaints over the ginger sellsword. “This year, we also have a newcomer to thank for lending his talents towards training. Mr. Anthony Crowley, a competitor Celestria can take pride in. I wish you all luck against him, and assure you of its need.”

Crowley flushed hot and frowned up at the royal box. Most of the competitors had turned to look at him, many with annoyance, some with surprise, and one Guard Captain in particular with a knowing smile. It was too much attention and, while Crowley didn't duck his head or hide, he did plan to tell Aziraphale not to do that again when or if they had time to talk.

“With so many farewells this season, I’m happy and proud to share a beginning with you all. The names, please.”

As Aziraphale read them, their names were added to a large board by what looked to be a young squire. He read out sixteen for that day, Raphael slated for the third match and Duke Met’s Guard Captain in the fifth. The next day, Aziraphale explained, would mean the fights for the next sixteen names. He also explained that there would be one combatant who would be fighting twice on the fourth day as a last-minute sign-up had resulted in an uneven number of competitors. But that would be decided by a drawing of lots among that day's winners.

It would be a six day competition, the final day marked by a final fight and then a celebration dinner with only the participants and the nobles in attendance. That was normal, as most of the city held their own celebration amongst themselves. The town was usually up most of the day for a party that only ended when the last person fell. Aziraphale had always snuck out of the castle after the dinner to join the festivities, but he wasn't sure if that would be possible this year.

No, he knew it wouldn't be. He wasn't even sure how the town would react to the unusual news. But he knew he'd have to spend the day after preparing and would need to be well-rested in the meantime.

Frustrating, but... But understandable. Yes.

Meanwhile, Crowley scowled up at the board as names were placed. Not being the very first match was fine but having to wait until day three? The thing would be half over before he even got started. The only silver lining was getting to watch the others beforehand and see how they really fought when it wasn't just practise.

And most were relieved to not have to fight him, though the person slated to fight Raphael that day had sinking shoulders. Their friends gave them sympathetic pats long in advance.

With names listed and the earliest brackets prepared, Aziraphale lifted a hand and beamed. If he was a little disappointed not to watch Crowley that day, he at least had Raphael to cheer on and others to observe. For the first time in a long time, he didn't know what to expect from the competition. He didn't know how his uncle’s people fought beyond reports.

Most of his morning was spent in the box unless he needed to step away for a few minutes between matches. The names weren't known to him, which he didn't like one bit.

It drove Aziraphale away from the box during the midday break, every bow or curtsy or uncertain greeting along the way less uncomfortable than he'd expected them to be. As prince, travellers hadn't always known how to greet him though. So perhaps he was more used to it than he would've thought. Just more sensitive, knowing his title had changed.

He entered the competitors’ main tent, smile easy as members of the royal guard approached. He was able to wander through, greeting people who had last seen him rushing away from the field. Now they knew why.

Some greeted him cautiously, most with apologies. Raphael, fresh off his win in the third round of the day, grinned. “Majesty.”

“Sir. I'm not surprised to see you with our esteemed Mr. Crowley.”

The ‘esteemed Mr. Crowley’ rolled his head along with his hidden eyes. “Don’t start that esteemed shite; it's bad enough you called me out in front of the whole bleedin’ city.”

“I didn’t ‘call you out.’ I gave you the praise you were due.”

“Uh-huh. In front of the entire city.”

Aziraphale arched a brow. “My dear, I do hope you realise a win will also have your name announced across the city. The winner is spread annually through the kingdom.”

“I’m very well aware. But that's for doing something actually impressive.” And if the other guards and knights in the tent were horrified he was speaking to the king in such a way, none of them spoke up.

Then again, if Aziraphale needed help, they all knew he would ask. “Assisting in an area where I’ve failed this year is worthy of praise, however impressive or not you find it to be.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Don’t make it sound like it was some favour to you.”

“Yes, yes, I know it was done for entirely selfish reasons. Wanting to…” He waved a hand. “Learn more about your competitors. It’s still something I’m grateful for.”

“Oh?” Crowley leaned across the little table he was sat at with a crooked smile.“And how grateful are you, Your Majesty? Perhaps grateful enough to grant a request?”

How the man could irritate and titillate in the span of five seconds was going to drive Aziraphale utterly mad. “If you recall, I do owe you a favour.”

“You dooo,” Crowley purred, setting his chin in his hands. “Move my match up to tomorrow. Waiting so long is boring.”

Aziraphale laughed, entirely delighted with him now. Awful. “You have the favour of royalty at your fingertips and you’d like to use it to avoid waiting one simple day?”

“Seems a little foolhardy to me,” a voice broke in, and it took every ounce of Aziraphale’s self-control to not wince or frown. His smile, though, took on a frozen quality.

“Sir Gabriel. How… nice to see you.”

As if he had the same amount of familiarity as Raphael, the knight clapped a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder and didn’t notice the fiery flicker turning blue eyes to smoke. “You too, sunshine. Your Majesty.” He chuckled. “You. Your Majesty. Can’t get over that.”

Crowley’s flirtatious smile fell in an instant. He'd seen Sir Gabriel training with his square head and boisterous voice. Though he didn't know why the clap on the shoulder and the pet name made his teeth grind. “Best get used to it. I suspect he'll be ‘Your Majesty’ for a while now.”

“Gods willing,” Raphael put in, hand light on his hilt. “Majesty?”

He rolled his shoulders, but it didn’t seem to occur to Sir Gabriel that Aziraphale wanted him to let go. Biting back a sigh, he sidestepped to instead face him. He was built as one would expect of a knight. Square headed, yes, but muscular. A classic handsomeness that spoke of legends told to young ones who’d dream of being rescued. He was Raphael’s age and had been, unlike him, a thorn in Aziraphale’s side each and every time they’d met. Gabriel always felt a need to give Aziraphale advice, whether needed or not, and didn’t seem comfortable with the word no.

He gave Raphael a small nod so he would stand down. No need to go about challenging his uncle’s guard captain. That was only looking for trouble, and they couldn’t - shouldn’t - have to worry about more of that. “Gods willing, indeed. Though I do understand Sir Gabriel’s… reaction. We’ve all been under the assumption that Princess Michael would inherit, being the firstborn. Mother always did make her own decisions, however radical.”

“Radical,” Gabriel echoed as if Aziraphale had just made quite the joke. “Who would think of a queen as radical? Their word is law.” He tipped his head, smile leaning towards condescending.

Someone behind him sniffed. “You can’t go against the grain if you are the grain.”

Gabriel pointed at the man, condescending smile turning into a broad grin. “There we are! Brilliant, Sandalphon.”

Aziraphale quietly wished the ground would swallow him whole. “That’s, ah, certainly not… untrue.”

Crowley grimaced to himself. He hadn't, until just now, had the… pleasure of speaking with Duke Met’s guards but this first impression was very much unimpressive. “Unless one decides to forego centuries of tradition to do their own thing.”

“Yes, but who would be stupid enough to do that? Things continue how they have because they work,” Gabriel stated.

Aziraphale wished he could grimace, the smile on his face hurting a little in his efforts to keep it in place. “Times do change, Sir Gabriel. Technology, opinions.”

“Opinions can be dangerous things, Your Majesty.”

Sir Sandalphon’s smile was more a baring of teeth. “It would be advisable for monarchs to leave such things to others.”

“I shall take that advice into consideration.”

Crowley's lip curled and he muttered under his breath, “Sounds like shit advice to me.”

“What was that?” Gabriel asked.

“Majesty,” Raphael interrupted before Crowley could make a dangerous mistake, “why don't I escort you back to the royal box? The next match should begin soon, and I'm finished for the day.”

“Yes, thank you. Best of luck to you all.”

For some reason Crowley was sad to see him go. “They’re gonna need it.”

Aziraphale’s genuine smile returned. “When it comes to your matches, I’m sure they will.”

When he walked out alongside Raphael, Gabriel turned to Crowley with a small shake of his head. “You know, friendly advice, Mr. Cowwley, but I'd be more careful around the king if I were you. You're a little too familiar with nobility.”

Crowley looked him dead in the eye. “While the concern is appreciated, I figure His Majesty can tell me off if he thinks I'm too familiar.”

“Well, I'm not so sure if he will. He is...”

“Soft,” Sandalphon replied with an unimpressed sniff.

“Soft,” Gabriel echoed. “Very good. He's softer than the queen ever was. He never listened to me while growing up or he'd be much stronger.”

His hair looked soft and his hands definitely were and Crowley was certain the layers of clothes he wore hid soft rolls and curves, but that wasn't the kind of softness they meant. “I think he’s stronger than he looks.”

“That’s very charitable.” Gabriel looked around the room, not noticing any frowns or raised eyebrows. If he did, he would've thought they were aimed at Crowley. “Now I need to get ready for my match.”

“It isn't against anyone important,” Sandalphon mused, much to the ire of many listening.

“Ah, good! A warm-up, then.”

Unfortunately for everyone, that's just what it looked like. Sir Gabriel not only looked the picture of gallant knight, he fought like one. It was one of the shortest matches of the day.

In the royal box, the duke rose. “Aziraphale, how many matches are left today?”

“Three, uncle.”

“Ah. I believe Michael and I've spent more than enough time here for the day. We'll be returning to the castle now.”

Michael rose quickly, not even bothering to hide her relief, and Aziraphale rose to bid them farewell properly. He knew why they were leaving now. None of their people were scheduled the rest of the day.

He wouldn't be surprised if they failed to make an appearance at all the following day. Like Crowley, Sir Uriel and Sir Sandalphon would be having their first match on day three. Sir Gabriel would be facing his second foe that day as well.

With them gone, however, he and Raphael could discuss the fights in earnest. The strategies which worked and didn't, the weak points the hopeful knights would need to work on to advance further in the tournament in the following years. He was finally able to have fun at the tournament, and it was over far too soon.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called the next day, catching sight of ginger hair and rushing ahead over Raphael's objection. The throng of people was easy enough to navigate through, Aziraphale experienced with Berwick’s crowds. “Good morning, Crowley!” 

Being singled out of a crowd by the bloody king made Crowley wonder if this was what a rabbit felt like when it was spotted by a fox. “H-hi,” he said only when Aziraphale was close enough to not have to shout over people. Though that only made it worse because his eyes were bright, excited and the warm scent that flitted past his nose was so delighted it made him want to melt. “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

“It is, isn't it? With a bit of luck, it will also be a good day.” His uncle and his sister had indeed elected to stay away from the grounds. He wouldn't be relegated to the box the entire day this time. “Though I do have a bit of disappointing news for you. No one wished to trade with you, so I'm afraid your match will still have to wait for tomorrow.”

Crowley blinked at him though it was likely missed due to his glasses. “You…. Actually asked?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale’s smile brightened. It had been amusing, watching knights and even Crowley's fellow sellswords baulk at the prospect of fighting him sooner than expected. “Being that it didn't have the desired outcome, you still have that favour at your disposal.”

The idea that he'd actually gone and done it seemed unthinkable. Crowley had just thrown it out there as a joke, a lark. He never expected Aziraphale to actually go and try to get his match moved, it had just been a fun thing to try just to see how he'd react. “O-oh. You didn't have to do that.”

“I realise that, but you asked and it’s such a little thing.” Besides, Aziraphale did owe him a favour. “I’ll be drawing from yesterday and today’s winners to discover who’s going to be facing tomorrow’s participants, so keep your eye on the board today to see.”

“Too easy. Not like I'm not going to be there all day anyway. Can't miss a match.”

“Are you enjoying yourself then? Not so bored after all?”

Crowley huffed a small laugh. “Still bored. Just less when there's a match to watch.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t involved in any of the wagers going about. What of the different vendors? Have you not explored the market yet?”

“I’ve mostly been keeping to myself. Helping the inn I'm staying at out in the stables in my free time.” He didn't know how to explain to the king that money didn't grow on trees and the extra week he had to pay for wasn't helping.

“Well, it’s hardly a wonder that you’re not enjoying yourself as thoroughly as you might be. Come fetch me during the midday break? I’ll need to take you on a proper tour.”

“Oh… er, sure.” The king had to have better things to do than give him a ‘proper tour’. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It isn’t all altruistic, I assure you. It allows me to spend a bit more time with you.”

But the question was why. Well… okay, Crowley knew why. Raphael had all but said that Aziraphale liked him in a more-than-friendly sort of way, and he was reasonably certain he could do as Raphael suggested and tell Aziraphale he wasn't interested and that would be that. The thing was though… he didn't want to. That desperate, needy part of him that always came out this time of year longed for the attention of a handsome alpha like Aziraphale. “Well, nothing wrong with being a little selfish sometimes.”

“Nothing at all,” he agreed with a cheerful wiggle. “Now and again.”

“Majesty, really, you should be behaving,” Raphael complained as he drew nearer.

“I beg your pardon. I'm quite well-behaved, thank you.”

“He’s definitely not.”

Aziraphale gasped. “I most certainly am.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“You most certainly are not,” Raphael disagreed with a shake of his head. “How many times must I tell you not to rush off without me? You're like a young pup.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Hardly.”

Crowley's lips twitched. “I guess you're lucky he came running straight to me.”

“Again, like a young pup.”

It was fun to watch Aziraphale's face turn a little pink, to see him get a little huffy with hands on his hips. In fact, it was adorable and that was a dangerous thought to have about an alpha that was both handsome and sweet already. “Guess you better keep a closer eye on the young pup.”

“You truly are a terror. It's hardly a wonder that the pair of you have gotten on so well.”

Raphael let out a low laugh, like rumbling thunder. “Majesty, you seem to forget you get on with us just fine yourself.”

“Not at present,” Aziraphale denied, lips twitching despite himself. “Now we do need to get to the box so the first match can begin. It's that Mister... LaVista? Was it?”

“We’ll need to keep a close eye to ensure that he isn't too vicious,” Raphael cautioned.

“Yes. I'll include something cautionary in the announcement.”

“I think someone just needs to rough him up a bit.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, pleased when he seemed not to notice that he was coming along to the royal box himself. “Oh? Is that your way of volunteering, my dear?”

“To rough him up?” Crowley grinned sharply and with all his teeth. “Absolutely. I need to repay the head shot.”

Stormy eyes narrowed. Ah, yes. He’d been the one to nearly stab Crowley. Privately, he hoped Crowley avoided dealing with the man again. Someone else would hopefully remove him from the tournament. “If there’s a reason to disqualify him, I’ll take it.”

Crowley shrugged. “I mean if he actually breaks any rules, go for it, but it's not like he'll last to the final round.”

“If he manages to frighten someone enough to land a dangerous blow, there’s a chance he’ll go beyond one fight,” Raphael mused. “But I wouldn’t expect much of him or his, ah… I’m not entirely sure if I would call him and his travelling companion friends. After you visited the training grounds, they wouldn’t spar with anyone but one another. And they most certainly did not go easy on one another.”

“Ah. Senselessly brutish combatants, then. They never do make it very far.” If they made it to the field at all. Aziraphale usually disqualified the more vicious ones during training.

Crowley nodded his agreement with both assessments. “It’d be funny if they ended up against each other.”

“It doesn’t sound as if they would mind, but that isn’t what’s happened so far. We’ll look at the board to make sure.”

“Aww, ruin all my hopes and dreams, why don't you?”

“I would never,” Aziraphale assured him, offering a hand as they reached the royal box. “Come. We’ll take a look.”

Crowley looked from his hand, to the steps leading up that he'd certainly seen but never even considered climbing, and back to Aziraphale's outstretched hand. He hadn't realised where they'd been headed and felt a sudden and intense self-consciousness. “Oh… er… I don't think I'm allowed…”

“My dear, who is going to tell me who may or may not enter this area?”

“...Right.” Crowley felt his face heat. “I swear I'm not usually this stupid.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” Aziraphale assured him. “You don’t have to follow, but it seems a bit silly to stop our conversation for something as simple as where we’re having it.”

Crowley looked at his hand again and had the distinct impression that taking it was going to matter. A choice he couldn't walk back from. He looked back up at Aziraphale's hopeful face and was undone just from the way it had just begun to fall. Disappointing an alpha who actually seemed to like him seemed like the worst possible thing in that moment. Crowley grabbed his hand, flush creeping up towards his ears. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

Aziraphale brightened immediately, giving his hand a squeeze before leading him up. “It really isn’t anything special. The chairs have a bit of extra cushion since I’m here all day.”

It was so… strange how easy it was to follow him. “Can’t let the royal arse get sore.”

Aziraphale’s laughter spilled out. “That’s the beauty of being able to wander about between matches, particularly during the midday break. It helps reduce that.”

“It didn’t seem to help your uncle or sister,” Raphael added with a deliberate casualness.

Crowley snorted. “That might be the stick they've got up theirs.”

Sighing, Aziraphale paused near the board of names. “You know you’re the second person who’s described them that way in my presence in a very short while. I know they’re… difficult and our viewpoints are rather different from one another on a few things.” Most things. “But it’s important to have a council made up of persons who know what they’re doing. Michael does have training I don’t, and Uncle has a history of assisting each of my parents.”

Raphael’s expression shifted into something very carefully neutral. “Mmhm.”

“Yeah, having people around with experience you don't is good. Doesn't make ‘em likeable, though.”

“Well…” Aziraphale gave in with a weak smile. “That is quite true.”

He realised he was probably being an arse and Crowley slipped into one of the nearby cushioned chairs with his shoulders up to his ears. “But that's just one guy's outside opinion. I probably don't know what I'm talking about.”

“Or you might,” Raphael huffed, but angled his head when Aziraphale slanted him a look.

“Regardless, they don’t enjoy the tournament. Uncle finds it frivolous and Michael believes making it open to anyone allows room for, ah, riffraff to enter and potentially become knights. And, well, it does. That’s quite what I like about it. One never knows who’s going to participate.”

“Like this ‘riffraff’.”

“You can read and write,” Raphael pointed out before Aziraphale could. “Your education eliminates you from being riffraff. By her very strict definition.”

“Many of the royal guard, however, would be included in that definition. We’re working on it, though. Most have made wonderful strides.”

Crowley's head tilted. “Fascinating that she counts most of the kingdom's population as ‘riffraff’, then.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to refute that, then closed it again. It was true. She was very against spending time amidst the common folk. She was against their advancement through life unless they went along her own narrow, approved route. Crowley's attitude would've put him in a very negative light with her, infuriating where Aziraphale was delighted.

“Very unlike her mother,” Raphael said. Leaving the “very like her uncle” unsaid. It didn't need to be.

“Oh...” Aziraphale sighed. “We do differ in a few major areas. That doesn't mean she's terrible counsel. It only means I need to be aware of her biases.”

Crowley lifted his hands in a placating gesture. “I don't know anything about what makes a good or bad counsel. I just know who wouldn't like me on sight.”

“Oh, no. On sight, she wouldn't know what to make of you.” His smile came a little easier, a little wicked. “It’s when you spoke to her that she’d despise you.”

“Note to self: speak to the princess as soon as possible.”

“Please don't. There hasn't been an execution in Berwick for forty-five years, and we’d like to keep it that way,” Raphael requested.

Crowley only tensed for a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it moment, and smiled up at the guard captain. “She’d have to catch me first.”

“She’d have to send us and I promise we wouldn't bother.” Raphael glanced to Aziraphale and back. “Unofficially.”

“Unofficially and very officially, I wouldn't approve of such an order anyway.” Aziraphale turned away from them to hide his own discomfort. The last execution in Berwick had been by his grandfather's order. A mage caught doing something as dastardly as healing a child put to death simply due to the method behind the cure. His parents had met shortly after and those had stopped quickly. “There are more humane deterrents to crime.”

“Well I’d definitely prefer ‘other deterrents’.” Though that the princess might actually resort to such things over being annoyed was chilling. “And I suppose I should count myself lucky to get in on His Majesty’s good side so quickly.”

That, at least, Aziraphale could laugh at. “You have indeed managed that.”

“Right up to being able to sit in his chair,” Raphael remarked with a crooked grin.

Crowley froze and looked around. He'd just plopped down in the first one he saw and hadn't really taken notice that it was… right in the middle and front of the box. He jumped up immediately. “Oh! Shit. Sorry.”

“Oh, Crowley, for heavens’ sake. You're quite alright. If you do something remiss, I'll tell you.” Aziraphale waved it off easily. “Now what was the name of that LaVista fellow’s companion?”

“Ligur,” Crowley said, slowly sitting back down as if the chair would catch fire any moment now. “Ligur Melion? I think.”

“Mm. He isn't set to fight until tomorrow, and it will be someone among today and yesterday's winners. Like you. I'll either draw those names first thing tomorrow or later today. It depends on the length of these matches.”

“Well they better not run too long, then. I'd like to know who I'm going to trounce.”

Aziraphale laughed again, looking over his shoulder. “I do so enjoy your confidence.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted. “I just know that I'm good. Got no reason to pretend otherwise.”

He almost looked like he belonged in that chair. Confidence spilled from him, carried by that slip of a barely there scent that Aziraphale couldn't identify no matter how deep the inhale. Something in his mind insisted it wasn't there at all, that it was wishful thinking. Maybe it was. Maybe it was something he’d picked up in passing from the inn he was staying at, but it made Aziraphale ache all the same. Seeing Crowley in that seat, looking so right and carelessly regal in his slouch, made something in him yearn.

He had to turn away again, telling himself to not be a fool. He had no business putting any pressure on the man. He wouldn't even be here after the tournament. Neither of them would be, he remembered, lips twisting into a frown. “No. You don't.”

He’d taken his normal seat after the morning’s commencement speech, but with Raphael at one side and Crowley at the other, it was far more enjoyable than it had been the day before.

Hastur was the first fight of the day, and it was... barely allowable. “He fights as if he'd be better holding a club than a sword,” Aziraphale muttered.

“Could’ve told you that before he even got started,” Crowley said. He'd relaxed into an almost boneless slouch, one leg thrown over the arm of his chair and determined not to think about whether or not anyone could see him. “His sword’s all dinged up from not being careful with it.”

It was also quite clearly stained, Aziraphale not at all wanting to think about why. “Raphael, could you look into where they've come from a bit more?”

“Of course, Majesty.”

He glanced over his shoulder, could've sworn he could smell his mother, but… No. The title was aimed at him. “Thank you,” he murmured, fingers tracing the grooves on the chair’s arm. “We’ll have his opponent checked on as well. They're going to hurt themselves, dodging as wildly as they are.”

“Sounds to me like they aren't ready for this, then.”

Which gave Aziraphale a pang of guilt. He could normally weed those who weren't ready out. He didn't know what the best option would've been. Missing those last days with his mother to ensure safety on the field? It sounded callous to do otherwise, but she’d shooed him off because he hadn't been doing the duty she’d raised him to do. Their people had always mattered most to her, and he'd neglected them.

But, then, to not have been with her... He would've regretted that keenly. Would've blamed himself for her death more than he already did. At least this way he could say he'd done all that he could, but who did that help but himself? He was selfish. Clearly. Not at all what this kingdom needed.

Crowley's simple comment sent him reeling hard enough that he nearly missed the sword flying free from Hastur’s opponent, his snarl triumphant as he raised his own sword to-

“Stop!” Aziraphale bellowed, scrambling to his feet. That was why he was there. To watch and enjoy, yes, but also to mediate. It wasn't the first time the heat of battle had threatened to go a step too far, and they didn't use training equipment here. “Hastur LaVista wins the match,” he announced to more upset boos than cheers. Not for the first time at a tournament and not something he should take personally, but his fingernails dug crescent shapes into his palms as his own vulnerability swirled and threw his scent into a jagged cacophony.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief though his hand was still at the hilt of his sword, body tense and ready to have jumped over the little railing and down into the field. He relaxed back and rubbed at his temple. “What a bloody idiot.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale replied immediately, like a reflex.

“‘S not your fault,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “LaVista down there should've taken his win as he had it and not got carried away. If he's gonna raise his weapon against an unarmed person like that, he's not fit to be a knight, period.”

It wasn't at him. He wasn't the idiot. Aziraphale’s shoulders sank, fists unclenching as he took a step back and sank into his chair. “I agree. He won't win with the way he fights, anyway, but he will most certainly never be a knight without a conscience.”

There were plenty of knights without a conscience in Crowley's experience. Those who abused the inherent trust the title was meant to instil. “I’ll enjoy mopping the floor with him.”

“Not unless I reach him first,” Raphael said.

“Bloodthirsty, the pair of you.” Though as Aziraphale watched him stalk off the field, the sword still resting on his shoulder instead of safely in his scabbard where it belonged, he didn’t think they were nearly as worrisome as him. Aziraphale might have sought a way to keep him out of the tournament as well had he been more involved.

At least the rest of the morning’s matches didn’t have such a sharp edge to them. They felt normal, Aziraphale’s tension seeping away until he was able to fully participate in Raphael and Crowley’s easy back and forth. Of pointing out both the flaws and successes in each combatant’s style and discussing what they would’ve done differently.

Aziraphale’s fascination with Crowley only grew, the man freely opinionated and never afraid to disagree with Aziraphale when he forgot the man beside him was royalty. The desire to taste the sass on his lips didn’t fade as the midday break approached, but there was something familiar about it that nagged at the back of his mind. Perhaps he’d developed a specific attraction to spicy gingers?

He rolled his shoulders as he stood, announcing both that match’s winner and a call to break. An encouragement to wander the grounds and a pointed reminder to put all weapons away whilst doing so. This was a time of peace, the fights relegated to agreed upon matches in the field. And then he turned to Crowley, head angled. “Join me?”

Crowley looked up at him, warm from the good conversation and at just how easy it was to relax in Aziraphale's presence. Half the time he even forgot he was royalty. He shouldn't forget it… but it was more fun to just enjoy the time he had here. “Yeah, suppose I will.”

“Good. I’m feeling a bit peckish after all of this. Raphael?”

“I have orders to pass along to a few guards.” And knew when Aziraphale didn’t want a sitter. “And I think we can trust Crowley to keep you safe and, more importantly, in line.”

“Yeah, I can do that.” Crowley slithered to his feet, smile easy. “Making sure His Majesty doesn't get into trouble should be easy.”

Raphael’s scoff was light, but Aziraphale only smiled. He truly did think he was very well-behaved. He didn’t even do a fraction of the things he most wanted to, after all. For example, he only offered his arm to Crowley after they’d reached the bottom of the stairs.

Taking the king’s arm did not seem like the brightest idea but… if it was the king offering, it couldn't be that bad. Right? Crowley slipped his arm through Aziraphale's with a roll of his eyes. “You keep surprising me.”

“I don’t see how, but I suppose I don’t know what reputation I have outside of Berwick. Although… I don’t think it’s a particularly good one. When on my peace tour, everyone was politely surprised that I could string two coherent sentences together.”

Crowley laughed. “It’s not you specifically, Your Majesty. Most of the common folk outside the city have precious little experience with nobility and probably just didn't know what to do with you when you turned out to be a normal person.”

The nobility had been surprised too. Aziraphale’s smile didn’t falter. “I vastly prefer normal than pretentious. I realise I was born into a highly unique life with far more opportunities than, well, anyone else in the entire kingdom.” More so than even his sister, apparently. “But there’s no need for that to turn into negativity. It’s my belief that so much privilege means it’s my responsibility to share what I have with the kingdom, and it’s the kingdom’s to support me in return if - gods forbid - we ever do end up in a war. Or some sort of disaster.”

And that, right there, was the biggest surprise. He cared. Any other noble he'd met would just expect the citizenry to back them in a conflict regardless. Crowley squeezed his arm out of reflex. “Well, aren't you just an angel.”

“I like to think I was just raised well.”

Crowley chose not to say that he wondered how the princess had been raised, then. “My compliments to the late Queen.”

“She was very good as a mother to me. Less so, I think, to Michael. I’m not entirely sure if she was a good queen after my father passed, either. Having peace isn’t necessarily the same as having joy, and I do wonder…”

“Well I know I'd take peace over most other things any day.” Conflict wasn't good for the common people and Crowley wasn't particularly interested in using his skills to solve political disputes. “Lots of joy to be found in peace.”

“There is, and I’m certainly not suggesting going to war or any such foolishness.” Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I’m wondering… Did people like her? I realise that likely isn’t a fair question to ask.”

“It’s more that… outside of Berwick, the regular people don't really care that much about royalty they're never going to meet. Most people I know generally looked at her favourably because she didn't get involved in their personal lives and didn't start any wars. That's really all most of them want.”

Aziraphale considered that for a few seconds before nodding. “Alright. I may end up ruffling a feather or two, but that will be a little further down the line.”

Crowley lifted his eyebrows. “Oh? Gonna tell everyone they have to wear hats on Sundays or some nonsense?”

“Ah… No. Something a bit more controversial, I think. But, again, it’s something that’s down the line.”

“Well, I don't think there's ever been a monarch that hasn't done at least one controversial thing so at least you're planning yours out.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “I have to else it'll never be successful.” And there could, in fact, be a war.

It sounded to Crowley like a complicated issue. Probably something he needed that ‘diverse’ council he had plans for and not something Crowley was qualified to comment on. “Well, good luck. Maybe it won't be as bad as you're thinking.”

If only he could be so lucky. He knew a few he could trust and a few he absolutely could not, but many of the ones he couldn't were also on the list Crowley had quietly given Raphael. Names who were going to be carefully investigated. “Not to be too cryptic, but you've already helped a bit. Confirmed a few suspicions.”

“Ooohhh. Colour me curious but I won't pry. I'm sure I'll hear about it eventually.”

“If it reaches you in a positive way, it will hopefully also mean I’m still king.”

He wanted to ask about it, too curious for his own good but the crowded tournament grounds wasn't the place for that. They were already getting curious looks that Crowley did his best to ignore. He wasn't used to getting attention from strangers. “I do hope so. I'd like the chance to congratulate you when it happens.”

“I’d like that.” Aziraphale hoped Crowley would be someone who'd congratulate him. He’d so much rather that than resentment or, worse, fear. He didn't want people to be afraid of him. “Now it smells like someone's smoked something good this way. Do you like mead?”

“Gods, yes,” Crowley said, letting himself be tugged through the crowd towards the smell of smoked meat. “Never met an alcohol I didn't like, honestly.”

“Nor have I, but there's a family who makes a honeyed mead and they only come for tournaments. We used the last of our castle stores for the masquerade, so I've been meaning to discuss a new delivery.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “We'll fetch some to take back to our seats.”

“Good idea.” Crowley matched his smile with one of his own. “Watching people beat each other up with sharp pointies is always better with alcohol.”

“I’m so glad you agree, my dear.” Aziraphale felt the wild urge to twirl him, would have had they not been in a crowd. It was probably best to not anyway. Crowley didn't seem like a person who'd had many opportunities to dance and would either trip or simply not let it happen. Residual thoughts of the masquerade lingered, Aziraphale unsure if he felt guilty or not when he scanned the crowd and found no gingers even close to matching the mysterious man he'd met. “After this is over, where is it that you're off to?”

“Going back to my teacher's place.” It was the safest place he knew to go for a heat. “Just east of here. She's getting on in years, and it's about time I checked on her.”

“Oh? Considering the urgency, I assumed you had some sort of time sensitive job.”

Crowley chuckled. “If I'm too late, Teacher’s likely to come looking for me and no one wants that.”

“I understand. You must care about her a great deal.”

“She raised me,” Crowley explained. “More like a grandmother than a teacher, really, but she taught me everything I know.”

Aziraphale nodded, wondering if Crowley’s parents had been lost then. It didn’t feel right to ask. Though he’d given Crowley so much of himself, the sellsword had thus far proven to be rather tight lipped about his own background. It felt wrong to ask for more than he was willing to give. “Then she did a wonderful job.”

Crowley laughed a little and smiled at him. “She’d like to hear that. I was always the little hell beast causing her problems and ruining her garden.”

“And now you say you’re very good with plants? You must have learned well.”

He had. Initially his magic had made the garden grow into a veritable jungle but Agnes had taught him control, discipline. “I did my best, though I've always had an affinity for growing things.”

Aziraphale hummed, pausing as they reached the stand their noses had aimed them for. The line parted instantly - of those who noticed him, anyway - but he waved a hand. “Get back in line, please. I'm capable of waiting, I promise you.” Three people Aziraphale didn't recognise left the line entirely, but the rest shuffled back into place with varying degrees of hesitation.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale turned his attention and his smile back on Crowley. “Were plants interesting to you from a young age, then?”

Crowley had watched the entire exchange with the sudden feeling that the little ‘angel’ jab was more accurate than he originally planned. “Er… I suppose so, yeah. Before- Before I came to Agnes, I handled my parents' little garden, and after she showed me what I hadn't already figured out from trial and error.”

Agnes. The name had a whisper of familiarity in it, but he couldn't quite recall why. It could've been anything, really. It wasn't an entirely uncommon name, and wanting to recognise it was likely wishful thinking. “Yet you became a sellsword over a farmhand.”

“Sellsword’s more fun. Less boring. I get to travel about, help people, see new places. Can't do that with crops and animals to tend.”

They likely wouldn't be his own lands, either, unless this Agnes was particularly wealthy. And there were no nobles named Agnes. “You've seen much of the kingdom, then?”

“A lot of this eastern side. I don't often cross the Wilde Range and there's not enough jobs to pay for a ride across the Feod Inlet into the west.”

“Ah, yes. My uncle claims the main inlet port on this side, and he does...” Aziraphale didn't want to say he made it difficult even though that's just what he did. “Well. I'm going to see about visiting Roughlee, a smaller village not entirely far away with lake and river access. There's hopefully an opportunity to begin constructing a new port there to make travel more accessible. The village directly east of us is too small yet to handle such a project and with access here being so focused on the sea, adding an inlet focused dock is less feasible than I’d like.”

“That would be nice,” Crowley murmured, ignoring the flare of alarm at the King's plan to visit his teacher’s village. One of the biggest reasons he didn't go west all that often was because that port was so difficult to charter. Expensive and requiring proof of identity as well as where you were going and why and for how long… it was almost easier to just go through the mountain passes and hope for the best.

“Oh, good. I did hope that it would be well-received.” Aziraphale beamed, wiggling cheerfully even with Crowley on his arm. “The Baroness of that town was part of my tour, and she was lovely to deal with.”

So he'd already visited. Agnes hadn't mentioned it. “Sounds to me like that should be a pretty cut and dried deal, then.”

“With luck, yes. There's another town a bit further down who may be a smidge upset, but I'll have to have a chat with the Count there.” Aziraphale’s nose scrunched a bit. “It’s more difficult to do things within the kingdom than it is to stay home, but I think that's the fun of it. Travelling and seeing the lands.” He'd have to see what could be done - or at least begun - once the tournament ended.

Crowley nodded, he definitely understood that travelling was the fun part. “It might be more difficult but if it makes people’s lives better, it's worth it.”

“Precisely!” Aziraphale gave his hand a pat, smiling as if Crowley had solved a terrible issue for him. “You know, I have to steal you away for my council once my position is firmly established.”

“You-” It was unthinkable. He was only saying that because he didn't know who and what Crowley was, the sorts of things he could do. It was ridiculous. “You wouldn't want me on your council. I'd mouth off and tell everyone - even you - when an idea was bloody stupid.”

“Perfect.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Oh, Crowley, what good will a room filled with agreeable people get me? If no one tells me an idea is foolish, I'll go through with it and who knows what disastrous thing that may accomplish? Besides, a discussion is dull without a hint of friction now and again. I don't want council meetings to be so pointless and dull as to not happen.”

He probably should have realised by now that Aziraphale wasn't the typical nobility he'd come to expect. He was more understanding. He wanted to do well and not just sit in his fancy chair and dole out judgement on high. “You’re not beating the angel allegations this way, you know?”

Laughing, Aziraphale just barely avoided wiggling yet again. There was a point where dignity had to be retained. “If my practicality is angelic to you, I suppose I never will be otherwise in your eyes.”

“Then I suppose I'll just start calling you angel if you're going to keep acting like one.”

Now that would cause heads to turn and Aziraphale knew it. “I’m not so sure I would mind that from you.”

Crowley glanced at him from the corner of his eye, through the grate on the side of his glasses. He wasn't unaware that it could be seen as a pet name, as something more familiar than he should be saying to the king. “Angel it is, then.”

Aziraphale looked forward to discovering just the right endearment for Crowley. Something that would fit this sassy being just so. He hoped more than anything that he would indeed come back, that he wouldn’t be put off from Aziraphale’s plans or who he was under the surface. He wondered if his father had shared those same worries when he’d looked across a campfire and seen his future wife.

At the head of the line, he ordered two legs of lamb and overpaid. As reluctant as he was to part, they needed to in order to eat. “I know there are other, smaller tournaments in different regions through the year. Have you ever been to any of them?”

“Occasionally,” Crowley admitted. “Beorgan holds one in the winter that I've participated in a time or two. Years ago, now.”

“Is it anything like this?” Aziraphale asked and took a bite, letting out the sort of sound typically reserved for a private bedroom as the flavoured smoke coated his tongue.

Crowley almost choked on his own tongue and couldn't take his eyes away from the motion of Aziraphale's mouth, the pink tongue that licked grease from his lips. “S-sorry?”

“The other tournament. Is it like ours?”

“R-right. The other- The other tournament.” It was difficult to think about that when his head was full of thoughts of Aziraphale's mouth pressed significantly lower. “It was- Fine. I guess. Smaller than this one. Obviously.”

“That’s typically what I’m told. You know, one of the silly things I’ve always thought about was having a tournament in each of the four regions for the season. Ours for spring, Westanfyr for summer, Esteorþe for the fall - I think all of those trees would be lovely as they’re turning colours - and Noreir for winter. It’s so open there and the mountains would make for a beautiful backdrop to it all. Not only would that make it even easier for persons who may not have the means to make it all the way to Berwick, but it would be a very convenient reason to travel to those areas and make sure the people who live there aren’t in need.”

“Y-yeah. Right, yeah that- That would be good.” The little monologue gave him the time he needed to get his head back on straight. His heat must have been coming on faster than he thought if he was getting all tongue tied just because a good smelling alpha was moaning. “Not everyone can afford to travel all this way even once a year.”

“No, and there are several who are never able to afford it. Why shouldn’t they have an equal opportunity to everyone else?”

There were others who deserved equal opportunities who never had the chance to even try just because of the skills they were born with. Crowley buried that thought for the time being. Now wasn't the time or the place and probably never would be. He bit into his own turkey leg and almost choked again on the moan that came once again from Aziraphale. Gods give him strength, eating was more dangerous than the fighting.

And he was definitely looking forward to the fighting.

Chapter Text

They finished their turkey legs and Crowley somehow survived. He wasn't sure he would between Aziraphale's little moans and the way his eyelashes fluttered closed like he was enjoying the most decadent of delicacies. He'd licked grease from his fingers and Crowley had wanted to grab him by his fancy little doublet and shake him and demand he do that to the cock in Crowley's trousers that was hard as iron.

Instead, Crowley ignored the unfortunate situation in his pants and let Aziraphale drag him around the bustling marketplace. They stopped at almost every stall for Aziraphale to coo and awe over crafted goods, artwork, and the like. He even seemed impressed with the simplest of things, and that only cemented Crowley's opinion that he was an angel.

An angel that moaned like a whore over a greasy turkey leg, but an angel nonetheless.

Past the general crafts were armourers, blacksmiths, leatherworkers - all displaying their wares and many working to replace what had already been purchased. It was a busy time for everyone, and Crowley spotted more than a few tournament participants eyeing shiny new blades.

He leaned down to Aziraphale's ear, not wanting to be overheard. “They’re going to regret buying something new and unfamiliar.”

“Only if they’re foolish enough to actually use them in the tournament. And, well, if they purchase from the booth we’re coming up to. On the left, there. They make beautiful pieces, but they never test properly for cracks in the metal.”

Crowley glanced over. The swords and daggers on display were beautiful. Intricately designed cross guards and fancy pommels and shiny steel. The booth was busy and Crowley almost felt bad for their customers. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Aziraphale had tried to get them banned from tournaments before, but they were from his uncle’s city - Hewin - and he preferred the looks of their wares over others. “The people I like take a bit longer to provide their weaponry, but it’s just as beautiful. Unfortunately, they don’t have a booth after the first day as that’s when they take all of the orders they’ll accept for the week. They’ll be back on the final day for customers to acquire their purchases and are wise enough to save locals for the end in case they need a bit of extra time. The sword Raphael owns is from them, and it’s lasted him years.” The sword Aziraphale owned had been made by the same people, but his hadn’t seen the scuffles Raphael’s had.

“Oh, really?” Crowley hummed at that, wishing he'd had the funds to commission something when he'd arrived. “Maybe when I come back in a few months I'll ask them to make me something if you're recommending them. I've been meaning to replace my old sword.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “Oh? What sort of sword would you prefer? The one you have appears to be a sturdy thing.”

“Hm? Oh, something a little lighter, a little thinner. You've seen how I fight. I'd rather jab than slash and blocking is more of a last resort if I can't dodge.”

“You are rather light on your feet. Thoroughly impressive, besides, and I do mean that genuinely. I would love an uninterrupted bout of sparring with you.” And quite a bit more besides.

Crowley chuckled and gave him a crooked smile. “Didn’t like being interrupted last time?”

“Not in the slightest. I was hardly warmed up, and I had to smooth needlessly ruffled feathers instead.”

That only made Crowley laugh harder. “Well I was glad for it. No one warned me you hit like a boulder. I wasn't prepared.”

“Yes, well, when people have been told that I’m strong in the past, they tend to lower their guard. As if they need to put on a show for me so that I can continue thinking I’m strong or some such foolishness.” Aziraphale shrugged lightly, but couldn’t keep his own smile at bay. Crowley laughed with more freeness than he seemed to do anything else, head falling back and the long column of his throat making Aziraphale’s jaw ache. That frustrating desire to bite again, to stake a claim he had no business assuming he could make yet. “I’ve found that it’s simpler to let people have few expectations of me. Uncertainty causes more preparedness than expectation.”

“You definitely surprised me, at any rate.” Aziraphale seemed to keep surprising him. “But I would like a rematch. It would be fun.”

“It would. Perhaps when you return.” Or perhaps they would cross paths while Aziraphale was away from Berwick. That could be exciting, too. Perhaps being away from the city, Aziraphale’s family castle never far from sight, would soften the skittish sellsword. “I’d hate to disrupt you during the tournament.”

“I think I'd be more worried about you taking my arm out of commission.”

“I won’t actively attempt to hurt you, I promise. I would never.”

“No, you're an angel, of course you wouldn't, but blocking your swings last time did make my arm go numb.”

Lashes fluttered. “Dodge better.”

“Oh, I will.” It wasn't fair that he could be so smug and adorable with just that little hint of bite that Crowley liked and also be… him. It was dangerous to be so attracted to and be bloody flirted with by the king. “Be ready.”

“I shall be, I promise you.” He would hopefully be more battle tested than ever before, though Aziraphale by turns hoped his journey held little violence. It didn’t need to be rough and wholly dangerous, surely. “Oh, the cobbler,” he noticed, taking Crowley’s hand without thought. “Come.”

“Er-” Crowley barely had a moment to think before he was being tugged along towards a stall that had multiple people hard at work. Some sewing, some weaving, and others hammering nails into soles. It was busy and Crowley wiggled his toes in his boots; they'd probably last him at least until he came back. “Do you need new shoes?”

“I wouldn’t say need. Although… You know, I may.” It wasn’t the wisest of ideas to set off on a journey in new, unbroken shoes. But having an extra, sturdy pair handy would be very useful. And he did know the local cobbler well. The son, he knew better, but that was neither here nor there. “What about you?”

“Ngk- Well, I mean, these’ll probably be fine for a while yet. They don't have holes in them so-”

“Yes, but will they get you all the way to your teacher’s? And back, for that matter. It isn’t unwise to have an extra pair of boots.”

“Er… probably?” He didn't sound very convincing. Crowley knew the soles were getting worn, but there wasn't much to be done about that. “I usually wear ‘em until they fall apart and I need new ones.”

“Well! A few days is surely enough time for you to have yourself a new pair here. Do you know Mr. Bromley has dabbled in the most fascinating of things for his shoes. He doesn’t only use traditional leather. I’ve seen him use snakeskin, of all things.”

Crowley immediately looked to the display table at the front. “Snakeskin? Really?”

“Interested, are you?”

A pink flush crept up Crowley's neck. “Might be.”

Aziraphale smiled, slow and warm, and it was a flurry from there. He flitted about, chatting with the cobbler and nudging Crowley forward over his protests. It took a little convincing, but as soon as he saw the black snakeskin boots Mr. Bromley had as a sample, those protests turned half-hearted.

While chatting about his own boots, though, the son had a chance to sigh his jealousy while measuring Crowley's foot. “You must be amazing in his bed if you're getting gifts.”

The slightly embarrassed shade of pink turned full tilt into red as Crowley sputtered. “I’m not- We're not- Wot.”

“Oh, come off it. It's impossible to get him more than a day - or a night, if you're really lucky - and here you are getting shown off like you're the prize.”

Crowley’s mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked while his face burned. Hearing it said like that made something sour rise in his gut. He might not have understood why Aziraphale had latched onto him, but he did understand the end goal of it. Just another flimsy whim. A pretty person to enjoy for a night and never think about again. It was good he was leaving as soon as the tournament was over, he'd have a clearer head once his heat was behind him. “Sounds like you're speaking from experience.”

“Tch. Might be.” One afternoon wherein he hadn't been able to do as well as he'd bragged to his friends about. “What I don't get is why he's looking at some outsider for a mate when he's got plenty of folks ‘round here who know what to do with a dick as big as his.”

Bloody hell. Crowley struggled to not choke on his own saliva, unable to keep his eyes from flicking toward where Aziraphale was happily chatting away with the proprietor. “Doubt he's lookin’ for a mate.”

“Dunno. He's king now and all. And like I said, he's trottin’ you about. Never gets anybody gifts.” He shrugged, making his notations just as Aziraphale bounced his way back.

He was cordial with the training cobbler, though not overly familiar. Aziraphale liked to think he'd made him feel good in their brief time together, but there hadn't been a spark for more. He hadn't been one for conversation and, well, he'd been a little too clingy for Aziraphale’s tastes. Oddly demanding of his attention after until Aziraphale had very politely and quietly told him to stop.

He'd likely make a fine partner for someone with far more patience and, frankly, more time. He needed attention Aziraphale couldn't give.

Especially now since he was thoroughly dialled into one particular ginger. His seeming befuddlement of Aziraphale’s attention was somehow irresistible, even the way he scowled drawing Aziraphale in. He wanted to suss out the reason for it and remove whatever it was that prevented a smile or that laugh. Or even that devilish smirk. He also wanted to know what had happened to the scent he thought he'd been able to sense when they'd first met, though that had well and truly disappeared.  It could've been imagination or someone else's scent picked up in passing? That would explain its absense now more readily than his potentially carrying an amulet about. It had been wishful thinking. Obviously. Crowley was doubtlessly a beta.

“Mr. Bromley assures me he'll have your boots ready by week’s end,” he said as they stepped away from their tent again. His own too, but his measurements and preferences were known already. “I should've expected you to be intrigued by something unusual. You don't seem as if you enjoy even a moment of boredom.”

“I don't, generally.” Though he also hadn't enjoyed listening to the cobbler's son lament the lack of Aziraphale's massive cock that he apparently hid in his trousers. And Crowley was most definitely not jealous about it. “And snakeskin is cool.”

“It’s certainly unique. I've seen a few pieces of armour made from it here and there, but I suppose I'm a bit more traditional.” Aziraphale’s once over was made with a smile. “You clearly aren't. A mould breaker, I think, through and through.”

“When I have the money to be, sure.” And he hadn't failed to notice the lack of a bill or expected payment. He would need to remind himself not to get used to the generosity.

“Naturally. Should you make it to the final round of the tournament as you're so determined to do, I’m sure you'll make very good use of the award. And the title.” Aziraphale had already decided to knight him. He was clever enough to handle it.

“Honestly, most of it's going to fixing up my teacher's place. She's brilliant and clever and as stubborn as they come but getting too old to keep up with things. I do what I can when I'm there but the money to pay for materials and labour will be a big help.”

“Oh, I see.” It was so very surprisingly sweet. A surprising bit of kindness under the rough exterior. Would he notice a few extra coins in his winnings? Possibly not at first. “I’m sure she's very grateful.”

Crowley snorted. “She’s going to gripe the entire time and raise an unholy hell.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Unspoken gratitude. If she truly didn't want the assistance, and if she's anything like you, she would simply boot you and any workers right out.”

“Pfft. Well, yeah. Doesn't mean I wanna hear her bitching about strangers tramping through her garden and making a racket.” Crowley's smile softened a little. “But I guess it'll be worth it if it makes her more comfortable.”

Oh, it was difficult to fight an attraction when he was also sweet. “Not to mention it gives you an excuse to fix the garden.”

“Or, as Agnes would say, mess it up even more.”

Aziraphale reached out, twirling a finger around a lock of Crowley's hair. “Perspective is a unique thing for everyone.”

He felt the touch before he saw it, a slight barely-there tug. A warm flush spread through him. There were people around, probably watching them, probably thinking the same thing the cobbler's son did. That he was just another in a long line of dalliances. “And what's your perspective?”

“I’ll have to see the garden to say for sure, but I doubt you would leave it a mess.” He was too prideful and cared about her too much.

“Have that much faith in me, do you?”

“You haven't given me any reason to doubt you.” Movement caught his eye and he looked well over Crowley's shoulder to see Raphael waving from the royal box. Then he looked skyward and chuckled. “Well, I've extended this break far past what I should have. The participants are going to begin getting antsy soon.”

Crowley looked back as well, feeling something like a conflicted mix of relief and disappointment all in one. “Ah, I should let you get back then. Wouldn't want to cause a riot.”

Aziraphale refocused on him instantly. “You're coming along, aren't you? I enjoy having you and Raphael up there.”

“I-” He wanted to. This morning had been fun, more fun than he'd honestly expected, but… people were already making assumptions. “You really want me up there?”

“Of course I do. You're clever and aren't shy about your opinions. You also know more about the new people out there than I do this year, and I find that invaluable.”

It was idiotic but… he just couldn't stay away. “Well, when you put it like that. I guess I can give you my unedited commentary for a little longer.”

“Thank you. I’d hope it’s kept you from being bored awaiting your turn,” Aziraphale said, leading the way back to the box.

Crowley followed him, more hyper aware of people who glanced their way, whispers as they passed. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “It- Yeah, it has so far.”

“Good. You’ve definitely made today better for me.” Aziraphale wasn’t entirely unaware of Crowley’s sudden discomfort, though. “Are you… alright?”

“Ngk- Yeah, ‘m fine.” He decided to just look straight ahead instead of anywhere else. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure? Was there something else you wanted to do today?”

“No. It's-” Crowley sighed. “‘M just not used to being noticed so much.”

“Ah.” That, unfortunately, wasn’t something Aziraphale could control or deviate. It was just a simple fact of his position and had been his entire life. “When I told you about my favourite places, they aren’t only my favourite because the food is excellent, the rooms well tended, or the friendly people within. While that’s all very true, it’s more… the proprietors are more willing to pretend the little fake name I like is real. I’ve met quite a few travellers in pubs who had absolutely no idea who I was simply because the people around me were willing to say I wasn’t.” He tapped a finger to his crown. “In official capacities, that isn’t possible. I understand being uncomfortable with it all, however.”

“Yeah, no, I get it. Can't pretend to be a regular bloke when you're supposed to be in charge of the whole thing.” He just didn't want people looking at him and… assuming just because he was there. “It probably makes it hard to make genuine connections.”

Aziraphale huffed a small laugh. It made it impossible to know what was genuine and what wasn’t. Even if something felt real, was it? As poor as he was at certain social cues, Raphael had proven invaluable. “Yes, well… I manage when and how I can. I am sorry it’s bothering you. Could I take it away, I would.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said quickly. “It’s not like I can't handle a little discomfort.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to. At least the only one to bother us in the box is Raphael. I think he rather likes you, which is lovely.”

“Raphael’s an alright sort. But I guess it's good he isn't trying to chase me off; be difficult to have a conversation that way.”

“Oh, yes. But I've found him to be an excellent judge of character. He was indispensable on my peace tour.” He was going to be useful on the upcoming journey as well, regardless of what Aziraphale's uncle thought. “He’s also very useful around the city. He grew up in Berwick as I did, but being born into a common home has helped him greatly. I have great admiration for those who are able to make so much of their lives when born into little.”

Crowley's eyebrows went up a little. He hadn't asked Raphael anything about his background or where he'd come from. Not because he wasn't curious, but because he didn't really want the same questions asked back to him. “He’s a commoner?”

“Yes. His family is among the butchers here, though he has an aunt who works as a maid in the castle. He’s been training for knighthood a very long time, however, and I don’t believe I would trust anyone else to be my personal guard at this point.”

“I bet it feels good to have a goal you've been working on all your life and succeed at it.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “I do envy him that.”

“Surely you're working on something. You've mentioned a few things already.”

“Yes, though success is far off yet. I’ll be hopeful in the meantime. What about you, my dear? Any grand aspirations?”

“Already workin’ on one.” His smile was a little small, a little soft. “When I was a kid, Agnes would put me to bed with stories of knights helping people or going on quests or fighting monsters and I always wanted to do that. So coming here was my attempt at making it happen.”

“Then after the tournament is over, I hope you tell me how it feels to succeed.” Charming, sweet bundle of sass.

“I will. I'll tell you what you have to look forward to.”

Aziraphale smiled, letting hope rumble in his purrs as they made their way into the box for the latter half of the second day.

By the third day of the tournament, Crowley was getting antsy. He'd come here to fight and show off his skills and so far all he'd done was rough up some squires and entertain the king. And he hadn't even done that second one in the way most of the city thought he was. He happened to overhear a few of the patrons at the tavern he was staying at whispering and wondering how well he sucked cock for their favourite royal to keep him around, and that had been enough mingling for him.

It also meant he was ready to show everyone that he wasn't someone's useless arm candy, that he wasn't the king's most recent nightly entertainment. The fact that he was hearing about it grated enough, but the sly smiles his fellow participants tried to hide when he showed up was the last straw.

Crowley polished his sword in the participants' tent, annoyed and tired and (even though he would never admit it) more than a little sexually frustrated as he waited for his name to be announced. As time ticked down the people in the tent dwindled to just himself and his opponent. She was one of the knights of Berwick, someone he'd seen about but not sparred against. She hadn't sparred with anyone that he could remember, which meant her abilities would be a surprise.

Good.

He almost felt a little bad when he pushed past her as their names were called but not bad enough to apologise.

The cheers were a little subdued this early in the morning but the fact that they happened at all was nice and Crowley took his place exactly ten paces from the centre, marked as such by the field maintainers with a little white chalk x. He did not look up at the royal box, not even a glance, even though he knew Aziraphale was watching. This was not for him, this wasn't a chance to show off to a handsome alpha, or at least he tried convincing himself of that.

Aziraphale was looking forward to it regardless. It was a little exciting that Crowley would be the first match of the day. He wouldn’t be able to go speak with him as freely as he’d done the day before, his uncle and sister taking up the chairs Crowley and Raphael had sat in the day before, but even that couldn’t fully dampen his eagerness. Every match that day had at least someone Aziraphale knew - or knew to be mindful of, Hastur and Ligur springing to mind - so it would be an exciting day despite them.

“Begin!” he called, only sitting when his uncle cleared his throat as the pair sprang into action in the field.

Crowley dashed forward, barely giving his opponent time to take more than a step before their swords were clashing in a ringing of steel on steel. It felt good to finally have a reason to move with a purpose again. This was familiar, the give and take, the watching his opponent's feet and gaze to predict where she would strike.

And she was good, Crowley could give her that. She wasn't one of the wet-behind-the-ears squires but a tested knight. She'd had training and knew all the right moves and followed them to the letter. Unfortunately, that was where she went wrong.

Training from a book and with other guards and knights was all well and good in Crowley's opinion. It was fine and worked well enough, but there were gaps. There was only so much you could learn when everyone you had to fight followed the rules to the letter, and Crowley had learned to fight a little dirty.

He feinted a slash at her feet and, as expected, she attempted to block, but at the last second he brought his sword up right along the line of her arm. Crowley saw her eyes go wide as he did, surprise turned to a grimace of pain as he struck her under the arm. There was padding and armour there but the blow was still jarring and sent her weapon flying up. She cried out, staggered, and Crowley swiftly stepped back, his own weapon held loosely at his side while hers fell to the dirt behind her.

It was among the quickest matches thus far, only beaten by Raphael’s and Sir Gabriel’s on the first day. Aziraphale rose, smile bright in its fondness. “The winner,” he called, “is Mr. Anthony Crowley. With this win, he advances to the final ten. The first of our combatants to do so.”

“On his first fight?” the duke asked.

“A flawed system,” Michael mused.

A randomised system wherein they’d allowed too many to compete this year, Aziraphale thought. Had he been paying more attention, the tournament would’ve been as limited as it usually was with the rookies weaned out to train another year or two. “Our next match will begin in five minutes.” His smile returned, aimed on the match’s victor. “Well done, Mr. Crowley.”

Crowley turned to the royal box and bowed stiffly before turning on his heel and stalking away. He caught up to his opponent just as they reached the tent. All he remembered from the board was her name beginning with an N. Or an M? No, Nana? Ninny? He had no idea.

“You alright?”

She glared at him over her shoulder but only for a moment before she realised he was asking sincerely. “You’re actually asking me that?”

“Yeah, ‘course. Only wanted to disarm you, not hurt you.”

They entered the tent and she rolled the shoulder of the arm he'd hit. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just gonna be uncomfortable for a bit. You hit harder than you look.”

Crowley flashed her a grin. “It’s the noodle strength.”

That made her laugh and she didn't feel so much like an opponent anymore.

Raphael laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder as he approached. “Well done to both of you. I think we’ll work on getting you a bit out of your comfort zone this year, Sir Nina. You may not be caught off guard by a sneaky thing like Mr. Crowley next spring.”

The ‘sneaky’ Mr. Crowley grinned at him. “Let me guess; you saw that move coming.”

“Considering that you've tried it on me twice now, I did. You're very fast, though. I'm almost worried about facing you when we're the last two standing.”

“Only almost?”

He laughed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “Defeating you will be very fun, but challenging.”

Crowley pouted. “Don’t be so sure you'll win. You'll regret underestimating me.”

“I never underestimate my opponents, but some confidence has never been an issue.” Besides, Raphael knew how important this win was. He also knew second place would still be walking away with a title - were they unknighted - as well as the gold. Aziraphale had always tried to do things as fairly as possible. It almost felt dishonest, keeping it from everyone else, but it was important to have no one second-guessing their new king right now. “I expect every trick to come out of your bag.”

“You better be.” Though… maybe not every trick. He had some he couldn't afford to do, not here and definitely not in front of a crowd like this. “We’ll give everyone watching a good show.”

“Speaking of, are you going to come watch that Mr. Melion's first fight? If he tries something as nasty as his friend did yesterday, we'll hope our king’s able to stop it in time.”

“I was going to, yes.” Partially because he wanted to see how bad it was and partially because he planned on stepping in if Aziraphale was distracted again.

“Then let's go.”

They stepped back out as Aziraphale was announcing the next match, his reminder of the rules pointed. They were there for a show of skills, not a death brawl. But when they began, it became very clear very quickly that Ligur fought even dirtier than Hastur.

Ligur kept his opponent on the wall as much as he could, Aziraphale standing despite his uncle's objections so he could watch. Ligur wasn't fighting a novice, but the knight he was up against was still clearly wary of the man. Ligur kept aiming for shoulders as if wanting to remove their arm, leaving them in an awkward sort of defence that didn't match most training styles.

Raphael grimaced. “That’s not someone I'd like to find on a battlefield.”

It looked to Crowley like someone he'd enjoy knocking down a peg or two. “Let me at ‘em if you're too chicken.”

“You would hate them on a true battlefield as well. That’s a person who sees a turned back as an open invitation. As for the tournament-” He winced when the defending knight received a sharp knee into his gut, only barely able to deflect Ligur’s next swing. “I would happily go against him here.”

Crowley grimaced and didn't fail to notice the spectators weren't cheering nearly as loud as they had been. “I might never have been on a battlefield but I've fought groups before.” And when he ran across people like Mr. Melion, he didn't hold the magic back.

“With luck, one of us will have the pleasure of shattering his ego if he advances through this.” Though he wasn’t foolish enough to think he wouldn’t, eyes narrowed as the duo pushed closer and closer to the royal box. Aziraphale clearly wasn’t taking his eyes off of them either.

“I hope it's me.”

“I think His Majesty hopes it’s anyone else,” Raphael mused.

Crowley scowled. “Yeah, well, His Majesty can get the hells over it. I'm just as deadly as the two bozos and not his pretty arm candy. I could have taken off Sir Nina’s arm when I fought her and chose not to. I can handle myself.”

“Yes, you can.” Pretty arm candy, indeed. He was far more than that already, and Raphael knew Aziraphale had never sought such a thing. “You’ve also been a friend to him in the very worst time of his life.”

Crowley softened just a bit with a sigh. “Yeah, I know. I also know what people have been saying, I see the looks the other competitors give me. I'm not gonna let myself get babied just because he has a crush.”

“Which is both admirable and understandable.” Raphael nodded towards the box, waiting while Aziraphale snapped a sharp warning to Ligur. It gave the knight he was against time to wriggle away, positions resetting before the fight resumed. “Unfortunately, he doesn’t hear the rumours and won’t. No one would dare. But I can talk to my people if you’d like.”

There was another sigh, this one more annoyed. “No. I don't need royal guards getting snippy with regular people wondering how good I am in bed. Thanks. And I'd rather everyone in the tournament realise I'm here because of my skills and not favouritism.”

“Alright. All I ask, then, is that you not take your frustration out on him until he's earned it. As you said, he's just a man with a crush.”

“No, I know. It's not his fault people can't be normal.”

“Thank you. I-” He broke off, yanking Crowley back as a sword went flying, clattering across the cobblestone just behind where Crowley had been standing.

“Enough!” Aziraphale bellowed, growl almost thunderous, before Ligur’s raised sword could make contact with the suddenly disarmed knight. “The winner you may be, Mr. Melion, but you will not be able to move forward with this sort of willful, continuous violence.” The sword lowered, notably reluctant. “Thank you.”

Gods, he bloody hated to admit it but… also couldn't help but acknowledge that Aziraphale's ‘in charge voice’ made his spine go a little weak. “Not to step on any toes or anything, but I'd make sure your guy is alright after that.”

“I will. Are you?”

“Yeah, course. Got to let off some steam today. I'm great.”

Raphael shook his head, giving his shoulder a squeeze before stooping down to pick up the lost sword. “Should anyone talk with you for longer than five minutes, they would realise you’re far too headstrong to be anyone’s ‘arm candy.’”

Crowley grinned at him. “One would think.”

“One would. Now I’m going to speak to the knight who had to deal with that before my bout. I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of entertaining yourself in the meantime.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley waved him away. “Go on. Gonna try and grab some food before you go up, anyway. Haven't eaten yet.”

Raphael gave him a nod before taking a step away, but did pause to look over his shoulder. “For the record, Crowley, there isn’t anything wrong with having a crush in return.” With half a salute, he walked off.

A pink flush warmed Crowley's face. He thought he'd hidden his attraction better, needed to hide it better. Because there most definitely was something wrong. No matter how attracted he seemed to be, and that was debatable considering an impending heat was colouring his judgement, he needed to reign it in. Aziraphale was royalty and the punishment for having magic was still death.

The young knight was grateful for the return of his sword, but frowned up at Raphael instead of immediately sheathing it. “It was the strangest thing, Captain.”

The title should’ve been stranger than it was, but the men had been calling him that in secret for months when not around Sir Lucian. That man was a stickler for the rules, but Aziraphale hadn’t been wrong when he’d pointed out that he’d held his status by name only. It was Raphael who gathered the knights together for meetings, Raphael who doled out orders from the monarchy, Raphael who dined with them, lived with them… Cared about them. There were a few knights left who felt Sir Lucian was better qualified, but they would likely be moving along to Hewin right alongside their former guard once the Duke and Princess left again. Raphael had no doubt Michael wouldn’t want anything to do with this castle now that she wasn’t going to be its leader.

A harsh slap against alpha pride, but the queen had made the right choice in Raphael’s eyes.

“What was?”

“The fight. Now I’m not one for superstition or nothing, Captain, you know that. But that bloke moved his sword in ways I’ve never seen before.”

“Oh?”

“Didn’t miss a mark. Could’o sworn his wrist was gonna snap once, he twisted it so far to block a swing.”

Raphael ran his tongue over his teeth. This wasn’t one of the knights who knew of Aziraphale’s abilities. Magic made him nervous, and no one wanted a nervous knight around their prince-turned-king. Any claims like this from him were easy to take seriously. “I’ll have to see that for myself,” he mused, giving his own trusty sword a pat. “For now, I need to go knock your older brother down a peg or two.”

“Good luck with that, Captain. He’s been excited to fight you, saying he’ll do everything he can to take you right out of the competition.”

Raphael smirked. His brother did know of Aziraphale’s mage status. A well-trusted knight who had crossed swords with Raphael more times than either of them could count. “I’m looking forward to him trying, Sir Edmund. Rest for now. You fought well against Mr. Melion, and-”

“Tch. Fought like he's never seen a sword before, maybe.”

Raphael looked over his shoulder at the sneering victor himself. “I disagree. He fought hard to get to this point in the tournament, and he evaded you well enough to not have serious injuries.”

“Not well enough to win, though, is he? Thought your royal guard was stronger than all this.”

The tournament only included a fraction of the royal guard, their main duty still to patrol the streets of Berwick even while most of the city and its visitors stayed at the grounds. A wise thief could use the distraction to their advantage, and many had over the years. They'd caught many.

This year, with everything else going on, Raphael had wanted some of the lesser experienced ones to have a chance. To make the tournament a little more light and friendly than it may have been with more hardened knights. It was also why he hadn't wanted to participate in the first place, why he'd been so annoyed by Hewin’s knights joining. If it hadn't been too late to change the entire roster, he would have encouraged the strongest knights to participate.

“The majority of our guard has more important duties to see to during this week. Sir Edmund here will return to rotation first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Raphael nodded at him. “So I apologise if you were looking for something different. Perhaps you'll be paired next with a member of Hewin’s guard and you may test their mettle.”

The sneer somehow grew. “Bunch o’ prissy whingers, that lot.”

“I’m sure you think so.” Even though Raphael agreed to a point, he wasn’t going to agree to anything when it came to this Ligur person. Not one single knight, even the insufferable ones, would hear a negative word from him. “But your opinion is just that and as far removed from fact as an opinion can be. Knights have earned their titles through hard work, consistent training, and by their fierce loyalty.”

“Loyalty doesn’t get you anywhere but under somebody’s fat thumb,” Ligur scoffed.

Raphael stepped closer to him, hand on the hilt of his sword, and eyes ablaze. He was taller than him, pleased at being able to look down on that sneer with his own expression clean, stoic. “Loyalty brings honour and trust. It earns respect and gives it in return, but all of those concepts are clearly foreign to you.”

He was highly untrustworthy, right from the start. He and his friend had Westanfyr dialects, yet claimed to have come from Noreir. Perhaps Noreir had been the last duchy they’d visited, but it was most certainly not where either of them hailed from. They were trouble, through and through. If the queen hadn’t passed when she did, he had no doubt Aziraphale would’ve tossed them both out on their ear - politely, being Aziraphale - that day he’d visited the training grounds. It felt like a lifetime ago now, their queen gone and her son hesitantly taking her duties on.

“None of that shite matters in the long run, do it? Just fancy words for people to roll their eyes at.”

There wasn’t a scent, but there was a growl tucked into those words. He had to be cheating somehow. But why bother trying to hide a presentation? Unless that was just some sort of side effect Raphael was unaware of. Charms were unfortunately beyond his knowledge as they were beyond Aziraphale’s. Supposedly his father had used them sparingly, too much so to leave instructions to the son he’d never know.

Regardless, Ligur was spared Raphael’s rising anger when the knight’s name was called for the next match to begin. Their gazes held for a second more before Raphael side stepped him. He refused to give him the satisfaction of stepping back. “Should we ever meet in combat, Mr. Melion, you’ll learn just what striving towards those fancy words has garnered me. And you will regret having come here to spread whatever viciousness you and your friend seem to have come bearing. Good day,” he wished, the flap falling decisively behind him as he exited the tent.

He had far more important things to do than have words with an incompetent cheat.

As the day wound down, the final ten competitors on the board, Aziraphale rose and lifted his hands. All of his uncle's people had made it through, but so had Crowley, Raphael, and two other members of the royal guard. That the two violent persons had as well made Aziraphale want to sigh, but it couldn't be helped.

The training within the guard needed to be shaken up, something he was going to discuss with Raphael. With the future ahead of them uncertain, it was best to get them all more used to the unexpected.

He read out the names of those who would be moving on to day four, giving condolences to those who wouldn't, and then began to read off the pairs for the next day.

“First, we have Ligur Melion,” he called and reached into the small bucket for the second name.

In the crowd, Raphael gave Crowley a small nudge and lifted his brows. Amusement quirked his lips.

Crowley looked up, eyebrows lifting at the way Aziraphale's lips pressed together. He looked like he'd just swallowed a particularly sour lemon but when he did, finally and seemingly reluctantly, call the name, Crowley grinned. He'd been hoping for this. “Don't worry. I'll kick his arse.”

“I’ve no doubt,” Raphael said with a small laugh. “It’ll be good to be rid of him.” Though hearing his own name called next diverted his attention, Aziraphale’s expression equally sour before he read out the name of Michael’s personal guard. “Mm. Care to swap?”

“Ooohhh, no. I'd like to see how you compare to the Princess’s serious guard. It'll be interesting to watch.”

“Yes, but if you fought, it would be less likely to cause a feud between two royals.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted but his voice lowered a smidge. “If the princess is so easily offended, it sounds to me like it's a good thing she was passed over.”

Raphael decided to only give that a shrug. That he agreed was best left unsaid. “I think the only person who would trade with me is the person who’s unfortunately been paired against Mr. LaVista.”

“Sorry, if I wasn't paired up against one of the arsehole duo I would. But I really wanna knock this guy's teeth in.”

“As you like.” The princess would have to accept Uriel’s loss. She’d be happier for it in the long run, anyway, as Raphael highly doubted she’d want her traipsing about the country with Aziraphale. It was baffling, really, that the duke hadn’t removed any of his people from the tournament, knowing the prize had been altered. “I genuinely wish you the best of luck. Don’t let him touch you.”

Crowley gave him a crooked grin. “Don’t worry so much. I'll be fine.”

“I’ll worry about him, then, and only think of what he may attempt to do to you afterwards. There are, after all, rules which extend beyond the tournament.”

Oh, Crowley wished he would try something outside the city. Somewhere isolated and away from any onlookers. Then he could really let loose. “You’re too much of a nice guy, worrying about all these people.”

“When King Jehoel was alive, he would say worrying about other people is the first sign of caring about them.” Raphael smiled. “Young me took that to heart, and it’s been difficult to let it go.”

“Sounds like he was a nice guy, too.” Though Crowley couldn't help but wonder, if he'd been so nice, why he and the queen hadn't worked to make magic legal. It wasn't like they could help how they were born.

“I thought he was, and if Aziraphale takes after him as much as Her Majesty always claimed, I know he was. I just pray he can finish what they started.”

“And what's that?”

“A long, complicated story.” One Raphael could share with Crowley. Raphael knew without any doubt he would be supportive and, more than likely, relieved to know the crown supported his sort. But they were around far too many people and he would never betray Aziraphale’s confidence like that. Even knowing how badly their king wanted to know a fellow mage, it wasn't Raphael's place to say. Just as it hadn't been his place with other members of the royal guard who held extra gifts right under the new king's nose. “I wholeheartedly believe its success will better the kingdom. That much, I can say.”

“Yeah, course, I'm sure it's all very confidential.” Which meant either the public wouldn't like it or the nobility wouldn't like it. Considering what he'd experienced of Aziraphale so far, he was willing to bet it would be the nobles who threw a fit. “Got me curious now, though. Maybe I'll use my charms and see if I can pry the information out of our dear Majesty.”

Raphael laughed, squeezing his shoulder as Aziraphale finished up the day’s festivities. “Best of luck. Now I need to attend to my duties. Have a good night, Crowley.”

Crowley nodded to him, not nearly as frustrated as he'd been when the day started. “You too. See you tomorrow, bright and early.” Because, of course, he was first yet again.

Chapter Text

Aziraphale didn't often feel nervous. Not when it came to a flirtation. Those were typically an area he felt quite confident in, if usually disappointed by in the end. Getting people in bed had never been difficult, not even his first uncertain, awkward time. That had been a well-learned lesson, his disappointment in discovering the person only wanted him for the crown he usually forgot great. An important lesson, nevertheless.

But this felt... different. He almost felt bad for it, even, but he'd been scouring the crowds at the tournament each and every day and simply hadn't been able to find the man from the masquerade. He'd said the offer would still stand, but...

As much as he'd enjoyed that night and as much as he looked fondly on it - would always, he was sure - it wasn't like Crowley. Confusing, fascinating Crowley. The ginger was a bundle of contradictions and quiet secrets. Quite mysterious in his own way, truly, and Aziraphale knew he'd never been so drawn to someone before.

He wanted to see him again, chat with him again, wrap one of those long, loose curls around his finger again. He wanted to hear him laugh, watch him scowl and smirk and grin. He wanted to see Crowley's eyes, imagination tending to run wild as he wondered at the colour of them. Blue, green, brown, all the shades in-between - they were doubtlessly as intriguing as the rest of him.

Grateful to have met and been attracted to Crowley before his mother's death, Aziraphale could at least be relieved in knowing the unusualness of his feelings weren't born of grief. They were something real, something he wanted to explore. With luck, he could with Crowley. And he hoped, if he ever met the masked man again, that he would understand. Perhaps they could even be friends.

He tucked his little package at a spot Raphael gestured to within the competitors’ tent. He was almost positive the scented gift would be understood. Aziraphale had never once given such a thing to anyone, but once the thought had occurred to him, he hadn't been able to leave it be. If Crowley was truly hiding a scent, he would understand. If he wasn’t and Aziraphale’s imagination was running wild on something impossible… Well, Aziraphale still hoped it would be understood. Scented gifts weren’t a mystery to betas, their senses of smell not nearly as keen but not nonexistent either. The little note he left with the package was small, but had been agonised over the night before. His first three had said far, far too much and were now ash to be swept from the fireplace.

Nerves nearly had him snatching both back up, but he shook his head and forced himself to not be a coward. He left quickly, scurrying to the royal box with a quietly amused Raphael on his heels, and was very grateful when the knight promised to keep an eye on the little gift until it was in the right hands.

The tent was busy when Crowley pulled the flap away and slipped inside. The few who were left were busy polishing their weapons and making sure armour was clean and ready. Crowley made a beeline for the stool and trunk that had been set aside for his use. His sword was always kept on him but he'd taken to removing the leather pauldrons and vambraces that made up most of his armour and storing them here. He'd been assured that anything going missing would be investigated and replaced on the crown's coin and he wasn’t about to turn down new armour.

That he kept so little there meant he noticed something new immediately. A little satchel of supple leather hidden under a pauldron. It was soft, softer than the coin purse he kept on him, if about the same size, and definitely wasn't his.

A quick look about proved no one was paying him any attention and a focused prod of magic revealed it to be simple and mundane. Crowley was still cautious as he pulled the drawstring to open it and realised he hadn't needed to be when Aziraphale's rich and smoky scent wafted from inside. A warmth crawled its way up his neck when he turned it over and the softest thing he'd ever touched flowed out.

Crowley had never touched silk but very briefly and in passing, a secret indulgence of brushing his fingers across fabric he would never be able to afford as he passed whichever stall was selling it. The long, rectangular kerchief couldn't have been anyone else's but Aziraphale's, it was so soaked in his scent. That it was also the same pattern of tartan Crowley had spied on him barely needed to be commented on. It was the scent that mattered, something a beta would probably notice but would never be able to fully appreciate. A note had been tucked away inside the folds and Crowley felt like he was about to read something he shouldn't when he opened it.

He read it through three times, just in case there was some hidden meaning. Why the bloody king would try and give him a hidden coded message he didn't know, but it seemed less insane than an honest to god scented token. He couldn't resist lifting the silk to his nose and breathing in. It was probably like what it would be like if he had his nose to Aziraphale's throat and scent gland.

Crowley’s chest ached with the yearning to find out, to have someone there when he needed them, a mate. He couldn't tell if it was just the rising need of his coming heat or something more genuine but he couldn't fathom throwing the kerchief away. Displaying it was probably a bad idea, it would Mean Things, things he couldn't readily give right now, but he also didn't want to disappoint the alpha whose scent was in his nose.

So he tied it to his belt. It would be out of the way there and Aziraphale would see it and… and damn it maybe when he came back he'd let the ridiculous man court him. Before that, though, he needed to win this thing.

Crowley strapped on his armour, buckling buckles and cinching them tight. He might not have had much respect for his opponent, but that didn't mean he wanted to risk injury. He'd seen how Mr. Melion fought, and he definitely didn't want to end up with something nastier than a bruise.

He glanced over to the corner he knew Raphael usually kept and shared a nod with the knight captain, if he also noticed a glance down and an amused smile Crowley ignored it. He could hear the muffled sound of Aziraphale’s opening words and didn't want to overthink displaying the token and didn't have the time for that right now anyway.

Especially not when he was approached by a sneering Ligur. “So you’re Crawley, then.”

“Crowley.”

“S’what I said. You think you can beat me, s’what I heard.”

“I don’t think I can beat you, I know I can.”

“Pretty prissy thing like you? Tch.” Ligur thumbed his nose. “Somebody pulls your hair, you’ll start cryin’.”

Crowley bristled but refused to feel something so base as embarrassed over liking to be clean and neat. “Why don't you try and see how long your hand stays attached to your arm.”

“‘Bout as long as your arm’ll stay attached to you out there.”

“Gentlemen,” Raphael interrupted, eyes on Ligur and hand on his hilt, “your names have been called. The people are waiting.”

“Sorry, Captain,” Crowley said with a crooked smile thrown at him. “Got distracted.” He shouldered past Ligur Melion and threw open the tent, stepping out into the early morning light.

Aziraphale’s eyes were on him immediately, swaying in place just a bit in a bid to get nearer even though it was impossible for too many reasons. As he and his opponent reached the starting point in the centre of the field, however, he did find himself leaning forward. Crowley was wearing his token. Tied into his belt was the tartan pattern of his family. He really hadn’t expected Crowley to wear it. He’d hoped, but he hadn’t been certain…

His smile was blindingly bright. “The rules have not changed. The winner shall disarm their opponent without causing lethal damage. Deliberately lethal moves will result in an immediate loss and, potentially, a lifelong ban from the tournament.”

Near Crowley, Ligur scoffed and withdrew his sword. The edge gleamed with its sharpness.

Crowley did the same but instead of a scoff, he nodded towards the royal box. He hadn't needed a reminder of the rules but he knew why Aziraphale had done so, he just wasn't sure if they were sticking very well.

Aziraphale gave him another smile, barely resisting the urge to wiggle cheerfully. “Starting positions, please. On one, you may begin. Three... Two...”

One barely left his lips before Ligur was surging forward, sword swinging towards Crowley's shoulder and that sneer firmly glued to his features.

Crowley neatly dodged his swing, not wanting to get locked in close quarters. He'd seen how Ligur had attempted to knee his last opponent and wouldn't put a repeat performance past him. His quick footing let him avoid the second swing and he ducked under the third, smile growing in the face of Ligur’s hardening sneer. “What’s wrong, Mr. Melion?” Crowley asked loudly, taunting. “I thought you wanted to pull my hair.”

“I’ll cut it off instead,” he snapped, only just dodging Crowley's next attack. A defence wasn't something he often had to put up, his strength and brutality generally more than enough to have others backing down. He liked a turned back. He liked the scent of fear. It made the alpha hidden under the amulet in his pocket salivate.

And Crowley was giving him no satisfaction in that regard. He kept Ligur at a distance, dodging most of his swings and only attacking when he saw an opening. There were many openings. Crowley had noticed the lack of defence during his last fight, the tendency to hammer away at that poor knight's sword until it quite literally went flying. There was no finesse, no skill in his swings, only raw power and malice. It made dancing circles around him easy and frustrating him even easier.

“You waste of space,” he growled, far fiercer than a beta could. “Stay! Bloody! Still!”

“Make me!” Crowley said with a laugh. The angrier he could make him, the sloppier he would be.

Sloppy, but not willing to give up easily. He didn’t block perfectly, but he could indeed block. It was almost… unnatural that no matter how wild and wide his swing, the sword managed to be exactly where it needed to be when Crowley jabbed or slashed.

It was a pattern Crowley didn't fail to notice, his eyes narrowing with every blocked jab and swing. It was more talent than he thought this brute capable of, even the best swordsman got hit occasionally. There was a way to test the theory that was brewing in his head, but it was risky.

Of course, Crowley didn't mind a little risk. He batted away Ligur’s next slash and quickly stepped around to the side that held his sword, his own blade flashed towards Ligur’s exposed arm and- It didn't land, just as Crowley had expected, though it did force Ligur’s arm to twist uncomfortably for a split second before he recovered. It was long enough for Crowley to see he wasn't fighting and winning on just his own merit alone.

The discomfort had his sneer shifting to a snarl. “Dunno what you’re playing at, but you’re losing this tournament like everyone else this year.”

“Pfft. You don't have the talent to win.” And now that he knew what he was looking for it was so obvious. No wonder it seemed like the idiot never put up a defence, because he wasn't, the spell on his sword was doing all the defending for him. It was clever, much cleverer than he thought Ligur or his buddy capable of, which meant they either knew a mage well enough to get an enchanted sword from them or had paid quite a lot of money for one. Crowley was willing to bet the former was most likely, not many mages would risk such a thing for a stranger, even for life changing amounts of money.

His teeth bared. “Don’t need that,” Ligur boasted and swung for Crowley again. He’d get tired eventually.

It was true and Crowley was already feeling the sweat trickle down the back of his neck from all the moving he was having to do. He needed to end things before he got too tired, the longer it dragged out the more likely it would be that Ligur would get a lucky shot in. He just needed an opening… which was where the risk came in. The sword blocked all his attacks but had the mage who enchanted it accounted for all attacks?

There were a few ways to find out and none of them that Crowley could think were advisable. He still had to try, though, especially when he barely dodged Ligur’s next attack. A small slice appeared in the leather of his left pauldron.

Ligur grinned, all feral, and Crowley figured it was now or never. He tried to break past the sword's defence twice more, letting Ligur think he was getting desperate and allowing him to draw him into closer quarters. The swords locked and, when Ligur shoved him away with his blade and lifted it above his head to swing down, Crowley saw his chance. There were gasps from the crowd, someone shouting from far away but Crowley lowered his sword, turned, leaned sideways, and planted his boot in Ligur’s undefended chest. The idiot had unbalanced himself with that stupid move just like Crowley had hoped he would, and he fell back, landing on his arse with his sword skittering across the dirt.

Aziraphale was on his feet, hands gripping the half-wall of the booth, his eyes round and so very wide. He hadn’t even heard himself shout, but he could feel his heart thundering as he took in the unexpectedly sudden loss. It had been one of the longest matches of the tournament, the two trading blow after blow. Aziraphale frankly hadn’t been sure just how Ligur was managing it, fascinated by the unnatural ways his arm had twisted to block some of Crowley’s blows.

Was Ligur himself a mage or had he acquired some enchanted equipment? Those weren’t strictly against the rules, not by themselves, nor was magic. When the games had first been formed, magic had already been outlawed. His forebears hadn’t seen a need to make a specific rule, but it was still unusual. It also made him suspicious of the man’s companion, though Aziraphale wasn’t sure where he’d gone off to.

He was too focused on the scene before him, shouting again when Ligur scrambled to his feet and tried to dive at Crowley with outstretched hands and a fierce snarl. “Enough!”

Crowley jumped out of the way, putting distance between them. His attention tried to be pulled towards the royal box and Aziraphale's voice but he kept his eyes on Ligur, not trusting him as far as he could kick him. “Give it up. You lost.”

“You-”

“The winner of this match is Mr. Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale announced. “Mr. Melion, I suggest you leave this field with a bit of self-respect.”

Ligur’s eyes snapped from Crowley to Aziraphale in an instant, just barely reigning his snarl back to a sneer. The glower was more than clear, however.

Aziraphale leaned forward. “Walk away,” he growled, only loud enough for the nearest people to hear. “And do not be foolish enough to threaten me.”

“I’d listen to him,” Crowley said, barely repressing a shiver. He could admit it was a little hot.

Ligur snatched his sword back up and sheathed it, glowering all the while. As he stalked by Crowley, though, his voice lowered. “He won't be in this city forever and neither will you. One match don't mean nothin’.”

“Don’t need Aziraphale to protect me from the likes of you,” Crowley replied just as lowly. “‘Specially not when you can't even defend without a magic sword.” His eyebrows wagged at Ligur’s widening eyes.

“Shut it,” he growled, reaching for his sword again.

“If your hand touches that hilt, you will lose it,” Aziraphale warned. Whether he meant the sword or the hand was anyone's guess.

Crowley continued to smirk and stepped away from the angry Ligur, sheathing his own sword. Multiple members of the guard, including Raphael were gathered and Crowley wasn't worried.

“Smirk all you like,” Ligur grumbled, shoulder ramming Crowley as he stalked by. “You won't beat Hastur.”

“We’ll see about that.”

The crowd was larger than it had been for most of the matches so far. The prince’s (king’s) guard versus the princesses. The new heir versus the old. The pressure was on, but neither Uriel nor Raphael seemed to feel its weight. They stood together in the centre of the field, eyeing one another while Aziraphale’s voice thundered over them all.

Raphael was heads taller than the majority of townsfolk, broad of shoulder, and wore his strength like a badge of honour. Uriel, though barely an inch shorter than Aziraphale, was slender. Her leather armour didn't quite hide her curves, but no one would be foolish enough to call her delicate. She carried herself with the air of a warrior and, of all Hewin’s guards, she was the one Raphael would admit to respecting. Cold and calculating, perhaps, but he'd seen flares of her hot temper during training sessions in their younger days. He'd also seen the way she'd internalised much of the late queen's teachings, the way she’d set her sights upon being Michael's protector and hadn't backed down.

He'd also seen flickers of a different sort of relationship developing there, but they were keeping it quiet and Raphael wasn't going to stick his nose into their business. It was interesting, however, that they would risk it. The duke would not approve, and Michael wasn't known for going against her uncle’s teachings. He liked to think she’d inherited more from her mother than she’d choose to admit even now, but it wasn't the time to debate or think on that.

They both knew what was at stake here. Raphael highly doubted Uriel wanted to or would go with Aziraphale, but she wouldn't take a loss lightly either. He also strongly suspected that they would do what they needed in order to keep Raphael from going with him as well. He’d keep him protected from any threat, even the ones from within their camp.

He and Uriel didn't exchange words. There wasn't a need for taunting when they each knew focus was paramount. Their queen had trusted them with her children for a reason, and it was time to remind everyone watching why that was.

When Aziraphale called for them to begin, their swords crashed together. Again and again, they feinted, twisted, parried, turned. They made use of the tournament circle in a way no one else had thus far. Dirt billowed, kicked up by fast feet, and the crowd’s cheers were a muted accompaniment while their attentions were so narrowed.

Dodge, lift. A push when she got too close. A shove and turn when he did. Neither was ever pushed to the walls, but people were climbing the railings to get a better view of this once in a lifetime match.

In the box, Aziraphale sat forward with his hands steepled in quiet prayer. It was abnormally quiet in the box, neither Met nor Michael providing their snobbish, bored commentary. Aziraphale wasn't trying to soothe or placate, so focused on what was happening below.

They had differing styles due to strength, but talent and determination were equal.

Until the tide began to turn.

Raphael had trained for endurance in a way few others had, all too aware that it was often the length of a battle which determined its winner and not raw talent alone. So when Uriel eventually began to tire, he continued to strike and evade with the same precision he'd begun with.

He planted a boot in her gut and sent her stumbling back several paces, sword barely coming up to deflect his next strike in time. He pressed her unbalance, keeping her on defence swing after swing. Onlookers scattered when they got too close to the fencing, but Uriel managed to turn sharply.

Raphael's sword struck the wooden post, but there wasn't time enough to wince. Uriel swung for his side, her sharp blade slicing his leather but thankfully no deeper as he evaded.

Aziraphale sucked in a sharp breath. Michael smirked.

Uriel didn't jump back quick enough, and her scabbard fell to the dirt, her belt cut clean through.

Michael growled. Aziraphale’s lips twitched.

He started to feel the stirrings of proud relief when Uriel stumbled over her own boots on her next dodge, sure that it would only be a short time now. The crowd could see it too, more cheers going up when Raphael dodged or struck than when Uriel did.

He knew exactly what he was going to do, able to hear the heaviness of her breaths when no one else could, so went on the offence to make that exhaustion of hers worse. Swing after clang after swing, he backed her closer and closer to the field’s border, her footwork not quite as neat any longer and her swings slowing just a hair. Just enough.

He had her.

His sword lifted to block as hers came down. They crashed together firmly and Raphael pressed the advantage he had to push her sword aside and break it free from her.

Crack!

It only took an instant, Raphael's sword abruptly shattering. The pressure Uriel was putting on it to keep her own from being pushed suddenly had no resistance, so slammed down onto his shoulder. He wrenched back, and blood spurted from his shoulder. He hit his knees, other hand lifting to try to cover the searing wound. He couldn't stop it, nor could he lift the injured arm at all. His hand flopped limply to the dirt, and what was left of his sword did too.

In seconds, he was woozy. His vision was spotted, the pain seeming to disappear as he started to sway and fall. He didn't.

“Raphael!” Aziraphale banded an arm around his waist, holding him up. The bleary eyes didn't seem to meet his own, unfocused and unseeing. His arm was barely attached when he pushed it together. It must've hurt, but Raphael didn't so much as wince.

Aziraphale didn't think twice about pushing magic through. He couldn't replenish the blood, but he could keep more from being lost. Skin knitted itself back together, nothing more relieving to Aziraphale than Raphael's gaze finally focused on his own. Just in time for other members of the guard to reach them.

“Stop,” Raphael whispered, too aware that far too many people who didn't and shouldn't know about Aziraphale’s magic were near. He was too weak to do more than urge him to stop his healing. Such a sentimental fool, he thought fondly, and his world went dark.

There was still blood on Aziraphale’s hands when he returned to the royal box. He had to make the last announcement he'd expected to make.

Raphael's sword, broken. Pieces were being picked up to prepare for the next match of the day, everything continuing on as normal. As if his friend hadn't just been carried from the grounds to waiting healers in the competitors tent. He didn't know if he'd even successfully done enough to keep him alive, unable to follow yet.

He'd lost enough that season, hadn't he?

Aziraphale took a deep breath, refusing to look at the spot where Raphael had nearly died. That the pool of blood was suspiciously large was best left unmentioned and forgotten, the raggedly whispered stop ringing in Aziraphale’s ears. What good was this magic if he couldn’t use it to help the people he loved most? What good was a smothered fire when light was needed?

“By default,” because he would not say it had been by skill or by rights, “Sir Uriel is victorious. The next fight will begin once it is safe in the field to do so.”

There wasn’t a cheer, at least, out of respect for the wounded guard captain, so Aziraphale stepped back and sank into his seat. His gaze drifted towards the competitors' tent.

Beside him, his sister huffed lightly. “Well, Aziraphale, I’m surprised.”

He wasn’t looking forward to this. “Oh?”

“Yes. I would think a guard captain would be… more aware of his weaponry.”

The hand she couldn’t see curled into a tight fist, Aziraphale focusing on the way each nail bit into his palm. “Sir Raphael has always shown great care for his things and encourages others within the guard to do so.”

“From where I’m sitting, he must not. He clearly needs to keep better control over his equipment.” The smug waft of her scent had his hand squeezing, crescent shapes biting into his skin. “Imagine what would happen if that was in the midst of a true battle. You may very well end up having to face those possibilities, considering the likelihood of your success in your upcoming journey. I suppose it’s a good thing Sir Raphael won’t be going with you.”

He still could. Aelfric had taken two companions and that was the tradition. Only allowing the winner to come along was ludicrous and against tradition, so Aziraphale very stubbornly kept that thought in mind. Raphael could still come along with him.

If he healed in time, a small voice reminded him, and he looked towards the tent he’d been whisked away to once more. Gods, he hoped Raphael would heal and heal well.

As soon as Gabriel’s match was finished, Aziraphale was scrambling for the competitors’ tent. Raphael lifted his head when the flap opened, didn't bother to work up a smile for him.

The worried king rushed up to sit beside him, ignoring the few others who milled about the space in near silence. “Raphael...”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Oh...”

Crowley was the only one in the tent who apparently had no issue with coming up to them. “Honestly, your sword snapping like that is some hell of bad luck. You alright?”

Raphael laughed without humour, gesturing weakly towards his wrapped shoulder. “I’ve been far better, but this won't keep me down forever. It's lucky His Majesty reached me as quickly as he did.”

If he hadn't, he would be far worse. Aziraphale’s brows pinched together. “It’s still awful. You had her cornered and were clearly about to win.”

“But I didn't,” Raphael reminded him, “and now someone else must.”

Win the tournament, that was. Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Quite.”

“Don’t worry, Raph, I'll get her back for you. She looks tough but she didn't look faster than me.”

“Having fought you both, she isn't. But she's most certainly relentless. A worthy guard of our princess, without any doubt.” He sent Aziraphale a pointed look.

He nodded. Worthy of the princess only. Yes. “Our options now are Sir Uriel, Sirs Gabriel and Sandalphon, Mr. La Vista and Sir Roland of the royal guard. It isn't... what I expected.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “You know, I don't generally consider myself forgettable.”

“Oh, my dear, you most certainly are not.” Aziraphale offered him a smile, but it was weak and worried at the corners.

“He could very well win, Majesty. He's skilled enough.”

“I know he is. I've witnessed quite a bit of what he's capable of thus far.” But he couldn't win. He couldn't go. Aziraphale would never keep him from his family could he help it. “Tell me, Crowley, how far is your teacher's home?”

“A little over two weeks by horse. Missing me already?”

Aziraphale’s gaze fell to the tartan token at his waist. “Possibly.”

He didn't fail to notice the glance and softened, hand finding Aziraphale's shoulder. “I’ll be back. Can't let Raphael avoid a real fight with me, after all.”

“Only thinking of Raphael, hm?” he purred, unable to help but melt a little.

He was bloody shameless trying to flirt in semi-public like that. “Be good and it'll be you, too.”

Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered. “That shouldn't be overly difficult, considering that you've designated me some sort of angel.”

“Why,” Raphael wondered, “are you asking after his teacher?”

“He’s seeing her,” Aziraphale said, meeting his gaze levelly, “directly after the tournament.”

Raphael looked up immediately. “Can it be put off?”

“It can't.” Why was it such a big deal? “She knows to be expecting me and will raise a holy hell if I'm not there.”

Raphael looked back at Aziraphale, whose smile was a little weak. “Right. I see.”

“Things will work out, I’m sure of it. But don't you dare apologise for losing again. It's not at all your fault, Sir, and I know you would have won had it not been for a spot of bad luck.”

“Wretched luck.” Raphael grimaced at the pieces nearby. “I don't understand it. I keep my equipment in excellent condition.”

“Could just be some bad steel,” Crowley reasoned. “Happens to everyone.”

“Not to me. Not to my favourite sword, either.”

“Fatigue cracking,” Aziraphale suggested, but was distracted by the sounds of trumpeting. “Oh, good heavens, what are they doing now?” he wondered. “Do pardon me. Raphael, we'll speak later. And you, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s smile returned, warmed, as he reached out to twirl a lock of hair around his finger. “I sincerely hope we're able to chat soon.”

“Ngk- Mm- Mmhmm.” Crowley nodded, feeling entirely warmer than he should. “Y-yeah. That'd be nice.”

“Lovely.” Aziraphale couldn't resist giving him a light tug before releasing him and turning away to see what sort of nonsense his uncle or sister had started.

Raphael, eyes following him, forced himself to stand. “Walk with me, Crowley.”

Crowley reached out on instinct and grabbed his uninjured arm. “You shouldn't be going anywhere. You're lucky that wound isn't worse.”

Luck had little to do with it. “Yes, well, that's the only good thing about today. What I need to discuss with you now requires privacy.”

“O-oh, er, alright.” Crowley couldn't help but be curious. “Do you need any help?”

That took a moment of consideration. How wounded did he have to behave, considering what had been seen on the field? That searing, blinding pain. The absolute shock when he'd tried and found his arm not able to move. If Aziraphale hadn't gotten to him as quickly as he had, there would've been no chance of survival. As it was, the foolish, sentimental thing had put himself at risk. “I’m alright,” he decided. “Luckily, it was my arm and not a leg.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. “Small miracles. Even luckier it wasn't somewhere even more vital.” He didn't want to imagine how awful it would have been if that blade had struck his head.

Raphael wondered about that himself, had been whilst listening to the cheers and shouts of Sir Gabriel’s match. He hadn’t fought often enough against Sir Uriel to know if her technique was always so forceful, but she’d locked their blades together several times through their match. Put pressure on metal. But those were surely thoughts born of losing and being upset about it. Being upset that he couldn’t accompany his king on such an important journey and had to tell someone he’d grown to trust very quickly to also not do so.

Unfortunate, but perhaps he could coach the royal guard members who were still fighting just enough to push them through. It would be better than anyone else remaining by far. “To be very clear, you’re visiting your teacher when you leave here?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, almost exasperated. “Like I told Aziraphale, I visit every year around this time. She's getting on in years and there are… other reasons as well. Personal reasons that I don't feel like telling everyone about.”

Nodding, Raphael led him away from the tents and the gathered crowd listening to whatever announcement was being made. “Please don’t misunderstand my reasons for pressuring you, but it’s truly an unavoidable trip for you to make? Something that’s of the utmost importance?”

“It is. I- I know Aziraphale wants me to stick around longer and… I would if I could. But I have to go.” He couldn't be here when his heat struck. They might even take away his knighthood. He hadn't seen a single omega in the regular or royal guard. No omega knights. And he'd worked too hard to get here just to have it taken away. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not asking for Aziraphale. Not in the way you believe I am, anyway. You are the person I would prefer with my elimination, but I won’t take you away from whatever it is you need to do.” He smiled a little. “And, well, Aziraphale did just tell me in his way to let you go. So I can promise you he understands that you have other obligations as well. Else you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Crowley frowned, uncomprehending, as they broke past the majority of the crowds and headed towards the castle proper. “Then why are we having it?”

“Because I am about to break my word to both the duke and the princess.” Whatever his opinions of them, Raphael considered his word to be strong. “I will not and cannot tell you everything, but I will tell you that you mustn’t win this year’s tournament.”

The frown morphed into a scowl. “What? Why? I'm not worried about them being mad about their favourites losing to me.”

“Nor am I. But the reward has changed. If you want to be able to leave freely - with the gold and the title of knight - second place is what you need. First will trap you.” Raphael grimaced briefly. “The duke believes the first place reward is far more honourable, and it is. To a degree. The real winner very likely won't mind the prize, but you have other obligations. Do not win this year,” he urged.

“You’re saying… the first place winner is going to have an obligation to stay here?” That was new, if so. The tournament and prizes were well known and hadn't changed for as long as he'd known about them.

“To stay with Aziraphale, at any rate. But I truly cannot say more than that. And you mustn't repeat this to anyone. I was only about when this insanity was decided upon because I wasn't going to be a tournament participant. After...” He'd had no real choice. Aziraphale trusted him, relied on him. And he'd let him down. “You are the one I would choose to win, but His Majesty and I understand that you have to leave. So accept second place and return next year for your rightful victory.”

“Right…” It was so strange. He'd wondered if something unusual was going on with the duke and princess in attendance and it looked like there was. “Alright, alright. I’ll throw the final match. Though I plan on returning to Berwick before next year. Probably in a month or so.”

Raphael wondered just how much he should say, eyes drifting down to the silk affixed to Crowley’s belt. “You support him being our king, don't you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Don't got any complaints. The people here know him better than I do and they seem to think he'll do a good job so I guess I support him too.”

“You continue being refreshingly honest.” Raphael reached out with his good arm to give Crowley's shoulder a squeeze. “His uncle and sister aren't happy and he, unfortunately, feels he has to prove himself so has allowed them to make him believe this so-called prize is necessary. He won't be here in a month. Write ahead, and I will hopefully be able to give you a rough idea of where he is. He'll likely be able to use your help when you're able.”

Won't be here? If the Duke and Princess weren't happy… maybe it was another peacekeeping tour. That would sort of make sense. “Alright. I’ll do what I can if he'll let me.”

“Considering what he gave you this morning, he will. You won't tell anyone about this, will you? Any of it.”

“No, no. I won't. Not like I have anyone to tell anyway.”

“Thank you. And I am sorry, Crowley. I know you wanted the win.”

He shrugged again. “It’s fine. The win would be nice but the title and money is more useful. I refuse to lick some shitty noble's dirty boots, so this is one of the only ways for people like me to actually make a living.”

“An unfortunate truth.” And a sentiment Raphael could respect. “Now I'm going to return to the grounds. As much as it pains me, it's best to face any loss with dignity.”

“You still fought well, there's no shame in losing.”

“No, but once I acquire and get accustomed to a new sword, I'll be demanding a rematch. She won't best me again.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and nudged Raphael’s good arm with his elbow. “That’s the spirit. We'll see how she fares when there's no equipment malfunction.”

“Not well at all.” Though Raphael could admit he was uncomfortable. Something had gone awry, and too much was this year.

Chapter Text

There was a whisper in Raphael's ear. A handy trick. When he'd first been assigned as Aziraphale’s guard, it had startled him and the discomfort had been high. Now, though, he was accustomed to the soft voice being where it shouldn't.

He only looked to Crowley as they entered the tournament grounds again. “Follow me to the royal box. We should likely hear whatever announcement we missed.”

“Hm? Oh, sure. So long as the Duke and Princess don't spot me and get offended onsight.”

“Don’t let that make you feel special,” Raphael advised with a wry smile. “They get offended onsight by most.”

Crowley pouted with his lower lip sticking out. “Aww, and here I thought I was special.”

“For certain members of our royal family, I should think you are,” he teased.

“Shut it,” Crowley grumbled, cheeks pinking. “We’ll see how long it lasts.”

They would see indeed. Raphael could very confidently say he'd never seen Aziraphale quite so enamoured with someone before. The scented token was very unique.

As they approached the box, however, Raphael's smile slipped and his hand started to go towards his hilt. It wasn't there, which made his shoulders tense. He was most definitely acquiring a sword as quickly as he could manage. Able to fight properly with a sling or not. “Majesty?”

He met them at the bottom of the steps, rare enough for being in the middle of a match, but his strained smile was vastly worrying. “I’m so glad you both came. Sir Stewart is having to drop out of the tournament.”

“Mr. LaVista’s opponent?”

“Yes. He's twisted his ankle terribly.” And had shown too many people how swollen it was for Aziraphale to do something about it, the silly man. Alpha pride keeping him away from someone who could easily help. “Rather than declare him the automatic winner, lots are going to be drawn from today's winners after Sir Sandalphon’s match has concluded. Shortest faces Mr. LaVista. Crowley, are you willing to participate?”

“Yeah, sure, throw me in. I'll kick his arse just like I did his friend’s.”

“It was a very impressive match this morning,” Aziraphale praised, a purr rumbling its way in. “It was wonderful, how talented and quick you are.”

“Ngk- T-thanks.” It was awful but praise from an alpha made him want to preen, especially praise from this one. He’d impressed him, which shouldn't have been important but was. “Told you I was good.”

“I have no doubts about you, my dear.”

“Brother,” Michael's sharp voice said from within the booth. “The match?”

“Ah, yes. I need to return now. Be back here when it's finished, Crowley. Raphael?”

“I’d like to go check on Sir Stewart.”

“By all means, dear fellow.”

“I’ll stick around. Might get picked to go up against brute number two.” Which he was kind of hoping for. If one of them had magic on them, the other likely did as well and Crowley figured he was probably the only one here who would have a chance against that.

“Goodness. Both of them in one day. I should think you're rather unlucky if you do get selected,” Aziraphale mused.

“Eh, I guess. But you should go before your sister decides to go on without you.”

If only he knew how true that was. Aziraphale gave him a nod, but turned to head back up the steps. A check showed the match still on-going, Sir Sandalphon truly just as brutal as Hastur and Ligur. Aziraphale had given the same pointed warning at the beginning of this match as he had to the others, but it had been just as ineffective. Blood poured from his opponent's nose. A hardy knight who had fought well and strong throughout the tournament.

Aziraphale could only grimace when Sir Sandalphon’s hilt cracked into his wrist. It was vicious, but it wasn't against the rules. And if he felt a private glee when an elbow cracked into Sandalphon’s false teeth, that was without any doubt his business.

It was a shame that it wasn't Sandalphon’s sword that eventually fell to the dirt below.

Aziraphale rose, clearing his throat. “The winner of this match is Sir Sandalphon. Well met, both of you.” He gestured to the squire who'd been placing names on the board, a signal to gather lots. “Now if I could have all of the remaining contestants before the royal box. We will select Mr. Hastur LaVista’s opponent for today's final match.”

Crowley swaggered over, sidling up next to the square-headed and bulky Sir Gabriel. Even being about the same height, Crowley almost felt small next to him. “Who do you think it's gonna be?”

“It’s hardly important. We’ve beaten the entire royal guard.” He huffed a small laugh. “Amazing. I thought they'd be stronger.”

“Not the entire guard,” Crowley pointed out. “Plenty of them aren't participating.”

“If the captain lost, the rest of them can't be much better,” Gabriel reasoned. “That’s why I’m going to win.”

“Now I know this is unusual,” Aziraphale said from the box, “but I hope you understand why and can forgive this year for being so odd. Next year, we hope this event can return to normal.”

“Next year,” Gabriel said quietly, shaking his head. “I don't know why he keeps bringing up a next year. Filling peoples’ heads with hopes.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “He’s the king. If he wants a next year, there'll be a next year.”

“I understand that you're new, but he's not supposed to be king.” Gabriel smiled pityingly, as if Crowley was a confused toddler in need of guidance. “Princess Michael is supposed to be queen. And she will be. As soon as Aziraphale fails to find the pieces, everyone will understand that Queen Frances got a little confused.”

Find the pieces? What in the fresh hell was this idiot blabbering on about? “You realise you're not making any sense, right?”

“Of course I am. The pieces of the-”

“Ladies, gentlemen - if you'll all please draw a lot from our squire, we can begin,” Aziraphale interrupted from the box, heedless of the conversations amidst contestants.

Crowley stepped up, unafraid and unworried. He reached into the little box the squire held and pulled out a small wooden rod with four tic marks on it. He palmed it and stepped back, watching each of the others go up and do the same.

When it was time to compare, the squire grimaced. “Sorry, Mr. Crowley. Looks like you've drawn the shortest one.”

Gabriel clapped a hand on his shoulder. “How exciting! You lucky man.”

“Depends on who you ask if it's lucky or not,” Crowley murmured as he glanced up towards the box and Aziraphale's pinched expression. “Guess I better get my gear ready.”

“Looks like.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Mr. Crowley, you were able to win your way into the top ten yesterday morning, and fought valiantly again earlier today. Now I wish you luck in reaching the top four. The next and final round of the day will begin in ten minutes.”

Crowley nodded. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Your Majesty,” Gabriel echoed, voice and chuckle low. “Still sounds so funny.”

Crowley was beginning to wonder if Sir Gabriel might not be all there in the head. Hopefully he wouldn't be the one to win, that would just be embarrassing. Not that it was any of his business, Raphael had sounded serious and Crowley figured throwing one match wasn't that big of a deal.

He left the field for the competitors’ tent and his little trunk. If Hastur was anything like Ligur, he was going to need all his gear.

“I heard you're fighting?” Raphael asked as he entered, on his own way out.

“Yep,” Crowley confirmed with a pop. “Kicking them both out in one day. Go me.”

“Good.” Raphael glanced out to make sure they were alone, lowered his voice. “Who would you like to face tomorrow?”

Crowley blinked. “Er… what?”

“Who,” he repeated, “of those three would you like to fight tomorrow?”

Was he… “Are you trying to rig the fights?”

“There’s one person out of those three who I’m willing to send with Aziraphale. So I suppose that depends on your answer.”

Something was going on, that much Crowley could figure out. He wasn't an idiot. Whatever this… super secret thing was was important and he saw a chance to help, even just a little bit. “Alright, pit me against the one you like the least if it matters so much.”

Raphael’s nod was a quick bob. “Best of luck against Mr. LaVista, Crowley. And thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I think. Just don't get bored only watching from the box.”

“With you out there, I don’t believe I will.” Raphael smiled. “Besides, it’s very fun watching His Majesty.”

Crowley snorted. “You mean watching him fret over my fights is fun.”

“He doesn’t fret quite as much as you’d think. At some points, yes, of course, but he’s generally far too busy enjoying the view.”

“View, right.”

Raphael gave him a nod and his shoulder a pat before striding out, aiming for the royal box. A borrowed sword was strapped to his hip.

Crowley gave himself a little shake and went to don his minimal armour for the second time today. Mostly he wondered what sort of enchantments Hastur had on his gear. He was going to have to be careful until he figured it out. And he was most definitely not going to tell anyone about it. He might not like the two brutes but… there were unspoken codes mages followed, and he wasn't about to put one in danger of being found out.

When he left the tent, his opponent was already on the field waiting for him, apparently never having removed his gear, and scowling. Perhaps he wasn't particularly happy to have had his buddy removed from the competition.

“So you’re the one fightin’ me instead of that wanker guard?”

“Sure am,” Crowley said. “That a problem?”

He sneered. “Nah. None o’you are a problem for me.”

How arrogant…. not that Crowley had much room to judge. “Don’t be too sure about that. I beat your friend already.”

The sneer intensified. “Kicked ‘im is what you did. Like a tosser.”

“Gentlemen,” Aziraphale began, “thank you for closing out day four of our spring tournament. A special thank you to Mr. Crowley for agreeing to take on an unexpected fight as well. Tomorrow there will only be two matches with our grand finale the following midday. I would like to take a moment to remind our fighters of the rules.” Again.

“Dotty fucker,” Hastur muttered. “Shouldn’t even be king.”

Crowley clenched his jaw and glared through his glasses. “That ‘dotty fucker’ will take your head off if you don't shut the fuck up.”

“Like to see ‘im try. His little guard dog’s all fucked up now. He can’t hurt me.” Hastur smirked, revealing yellowed teeth. “Nobody can.”

“No one’s invincible.”

“Gotta see me to hit me, idiot.”

What the hell was up with people not making sense today? Had Crowley hit his head and not realised it? “Sure, whatever that's supposed to mean.”

“Begin on the count of one,” Aziraphale instructed, knowing they’d both been ignoring his instructions but heedless as to what was being said. He only knew he did not like this one bit. “Three… two… one!”

Crowley ducked the blade that was swung at his head almost before Aziraphale had even finished saying ‘one’. He felt the breeze of it as it passed over his head. Yikes. “What the hell!? Are you trying to take my head off?”

“It’d disarm you real quick, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re insane!” It was times like these that Crowley wished he'd invested in some kind of shielding charm. He barely managed to dance out of the way of two more swings but had to block a third. The sharp sting of steel cutting through the leather of his vambrace to skin had him shouting and pulling his arm back before too much damage could be done. He didn't understand. His sword should have met the other, but it hadn't.

Hastur grinned, smile stretching almost unnaturally wide. “Told ya. You gotta see me to hit me, idiot.”

What the hell. He was just able to block the next swing, feeling the weight his opponent brought down with his blade. He could feel it but… the weight felt off, something wasn't quite right about how it landed. Crowley shoved him back with a snarl, putting distance between them again while his arm throbbed.

Aziraphale leaned against the wall, still on his feet. He couldn’t look away. Thus far, Crowley had proven to be quick and on point with his blocks. Hastur’s sloppy swings making it past his guard was an unpleasant surprise.

“He may be more tired than he thought, Majesty,” Raphael murmured, not wanting to be overheard by the other two royals in the box.

“No, that’s ridiculous.” Even though it wasn’t. It was perfectly possible that he’d managed to tire himself out somehow during the day. “How did he seem to you?”

Just fine. Raphael laid his hand on the hilt of his borrowed sword, only able to give a half shrug with his other arm in a sling. “How he seems isn’t necessarily how he is.”

“No, no. This is different. It’s… We’ll speak on it later.” When there was no chance of an audience.

Raphael nodded, but both of them were drawn back into the way Crowley had to dodge another jab of a too-sharp blade. “How are his dodges off? They seem correct.”

They did, but… They seemed to be just a smidge to the left, judging by where Crowley’s armour was next sliced. Just to the side of where he’d brought his sword up to deflect. It even looked like he evaded successfully, but his leather still tore. How?

Something was off, that was how. It was the only thing that made sense and Crowley couldn't even hit back because all of his swings seemed just a tad off the mark. He could have sworn his sword should have hit Hastur’s shoulder, but it met air instead and Hastur’s blade sliced into his leg for his trouble.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped.

“We’re supposed to be impartial, brother.”

He stopped leaning, back and shoulders neat, straight lines. “I am aware, Michael.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t expect any different, considering he has a piece of our family tartan on his belt.”

She hadn’t mentioned it earlier, so he’d hoped she simply hadn’t noticed. He should’ve known better. “So he does. Is that-” He gasped again, hands grasping the edge of the half-wall tightly when Crowley’s sword fell from his hand, wrist seeming to be cut. “Crowley!”

His pained, “Fuck!” could be heard all throughout the stands, wrist joining the other cuts and bruises that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Hastur’s sword came down, the blade gleaming with its reddened edge and met steel instead of the flesh he'd been aiming for. Sword now clutched in his left hand, Crowley held back Hastur with a grimace. The weight of it was still strange, as if just off from where Crowley expected it to be.

“I didn't realise he could use either hand,” Raphael remarked and Aziraphale only made a soft sound of acknowledgement. Crowley was just as spry with his left hand as his right, but he was without any doubt on defence. Hastur’s sword just kept coming, Crowley changing his angles of deflection in ways that just looked awkward.

That they were strangely effective had Aziraphale leaning forward. His palms laid flat on the surface of the wood half-wall, two breaths taken in and out. He wanted to hurry, the flames within snapping with a ferocity only matched by an alpha’s innate protectiveness. A prospective mate was down there, under siege, and Aziraphale couldn't do anything about it.

At least not openly.

Something which wasn't quite consciousness yet wasn't quite separated from the same left his palms. A sizzle of heat that left char marks underneath the grand banners and draperies hung on the royal box on its way through the wood. The ground tried to snuff it out, but Aziraphale could almost taste the earthiness of a root the heat devoured on its way to the two clashing opponents. The sensation of grit filled his mouth, but Aziraphale’s expression didn't change.

Hastur’s feet shifted above a sudden heat against his shoes, giving Crowley enough opportunity to swing at him and give them several paces of separation. Aziraphale let the heat sing upwards, attracted to a point in a pocket.

As Hastur charged, sword lifted high, the stitching around his pocket burned away and a simple looking piece of metal fell to the dirt. Aziraphale sank down into his seat on a sigh that was both weary and incredibly relieved.

And, even though no one could explain it with Hastur seeming to run straight ahead, his body seemed to shift a full inch to the left of where he'd been.

Crowley couldn't have missed it with how intently he'd been watching Hastur charge. It was like he moved without moving, an acrid burned smell followed and the only thing Crowley could attribute the much easier block to was a sudden loss of magic. Whatever enchantment Hastur had been using to make himself appear not quite where he was must have burned out because, when their swords clashed again, it was right.

The weight wasn't off; the blade was exactly where he expected it to be. Crowley grinned, a little feral, and shoved Hastur back hard. It made the other stumble, still reeling from his attack being so easily deflected so suddenly, and Crowley gave him no time to recover. Unlike his friend, Hastur seemed to know how to block and parry but without his magical aid he wasn't nearly as skilled as he'd led them to believe.

There was a particular sort of glee in finally having his opponent on the defensive, Hastur letting out little shrieks every time their blades crossed. Eventually the wickedly sharp blade went flying across the field with Crowley having slapped his hand with the flat of his blade hard enough to hear a crack.

Hastur grasped at his wrist, hitting one knee as he stared at Crowley with all the horrified shock he could muster. “You- How did you-?!”

Crowley spat, panting hard enough to reveal low growls on every exhale. “I didn't. You must’ve burned it out. Used it too much.” Cheaply and hastily made enchantments would do that sometimes, he'd heard.

“Burned it out?” Hastur echoed, voice like a croak. “So it was you. Like to see that useless king keep you ‘round when he finds out you’re a fire mage.”

Were they anywhere else, Crowley would have laughed. But they were in the middle of the capital, surrounded by people and guards. Crowley’s face went entirely blank as he sheathed his sword. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Course you do. I felt it,” he snarled. “And I know it was you. Trying to burn my feet, then you probably burned the amulet too.”

“Amulet? What amulet?”

Airaphale’s voice carried over their conversation. “The winner, for the second time today, is Mr. Anthony Crowley. We now have our top four competitors. Sir Gabriel Archer, Sir Uriel Termini, Sir Sandalphon Solterthe, and now Mr. Crowley. In a few minutes, we’ll draw the names for tomorrow’s matches. Thank you, and well done.”

Crowley stepped away from the still grumbling and mumbling and feeling around in the dirt Hastur and casually walked over to where they'd been when he thought the spell might have ended. There was still something of a burnt smell and, with his keen eye, he noticed something gleaming in the dirt. Crowley covered it with his boot and, with a miniscule effort, stuck it to the bottom of his shoe. That would be something to examine later, back at his room.

“Is that not cheating, Your Majesty?”

“Most certainly not,” Aziraphale replied, voice as low as Raphael’s as they headed towards the competitors’ tent. He wouldn’t be able to help, but he just needed to speak to Crowley and make sure he was alright.

“Really? Are you not supposed to interfere with the outcome of fights?”

“Well, yes, but I’m also required to identify and halt cheating.”

“I presume he was, then.”

“We’ll discuss it later. I need to speak with you about Ligur Melion as well.” He held the flap open for Raphael, smiling at the way his guard shook his head before ducking inside. They both knew the assistance should have been the other way around, but Raphael knew to pick his battles.

And there had been no fighting Aziraphale’s desire to check on the wounded fighter, the king crossing the space to reach the stool Crowley sat upon with one of the castle healers hovering over him. “You’re lucky it wasn’t much worse, Mr. Crowley,” she was saying.

“Yeah, I know.” His wrist should have been broken and definitely had been but Crowley had healed the worst of it. It was swollen and tender but would still be usable. “I’m a hardy thing.”

“You must be.”

“He must,” Aziraphale agreed from behind Crowley, “and he’s shown it rather thoroughly today.”

Crowley glanced back over his shoulder with a crooked smile. He’d smelled the alpha coming. “Enjoy the show, Your Majesty?”

“I believe I would have enjoyed it more had you been injured less, but you were quite dashing.”

“Dashing’s definitely the important part,” Crowley said as the healer wrapped his bloodied forearm in gauze and cotton. The vambrace was pretty much ruined and it annoyed him that he'd need to get a new one. “Hard to be that when your opponent’s a bloody maniac.”

“And cheating,” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “Cheating? Don't know anything about that.”

Raphael only didn’t sigh because he was used to Aziraphale’s honesty getting the best of him. “Surely he was cheating somehow to land so many blows on you, Crowley. You’ll need a new vambrace.”

“Yeah! I know!” He lifted it with the arm the healer wasn't fussing over, the layered leather cut clean through. “These were new, too! But I don't know about cheating. I'm good, but I'm not invincible.”

“Perhaps all your confidence has given us all wild expectations,” Raphael chuckled.

Aziraphale reached out, taking Crowley’s uninjured hand. He used studying the slice as his excuse, though there was none for the way he lifted his hand, lips pressing against the back. “I’m glad it isn’t anything you won’t heal from. I hope it won’t put you at too great a disadvantage tomorrow. You can come see if anyone in the royal guard will allow you to borrow the armour you need until more can be made. There's also the store we have available, though I’m sure you know the benefits of something broken in over something new.”

“Y-yeah. I'll be alright.” His lips were so warm, like a searing heat that travelled up his arm. Crowley felt his face flush and barely resisted squirming. “I’m lucky I can use both hands.”

“Yes! And you seem just as skilled with one as the other.” Aziraphale beamed at him. “It’s a very valuable skill. Your teacher truly did do a brilliant job.”

His smile was blinding and Crowley wanted to preen under the praise. “Ah, really, she just saw what I was already doing and nurtured it.”

“I’m very grateful. It would’ve been terrible to see you fall to that brute.”

It was as if all the world fell away when they spoke to each other, Raphael thought, hand resting on the hilt of his borrowed sword. Another very unique aspect to this flirtation with Crowley. At least on the king’s side. Raphael wasn’t sure how Crowley typically reacted to a crush. “It would have. Are you injured anywhere else?”

“Hm? Oh, he got my leg too, but it's not very deep. Should be easy to bandage on my own.”

“I can handle it, Mr. Crowley. That’s what I’m here for,” the healer offered.

“I- I know…” He just wasn't used to it. Tending his own wounds had always been how things had been done. Agnes had shown him how once and she expected him to do so himself ever since. “I appreciate everything you do.”

“Then let her,” Aziraphale urged. “It may not be deep, but it surely isn’t comfortable.”

“W-well, no… I'd still rather do it myself, if it's all the same.”

“But-”

“Your Majesty, let the man make his own decisions,” Raphael casually suggested.

Aziraphale’s cheeks turned pink. “Oh, yes, of course. So sorry about that. I don’t mean to be overbearing.”

“It’s… It's alright.” It wouldn't have been such a big deal if Aziraphale wasn't right there and the cut not so high on his leg… Taking his trousers off in front of the king was too embarrassing to think about. “You’re just concerned.”

“Yes, but it still isn’t my place to dictate your treatment.” As he’d been so thoroughly taught already. He worked up a smile, giving Crowley’s hand a gentle squeeze. “So long as you’re sure you’ll be in tiptop shape for tomorrow.”

“I will. Don't worry about that.”

“I’ll continue to have faith in you,” Aziraphale promised. “Are you nearly ready to hear who you'll be against tomorrow? With luck, you won't be the very first fight a third day in a row.”

Crowley chuckled. “With how my luck has been going lately I'm not going to get my hopes up.”

“Oh, I’m certain your luck could be far worse. I would hope, all in all, you've had a fine time here.”

“So far, yeah. It's been fun. Getting a little hurt’s just expected when sword fighting.”

“Only a smidge. For which I’m very grateful. If he'd attempted to cut your head off again, I was going to disqualify him. We've never had contestants who so willfully ignore the rules.”

“Really? No one's ever tried to break the rules?”

“Of course people have. But they do things like hiding a second weapon or attempting to tie their swords to their hands. They'll swap guards to hide different grips. The ones who are... particularly violent get weeded out early.”

Crowley wondered if they'd ever had anyone using enchanted gear and just didn't know it. “Well, these one's got weeded out eventually.”

“Eventually,” Aziraphale agreed, thumb rubbing over the back of Crowley's hand. “Each of them by you.”

Aziraphale’s touch was terribly distracting and Crowley swallowed thickly, trying not to look down despite knowing no one could see where he looked anyway. “Just doin’ what I had to.”

“Naturally. I do wonder if anyone else could've handled them as well as you. You've proven to be very clever in battle. Quick thinking is vital for a knight.”

Crowley snorted but desperately wanted to sway closer to him. His scent just permeated delight, and Crowley wanted more of it. “Kinda gotta be when you're in my line of work and going solo.”

“Yet I've met several sellswords who aren't half as clever as you,” Aziraphale purred.

“Majesty,” Raphael interrupted, “we’re keeping everyone waiting at this point.”

“I’m sure they're on pins and needles.”

“I would like to know who I'm beating tomorrow.”

“Raphael’s asked to draw the names, actually. Being that it's the final opportunity, I couldn't say no.” Aziraphale smiled at his guard, heedless of Raphael's plans and what he'd said to Crowley. Which was, really, for the best. “It’s him whom you should be rushing.”

“I’m not the one chatting away, passing compliments along like sweets, Your Majesty.”

Crowley snickered at the pout Aziraphale aimed at his guard captain. He thanked the healer as she stepped back, flexing his fingers to make sure they weren't stiff. “Well, let's go then. You can chat my ear off later.”

“May I?” Aziraphale purred.

“Well, yeah?” Crowley hoped he didn't regret that.

“Lovely.” Smile bright, Aziraphale took hold of his arm, not wanting to injure his wrist further. “Please allow me to help you up if you won't let your leg be tended.”

“O-oh, erm, sure.” He wasn't used to help, let alone help from someone of Aziraphale's station. Crowley stood, though he didn't really need the assistance. His leg stung, but it wasn't bad enough to keep him from moving. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Aziraphale wanted to take every bit of injury away, but it was too big a risk right now. With only the two of them touching, there could only be one reasonable explanation. It was too dangerous. Aziraphale wished it wasn't. “I really do need to go, unfortunately. All four of you will be in front of the royal box for the announcement, and I'll close the tournament for the day.”

“Alright. Same old, same old then.”

“There is a rhythm to these things, yes.”

So they didn't lose track of things again, Raphael spoke up. “In the morning, there'll be the first fight. We'll hold the second late afternoon. Being the second to last day, the market tends to get a bit wild.”

“Oh, yes. The final day, the top two will duel midday and there’ll be a celebration in the castle just after sunset. All contestants are invited.”

“That sounds fun. A big hurrah before everyone goes back to their normal lives.”

If only, but Aziraphale didn't sigh over it. His own life changing irrevocably wasn't a reflection on everyone's lives. “Precisely.”

Crowley wondered what a ‘normal life’ looked like for a prince. Hells, a king. Daily life was probably less dangerous than his own, more cushy. Aziraphale probably slept in a fluffy, comfortable bed every night and had meals prepared and delivered right to him. He probably never had to hunt and skin and cook a thing.

It sounded nice and Crowley couldn't help but wish, just a little bit, that he had something like that and wonder what it might be like to never worry about where he would sleep next. It was a silly thing to wonder, but he wondered all the same. Doing things the way he did, alone and with few roots, was a terribly lonely way to live.

It was just as lonely to be a king in a castle where only few people truly knew you. Only a few could. It had been frightening to tell Raphael, the man a friend long before he was a guard and the thought of losing him had been a very real possibility. But for a person who was a terrible liar, secrets were difficult to keep.

He led Crowley out, but had to let him go when they exited the tent. “Will you wait for me? After I close the day.”

Crowley still didn't understand why Aziraphale seemed so keen to talk and interact with him, but the thought of telling him no was almost unbearable. “Yeah, I'll wait up for you.”

“Thank you. I'll find you as quickly as I’m able,” he promised, then let himself get pulled away by Raphael.

Watching him go made something strange twist in Crowley's stomach. He wanted to follow after him which was an absolutely ridiculous thing to want. Getting as close as he seemed to want to be to Aziraphale would be like playing with fire, especially this close to a heat. So he ambled over to where the finalists were gathered and decided to wonder, instead, over which one Raphael had chosen to pit him against.

He was the only one of the four not from a royal guard. It was a shock strictly because of Raphael's involvement, the tournament generally one for the newest and most untested knights to gain some experience and a chance for someone less known to rise to a knighted status. To have three knights in the top four was unheard of, stone-faced Uriel, quietly gleeful Sandalphon, and proudly grinning Gabriel anomalies for more reasons than where they'd come from.

Aziraphale looked at the four of them, wishing beyond anything that Crowley could win. Sandalphon made him nervous, Uriel privately terrified him, and Gabriel was a nightmare simply because his intelligence could fit in a thimble.

“Congratulations to our top four competitors. Everyone has fought valiantly these last few days, and I've seen quite a bit which makes me proud. It's... It's still unusual to consider myself your monarch, and I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels that way. But I will do my best for all of you as you've done your best here this week. Celestria’s future glows brightly. Now for tomorrow's matches. Sir Raphael?”

He took the first slip handed to him, sighing quietly. He did hope a good night's rest would do him wonders. “Mr. Anthony Crowley will begin our games tomorrow morning and he shall be facing...” It was difficult not to grimace. “Sir Uriel. Which means Sirs Gabriel and Sandalphon will be duelling in the afternoon.”

“Bugger,” Sandalphon whispered just as Gabriel clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Well! That should be a fun time. You'll lose to the best, Sandalphon.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Crowley glanced at Sir Uriel, stoney faced and serious as she always was. She'd been the one who'd hurt Raphael and, unintentional or not, Crowley thought he'd enjoy beating her. “Guess I'll be seeing you bright and early.”

She slanted him a look. “Briefly.”

“Ooohh, someone's confident.”

“It’s my duty to protect the future queen. The confidence you perceive is simply truth.”

One of Crowley's eyebrows lifted. “Betting on His Majesty to abdicate or have an untimely demise?”

“I expect His Majesty to fail to live up to expectation. I'll serve him until then.”

“Right.” Well, that was a thing. Crowley wasn't sure what that was even supposed to mean but shrugged. It wasn't his problem.

When Aziraphale closed the ceremony for the day, the three knights of Hewin headed towards the royal box, where the Duke was already leaving. Michael had made her way to Aziraphale’s side. “So you've already had your guard lose to mine. You want to see your little favourite lose as well?”

“I don't think he'll lose,” Aziraphale replied, deciding not to rise to the bait. “Crowley respects Raphael, so he has quite a few reasons to push as hard as he's able.”

“The money, for one. But he does have you for all his needs now, doesn't he?”

Aziraphale frowned at her. “That isn't very fair, Michael. I'm sure Mr. Crowley isn't only here for monetary gain.”

“Mmhm. Will we see you for dinner or will you be dining with the rabble again?”

His frown deepened. “The guard are not rabble.”

“We won't wait for you, then.” She turned on her heel and walked off, leaving Aziraphale’s heart and head alike aching.

Raphael squeezed his shoulder. “It’s alright, Aziraphale. She doesn't know any of us well enough for her opinions to sting.”

And yet they still stung Aziraphale. “Thank you. I'm going to find Crowley. Are you comfortable leaving us on our own?”

“Yes, Majesty. Tell him I wish him well in his fight against Uriel. I have full faith in him.” Raphael bowed his head respectfully. “But there are others in our quarters for me to tend to tonight. I've a few new training regiments to work out.”

“Ah, yes. Best of luck, my dear. Mind how you go,” he wished, walking with him down the steps and separating easily.

Crowley was easy to find, Aziraphale’s smile returning as brightly as can be as he drew nearer. “An early fight yet again.”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley said with a groan. “I haven't gotten to sleep in one bloody day since I got here. It's terrible.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Don’t fret, my dear. If you defeat Uriel, you can most definitely sleep in the final day.”

“Good. ‘Bout time I was able to relax a little.”

“You did choose to come here and sign yourself up for a physically exerting tournament,” Aziraphale pointed out, lips curving. This silly thing. “I’m not quite sure when you expected to be relaxing.”

Crowley huffed at him and crossed his arms, leaning back on the stool he was sat on until his back hit a tent pole. “Well, for one, I wasn't expecting to be training almost every day leading up to it with Mr. Royal Guard Captain.”

“No, I suppose not. Shame on you for immediately being useful,” Aziraphale teased. He was lovely. A long, lean line of hidden strength and richly coloured hair that didn't seem to care about staying in its tie. His fingers itched to bury in it right then as much as they had the first time he’d seen the man. “I truly can't tell you how much I appreciate it, however.”

“I like being useful,” Crowley said with a shrug of one shoulder. “Keeps me out of trouble, as Agnes would say.”

“It kept me from having to worry about what was happening on the field while tending to my mother, so thank you for being useful and out of trouble.”

“Well, you're welcome. I've enjoyed the tournament so far and getting to see Berwick for the first time.”

“Very good.” Aziraphale found a stool to sit beside him, back straight as he watched the crowds going about their business. The fights were over, but the market wouldn't shut down before sunset. “I do love Berwick very much.”

Crowley glanced at him from the corner of his eye, watched Aziraphale's profile as he watched others. A slightly upturned nose and curls that caught the light. He almost looked content but for the deep sadness that hung in his eyes. “I can tell. ‘S a nice place. Everyone's been pretty welcoming.”

“I’m so glad to hear it. I would hate to hear of any visitor being unwelcome in the capital. It would set a wretched precedent for the rest of the kingdom.”

“There are definitely towns I'm not keen to go back to.” Usually because of their very aggressive anti-magic stances. “But Berwick’s not one of them.”

“I suppose not every town can be pleasant considering that not every person is,” Aziraphale conceded. “Do you have a favourite place?”

Crowley frowned and wondered about that. “The Cliffhurst Basin, to the northeast, sits just atop a tall cliff face. The water is so clear you can even see all the way to the bottom and in the late summer there's a fish that glows and lights up the whole lake at night. It’s one of my favourite places to make camp.”

“Gosh,” Aziraphale purred, turning to smile at him. “That sounds delightful. Perhaps I'll have an opportunity to see it soon.”

“Maybe.” Crowley smiled at him. “There’s lots of interesting places like that. You should at least get to see some of them.”

“I do hope so. May I...” He trailed off with a sigh. “Goodness, it feels as if I've burdened you with so many secrets so quickly.”

Crowley shrugged. “I wouldn't phrase it quite like that.”

“No? You don't feel weighed down by any of these unexpected pieces of my life?”

“Nah. Everyone has life happen and getting to know someone is just learning the pieces like that as they come. And, sometimes, it seemed you needed someone to listen.”

“Yes, I have. Raphael is an excellent friend and he's very well acquainted with things day to day. But he's also... I know what his opinion is going to be. I also know that he has a personally set boundary for what advice he believes is acceptable or not.” Aziraphale laid a hand on Crowley's knee. “You, however, seem to have no such qualms.”

Crowley swallowed, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale's hand through his trousers. “Nah, if you wanted measured and ‘proper’ opinions, you got plenty of people you can ask for that.”

“You have no idea.” Aziraphale’s smile softened before entirely slipping away. “Did Raphael tell you about... the awards?”

“Eehh, sort of. He was real cagey about it. Somethin’ about the winner this year bein’ obligated to stay here or go somewhere or something.”

“Yes. It is supposed to be kept quiet, but Gabriel knows, I believe Uriel does, and I've no reason to believe that Sandalphon doesn't if they do. And having three of four know seems exceptionally unfair.”

“No, yeah, you're right there.” Crowley scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Wonder what they want with the win, though. I wouldn't think any of them would want to be forced to hang around here when this is all done.”

“We won’t be here. Raphael seems to think they’re drawn to the glory of it. Uriel especially is rather, ah, determined to be remembered. She’s broken several records at their home. But I… People don’t believe I’m up to snuff. As it were. So uncle believes it would be best if I…” Aware of the crowd around them, Aziraphale muffled himself to anyone but Crowley. “It’s been a century since anyone had to do this, but he believes I ought to take on Aelfric’s Quest.”

“That you-” Crowley gaped at him like a fish out of water. “You mean like- Oh my gods, the pieces thing makes so much more sense now.”

Aziraphale’s brows lifted. “Pieces thing?”

“Sir Gabriel. Earlier today when we were seeing who would fight Hastur, he said something about you failing to find pieces and then Michael would be queen or whatever. It didn't make any sense at the time and I figured he was just a few bushels shy of a full harvest.”

“Oh…” Everything about him seemed to deflate. “They do think I’ll fail?”

“Sirs Gabriel and Uriel seem to think so. Dunno about anyone else.” Crowley hated the way everything about Aziraphale seemed to dim at that news, and he couldn't help but put a hand on his shoulder. “But what do they know, eh? Not like they know anything about you or what you're capable of.”

“Perhaps not, but one of them has the potential to come along with me. They’re supposed to help me and if neither of them think me capable… I know Sir Sandalphon doesn’t. Having to take the winner with me is the only reason I asked Raphael to compete. But with his sword shattering as it did… Not to mention his injury. It’s awful luck.”

Crowley watched him and his forlorn, sad eyes. He didn't really care so much about all the political shenanigans or who was on what throne, but Aziraphale was just a person who didn't seem to have very many people who believed in him. Or, at least not many who were around. He didn't like the idea that was forming in his own head, knew he was going to regret it, but… damn it, he was too soft. “It is pretty rotten luck. On the other hand… You can keep Raphael here to keep an eye on things and have a pretty decent swordsman go with you instead.”

“With Michael taking over in my absence, yes. Having Raphael here to send any information my way will be very useful. That is one silver lining in this. It’s still unusual to not have a friend along with me. I finally get to see all of Celestria and it’s alone.” Aziraphale’s smile was weak, but genuine. “What is it? A double-edged sword?”

Crowley smiled a little. “Something like that. You'll be alright, though. Kinda the point of these sorts of things, isn't it? Testing you. Not supposed to be easy.”

“Yes.” But even Aelfric had brought friends along. He also wasn’t looking forward to having to hide his magic whilst on the road for so many months. He couldn’t start making grand change without the full support of the people. “Traditionally, royal hopefuls are allowed to choose their own party. If I can hold off the start of the trip until Raphael heals, perhaps I can remind uncle Aelfric had two companions. We ought to do at least one bit of this in the traditional manner.”

“The optimism is commendable, but that shoulder’s gonna take months to fully heal and get proper range of motion back.” When Aziraphale looked at him like he was about to start shedding tears, Crowley shook his head. “I can't guarantee a win. I've seen how Gabe fights, he might have rocks for brains but he knows what he's doing with a sword, but you look too pathetic like that to not at least try.”

“Oh, Crowley, no.” Aziraphale clasped his uninjured hand in each of his own. “I don’t tell you this to make you feel guilty. You need to go home, my dear, and I understand that. You are going to be knighted Saturday evening regardless of how this all shakes out. You’ve more than proven yourself worthy of the title.”

Crowley rolled his whole head along with his eyes. “Shut up. Stop being an idiot. Not sayin’ this because I feel guilty.” He absolutely was. “I just think it's bullshit that they aren't letting you just choose who to go with. I mean, you're the king. Just tell ‘em to piss off.”

“They’re my family, Crowley, and they are correct. People within Berwick may approve of me, but what of elsewhere? With the things I wish to do, I need to know that more people will follow me than won’t.”

“Well, then count me as a success. I didn't give a flying fuck about any of this until now so- I'll go.”

“Don’t make such a big decision now. At least sleep on it, my dear.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “I wouldn’t dream of taking you from your family. This trip could and will likely take months.” Years, possibly.

“Yeah, I figured as much,” Crowley said softly. His lips felt soft. They'd probably be just as soft under his own. And that was a dangerous line of thinking to go down. “It’s the sword, right? From the old story? Following the trail of where he left the pieces of it. Finding the bloody things is gonna be a pain.”

“It certainly will be. The last royal who tried failed terribly, and it seems now that most don’t even believe it exists. But I do.”

“Most stories have at least a kernel of truth to them.”

“They do, and this is a tale my mother has told me… Goodness. For as long as I can remember.” A full smile reached Aziraphale’s eyes. “Just a few nights ago, she shared it again. It’s always been with me.”

He was cute when he smiled, he even had adorable little dimples. Damn it. “Agnes would tell it to me, too. There was a time when I made her recite the part about the dragon over and over every night.”

“I always enjoyed the parts about his friends. The people they met along the way.”

Crowley chuckled. “Yeah, that seems like you. Can you guess why I wanted her to repeat the dragon part so much?”

“A fearsome thing like you? Oh, most certainly.” A sound perilously close to a giggle bubbled out, Aziraphale wiggling cheerfully on the little stool. “I can't imagine knighthood not being something you've always aspired to.”

“It was! It was. But I didn't like the dragon part for the fighting. I-” Crowley flushed a little and rubbed the back of his neck. “Every time I had Agnes repeat it I always hoped it changed. That they didn't kill it and befriended it instead.”

He was impossibly sweet. “You know in my mother's version, they didn't kill the dragon. No one ever quite knew what happened, but Aelfric returned with the scales. I don't know if mother didn't enjoy the killing or if she knew I'd prefer something more vague, but I always enjoyed believing they set the beast free somewhere.”

“Go figure Agnes would tell the version that always made me mad and when I complained she'd tell me that when I was the one telling the story I could change it any way I wanted.”

“Any good tale can change a bit in every retelling. I believe that's why his has lasted as long as it has. Anyone can find inspiration from it.”

“Yeah, probably. I mean, it did make me wanna be a knight.”

“It makes me feel as if I could actually be a successful ruler. If he could, for all his flaws, I surely can.”

Crowley smiled a little at him. “Yeah, I think you'll do alright.”

“I hope so.” And he was positive he had capabilities his hopeful ancestor had lacked a century ago. They would help. They must. “Have you tended to that leg of yours yet?”

He gave said leg a pat. “Yeah, I did.” And taken the slightly charred amulet from the bottom of his boot and pocketed it. “Honestly my wrist got the brunt of Hastur’s attacks.”

“Oh, yes, that brute.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “He and his companion are the only two I’m worried over having in the castle, but I'll have a chat regarding security with the guards over supper tonight.”

“Probably for the best. I wouldn't put it past them to break something expensive just because they could.”

“Yes. We’ll likely set-up the ballroom again. There are far fewer breakables in there.”

Crowley was immediately drawn back to that night of drinking too much mead, dancing with a mysterious stranger that kissed him with a hunger, and he felt a stab of guilt. He'd been so busy with the tournament… “It’s a gorgeous room. I'll be glad to see it again.”

“Again?”

“I was at the masquerade.”

Gosh. Aziraphale’s gaze flicked to his hair, but it wasn't possible. He had put his hands in that mystery man's hair and it had been so much shorter. He couldn't recall seeing any other gingers that night, but after his mother's announcement, he hadn't paid much attention to other guests at all. “It was... a very surprising night for me. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. Met some interesting people,” like the queen, “danced, drank too much. It was great.”

“With luck, you'll have just as fun a time after the tournament.”

“I’m definitely gonna party it up before we go traipsing around the kingdom for Gods know how long.”

“You are entirely too darling, Crowley.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand and rose. “Let me walk you to your inn? You should take some time to rest with those wounds.”

Crowley blinked up at him. “You… actually want to do that?”

“It sounds far nicer than parting for the evening, so yes.”

“O-oh.” Crowley was even more grateful he hadn't roomed in the cheapest place he could find but it was still a little embarrassing to think of Aziraphale seeing the modest little place he was staying at. “Sure. That's fine.”

“Lovely. Up you get, my dear. I’ll follow your lead.”

Chapter Text

The further away from the crowds they strolled, the stronger the ocean sounded. It was still early enough in spring, too, that the evening air tended to be chillier than not. Happy to have Crowley on his arm, Aziraphale’s low purr rumbled in the comfortable silence of their walk.

It was a nice sound, one that made Crowley want to lay his head on Aziraphale's broad chest and just listen to it. He didn't get to hear purrs often, and he pretended to be a beta so regularly… Sometimes he wondered if his own were broken from not doing it. He squeezed Aziraphale's arm, a warm weight that at least helped combat the chill of the evening. “That sounds nice,” he said quietly, not wanting to break the peace they had.

“Hm?”

“The purrs. They're nice.”

They continued, Aziraphale’s smile easy. “You’ve earned them.”

Crowley flushed and looked away, an ache in his chest. “Dunno how, just bein’ me.”

“Precisely. And you've been wearing my token all day.” And still was, the tartan silk attached to his belt fluttering just a little. “I hoped you would.”

“I figured you wouldn't have given it to me if you didn't want me to have it.”

“I wouldn't have, no. It's the family tartan.” He only hoped Crowley liked the scent. Aziraphale was still uncertain if he was hiding a scent of his own, but even betas could appreciate the way he smelled a little. Even if not instinctually.

“O-oh. Hadn't known that.” He'd just seen Aziraphale wearing it. “It was a surprise to find. Not a bad one. Just, a surprise.”

Aziraphale thought he’d been very clear in his intentions, but Crowley had been behaving unusually when it came to his romantic overtures. He couldn’t quite puzzle out why, but wearing his token surely meant something. It did to Aziraphale, as did walking arm in arm through the city streets. “I’m glad it wasn’t a bad one. The pattern is called Heavens’ Dress, and it’s said it was designed by the gods themselves. Personally, I think it was fashioned by an ancestor who simply thought very highly of themselves, but I like it regardless.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, I can't imagine the gods making a tartan.”

“I beg your pardon. Tartan is stylish.”

“It really isn't.”

“You wound me,” Aziraphale claimed, lips twitching with amusement.

“Yeah, well I was wounded multiple times today, so take it from someone who knows wounds, you'll be fine.”

“Terror,” Aziraphale purred, smiling up at him. “I do hope you’re alright by tomorrow. Sir Uriel is most definitely a person who will press any advantage she can find.”

Crowley chuckled and squeezed his arm again. “I’ll be alright. I've been watching her fight. She's good, I'll give her that; whoever trained her knew what they were doing.”

“My mother, actually. She was the first to train all of them. Michael was trained early, but she didn’t keep at it the way I did. Uncle finds it beneath us, as you saw when we attempted to spar. Mother was also the first to train Raphael, and her foundation was strict and very memorable indeed.”

“Wow. Wish I coulda had that.”

“From what I’ve seen, the foundation you do have has been superb.”

“Yeah, I mean, Agnes is pretty good. But to be trained by The Warrior Queen?” Crowley let out a low whistle. “That’s something to brag about.”

“Yes, I suppose I can’t disagree. It’s something I’m very proud of. She was so hands-on with so much, particularly in my younger years.”

“That must have been nice.” He could barely remember his own mother… the thought a sad one that he didn't want to dwell on. “Seems like she really wanted you to succeed.”

“For her sake and my father's, I hope I do. While not an easy journey ahead, it will hopefully set me up to make lasting, good change. While simpler, perhaps, than a warrior or wise, I'd be very happy to be remembered as good.”

“A good king.” Crowley wasn't at all sure what that even looked like. He'd heard Queen Frances had been fine, people generally seemed to have positive opinions of her. Well, at least those without magic did. And Agnes had told him stories of previous monarchs, some better than others. “Guess that'll just depend. Hard to tell what people will consider ‘good’.”

“I know. It is rather subjective, isn’t it?” He smiled. “I hope I’ll be able to manage it.”

Crowley turned his head to look at him. “Yeah, you might.”

Beaming, Aziraphale’s purrs started right back up. “Thank you.”

Gods, what he wouldn't give to curl up somewhere warm and dark and just listen to that sound. “Shut up.”

It didn’t stop the purrs, Aziraphale taking a chance to nuzzle at his temple. There definitely wasn't any yin of a scent on him. Only Aziraphale’s own, courtesy of the kerchief. “Only when you stop being darling.”

“N-ngk. Just bein’ me…”

“You say that as if being you isn’t something special.”

“It’s not to me.”

“Perhaps because you live with yourself daily.” Aziraphale gave his hand a pat and glanced about to see where they were. There wasn’t a single square inch of the city he wasn’t acquainted with. “You aren’t very far from the docks. Do you have a view of the ocean?”

“Sort of,” Crowley said, wiggling his free hand. “There’s a glimmer of blue from between other buildings when I look out my room's window.”

“Goodness.” That didn’t count. “Have you been to the docks at all?”

“I took a stroll when I got here, looking for a place to stay. That's how I found my current place. Figured there'd be lots of inns and taverns near the docks for travellers and workers.”

“Oh, yes, quite a few. It can be difficult for seafarers to find safe places to stay, so I’m happy our city has several to provide.” Some of them he liked more than others, but personal preference was what it was. “Do you like the sea?”

“I do when I'm on land and just looking at it.”

He laughed. “No sailing aspirations, then?”

“When I was a kid I wanted to be a pirate until Agnes tried giving me swimming lessons. I sank like a stone, thought I was going to die, and have had a healthy respect for large bodies of water ever since.”

“That, I can understand. Still incapable of swimming?”

“I can actually swim now, just not very good at it.”

“I rather enjoy swimming.” The ocean was one of the only places he ever felt cool. “So I suppose if I ever see you in distress, I’ll have to rescue you.”

Crowley chuckled and smiled down at him. “You would rush out to save me?”

Aziraphale did like that smile, the way it was just a little crooked. It seemed familiar, unusually so, but he reminded himself he’d managed to eek it out several times over the days by that point. Which was delightful. Crowley should smile. “Without hesitation, my dear.”

He said it so easily as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Well, it might be self-serving, but I'd say saving someone like that would make you a good person, maybe even a good ruler.”

“Yes, I’ll have to agree that does seem rather self-serving. But I don’t see a reason to not use whatever skills I have to help those who need it. That seems rather selfish.”

“Yeah… that's why I started going around as a sellsword. I had skills that could help people and it seemed a waste not to use them.”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly, delighted to have the opinion so readily shared. “Precisely. It can be such a waste to set aside the things we learn or the innate things we're born with. It's like... not using one's sense of smell. Senseless.”

He was cute but Crowley wondered how Aziraphale would feel if he knew Crowley often hid his natural born gifts. What he would think of them. There was a lot he hid about himself, a lot he didn't use out of fear or because he didn't want to be treated differently. “I think that's a little easier for you to say.”

Aziraphale’s smile softened on a quiet exhale. People would think that. They were supposed to. “Not as much as one may assume. I haven’t, for example, been able to utilise many of the lessons my mother's taught me in my life because I've only left Berwick once.”

“Only ever the once?”

“Unfortunately so. And the route I took was not only planned, but scouts were sent ahead. As exciting as it was to go, it was also... It felt like being on a stage each and every time we stopped. The prince sent to perform.” And to show people just how much he resembled his father, something his mother had denied. Aziraphale wasn't an idiot, however, so had known the ulterior motives. “It was exhausting in some ways, but even I know it was easy.”

Crowley hummed in acknowledgement. “Yeah, travel for most people isn't like that. It's dangerous. Wild animals, creatures, weather, other people who may or may not want to rob you. I'd bet you also slept in a carriage or some noble's house and didn't have to hunt for your meals.”

“As a matter of fact, my attendants attempted to leave me out of hunts. I went anyway. After all, I hunt here. It's another skill mother insisted I have, and I wasn't going to miss an opportunity to scour unfamiliar territory.” Aziraphale’s chin lifted. “I also refused to sleep in the carriage, which was another irritation for them. But why on earth would anyone wish to stay cooped up in such a cramped little space when the stars outside are so vast? It was beautiful, Crowley. And I much preferred making camp out in the world than staying with nobles. I couldn't politely avoid those nights, so you're quite right there.”

He was a fascinating bundle of contradictions. Fussy and fancy and proper while also apparently refusing to sleep off the ground and wanting to help hunt for his meals. “You are the strangest noble I've ever met in my entire life.”

“I believe you mean that as a compliment, so I'll take it as such. It has been frustrating, however. I've never understood why mother insisted I learn so many things whilst keeping me here.” He turned his gaze upwards, the sun just beginning to throw hues of pink and purple and orange across the blue skies. “I know why she wanted me near. I do understand that, but... If she wanted me to be king... It doesn't make sense. And I'll never be able to ask her why.”

“Yeah, I'm sorry that I have no answers for you. It's obvious, at least to me, that she loved you though. That she wanted you to have the skills you'd need… Maybe she just couldn't bear the thought of letting you go just yet.”

“It’s put me in quite the precarious position, though. Perhaps she had faith I could handle it.”

Crowley wondered if he should reveal he'd spoken to her unknowingly, that she'd mentioned him with such fondness. “I’d say she did. Don't think she'd put this on you if she didn't think you'd be alright.”

“I hope you’re right. I’ve been told I have her stubbornness,” in both a positive and negative way, “so I’m not going to be giving up any time soon. No matter how difficult.”

“That’s the spirit. Show ‘em all they're underestimating you.”

“You’re very encouraging, Crowley.” And kinder than one would expect between his brazen attitude and background. He was one of Aziraphale’s favourite sort of people. “I feel as if you handle your jobs very well.”

“Sometimes,” Crowley admitted. “I’ve had my fair share of failures. When that happens you just… gotta keep going, keep trying until you get it right.”

“I understand. Do you enjoy what you do? Is it as fulfilling as you hoped when you began?”

Crowley looked up at the gradually darkening sky, at the stars slowly winking into view. “That’s tough to answer. I enjoy it, sure, most of the time. But it's not as great as I thought it would be. I never thought I'd miss having a bed to go back to that was actually mine or not having to wonder if the weather would turn unexpectedly and leave me out in the rain in the middle of the night. Thought I'd be able to make a better living, live a little better, but… it just gets harder.”

Aziraphale hummed, sympathetic even if he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t have the same experiences. “With your knighthood, will you try to get yourself a bit of land?”

“I’ve thought about it.” With some land he could create a safe place for mages, somewhere they could go and be protected. He wouldn't be able to be obvious about it but the word would spread. It always did. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Just don't know what all it takes to manage any land larger than a garden.”

“It depends on the number of people you have and the amount of land. The purpose, too.”

“I seriously doubt anyone would give me much of anything.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Aziraphale broke the connection of their arms to tuck his around Crowley’s waist instead. “There’s more to find in the lands between towns, and a trustworthy knight can get that sort of thing directly from my- well, me. Now.”

Crowley flushed hotly, torn between just leaning into the hold and running for the hills. His indecision kept him right there where Aziraphale had put him. “You- You barely even know me.”

Aziraphale wished he could figure out just what made Crowley tense when he attempted things like this. He seemed so bold sometimes, but others... He wanted to draw him nearer, but kept his hold gentle. “Why should that matter? You haven't been dishonest.”

Except he very much had. Technically. He was pretending to be a beta, hiding both his status as a mage and an omega. He wasn't being truthful at all. “You don't know that.”

“I suppose not, but why should that keep me from trusting you? I've no reason not to, and I hope you don't have a reason to distrust me.”

“It’s not distrust so much as…” Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I like you, you're sweet and cute and interesting to talk to, but… I don't know. That doesn't mean I'd hand a plot of land off and hope you didn't plan on doing something you shouldn't with it.”

That was... Well, it was practical. More so than Aziraphale tended to be when it came to his fellow man. “Well, it would be your land. So long as you weren't using it to hurt people and taxes are paid, I've no reason to fret.”

Crowley gave in just a little bit and leaned against him. “You are ridiculous.”

“That’s alright.” Aziraphale’s purrs began anew, palm comfortable at Crowley's hip. The little shiver he felt amused and concerned. “You should come back in summer. It's far warmer to the point where the sea breeze is a welcome reprieve.”

“You don't hold the tournament in the summer.” Crowley reminded him. “But I will. Much prefer the heat over the cold.”

So it was a chill. Aziraphale let himself warm a little more. “Luckily for you, I've body heat to share.”

“I noticed,” Crowley murmured, all the more interested in burrowing against Aziraphale's side. “Your hands are always so warm.”

“Something inherited from my father, I’m told.” Aziraphale smiled, lashes fluttering. “You’re free to use my body how you please.”

Crowley coughed and flushed. Fucking hell. Forget being executed, the king was going to kill him by saying things like that alone. “Aziraphale!”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Besides, we're here.” Crowley stopped them in front of the inn he was staying at, the Sailors Respite. There was sound and music and laughing from inside, the windows warm with the golden glow of the torches and hearth burning inside. “It’s not much but it's been a good place to go back to every night.”

“Oh, yes. I know it. I’ve heard they also don’t charge as much as other places for an entire room. Not around tournament time, anyway.”

“That’s right. And they've been comping my meals since I paid up for the whole tournament and help in the stables when I'm able.”

“Oh, yes, the stables. How has your Bentley been enjoying her respite?”

“She’s anxious to get back out there and run her heart out.” Crowley grinned down at him. “Wanna meet her?”

“I would love to. If she likes apples, I’ll take one from the stores.”

“She loves the bloody things.”

“Excellent.” Aziraphale gave him a fond squeeze before they made their way around the building. Aziraphale very clearly knew where he was going, not even asking where the extra treats were stored for the stabled horses. He even knew where to put a coin for the apple he took, though the gold piece he slipped into the box was far more than the simple pence asked of the owners. Turning back to Crowley, he dug in his thumbs and split it in two with a satisfying crack. “Here you are. So she doesn’t think you’re neglecting her.”

“R-right.” Good gods, with that much strength in just his hands… Crowley cleared his throat and took one half, sure he was fighting back a too-pink blush and losing that fight. “And she would never.”

The blush was as sweet as the rest of him, Aziraphale’s smile warming. “No. I’m sure you take excellent care of her.”

“Of course I do.” Though he could hear a quiet nickering from deeper in. “And, yes, I hear you. Come on.” They made their way to the back of the stable, most of the horses already bedded down for the evening but, as Crowley had expected, a jet black head was stuck out over Bentley's stall, ears forward and her nostrils flaring. Crowley shook his head and offered her the apple half in his hand before even attempting to pet her. “Aziraphale, this is Bentley. Watch her teeth, she likes to bite. Not because she's mad or anything, she just likes it. Bentley, Aziraphale. Be nice.”

Aziraphale laughed, low and warm. “She’s a strong opinionated thing, then. Much like her rider, hm?” He waited as she crunched the first half of the apple with those blunt teeth, cracking his half in two before stepping forward. He gave her the quarter, very gently stroking her snout. “Clever thing, aren’t you? Just eyeing the last piece.”

“She’s got sharp eyes,” Crowley said, giving her neck a fond pat. “Saved my arse more than a few times.”

“Then she's more than deserving of a treat now and again.” Aziraphale laid his palm flat, letting Bentley lick it off of his hand. “Such a beauty. There's not a speck of white or grey on her, is there?”

“Nope! Black from snout to tail.”

“Goodness, such a rare find. I don't think we have one like her in the royal stables.” She nickered and snorted, tossing her head proudly, and Aziraphale’s laugh rumbled again. “Yes, lovely creature, I’m giving you every compliment you deserve,” he cooed. “With only two matches tomorrow, you could take her on a run, you know. I’d be very happy to show you some of my favourite trails.”

“I think I'd like that.” He knew she was getting antsy being unable to run like she liked. “She would, too. Bentley’s not used to being stabled this long.”

“Then you've a companion who enjoys your lifestyle.” Aziraphale stroked her long snout, caressing gently since she seemed to enjoy it. “My Rhew could use the exercise as well. He's got quite the journey ahead of him, after all. He did very well on the peacekeeping tour, so I've faith in him.”

“It would be a good chance for them to meet each other, too.” Crowley leaned his hip against the stall and watched Bentley lick what apple juice remained from Aziraphale's palm. “She’s picky about who she likes… though apparently decided you're alright from the get go.”

A good chance to meet. As if it mattered. As if Crowley was still determined to come along. “She’s a smart one, my dear. I’ll have to bring her more treats tomorrow.”

“Oh, she'll like that. Give her treats and she'll be your best friend.”

“Will you?” he asked, taking the faint nibble at his palm as agreement. As well as a sign to move his hand to her neck. “A worthy goal to aspire to, then. She is beautiful, Crowley. Really. Tall and regal, and clearly strong.” And healthy. Whatever extra funds Crowley did get likely went to her.

“She better be. I hand raised her.”

“Did you? I did with my Rhew. As much as I could, rather. No one within the castle grounds is as strict as our stable master.”

Crowley chuckled and ran his hand down her long neck. “Yeah. Her mother got sick and when she died Agnes said the foal probably wouldn't last the winter. Well, I said fuck that and brought her into our shed and nursed her until she could eat on her own. The farmer who owned her said if she survived I could keep her. Drove Agnes nuts.”

“Oh, poor girl. Such a rough start. But it’s no wonder she likes to bite if you raised her,” Aziraphale teased.

“Oh? You think I'm bitey, do you?”

“We’ll say I wouldn’t be at all surprised with that wicked temperament of yours,” Aziraphale purred.

“Wicked temperament,” Crowley repeated back to him. “And you'd know all about that, of course.”

“Blessedly, I haven’t been forced to bear the brunt of your wrath, but I’ve heard how sharply you speak about certain others and I did watch you fight two persons you are, ah, less than fond of today.”

Crowley chuckled and bobbed his head. “Yeah, alright, I guess I can be a little ruthless in combat when I have to be.” He just didn't want to have to be. “Only when they deserve it, though.”

“Mmhm. Which leads me to believe you can also be rather nippy should the mood strike.”

Crowley bared his teeth. “Yeah, I suppose I can be.”

Aziraphale laughed. “That’s very nice to know for sure. It’s a good thing I don’t mind.”

“Well, we're going to be spending quite an awful lot of time together here soon, so it's probably good that you don't mind.”

He reached out, cupping Crowley’s chin. “I keep telling you that you don’t need to agree to accompany me. My problems don’t need to become yours, my dear.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched stubbornly and he resisted the want to tilt his head into Aziraphale's hand. “And I told you I would. Just gotta send a letter to Agnes, tell her I'll be late and to not worry.”

“So there’s stubbornness mixed in with that temperament.” His hand shifted, Aziraphale’s thumb gently rubbing his cheek. “If you do win, we could figure out a route which includes a stop with her.”

“S-sure.” Agnes would probably skin him alive and hang his hide out to dry if he showed up on her doorstep with the king in tow. “Probably be boring for you.”

“I highly doubt that. Nothing about you has been boring,” Aziraphale purred.

They were so close, Crowley could feel the heat of him all up and down his front. It felt like being pulled down in an undercurrent. Like he was on the edge of something. Something terrifying and important and bloody amazing.“That so?”

“Incredibly so. I want to know so much about you, Crowley. What I know now doesn’t feel like nearly enough.”

“Might not like what you find out.”

“We can’t know that,” Aziraphale pointed out, gaze briefly tipping down to Crowley’s lips. “I like you enough to want to travel with you and learn about you. That’s surely enough for now.”

“For now.” He could agree with that. And, maybe, by the time he absolutely had to use magic in some overt way, Aziraphale would like and trust him enough to not mind. “Wouldn’t have agreed to come otherwise.”

“I know.” Aziraphale stepped nearer still. “What else might you agree to?”

Anything was what his stupid instincts and brain were screaming at him to say. “Depends on how you ask.”

“Asking is always the preferred way. May I kiss you?”

Fuck. That was both what he wanted and what he was afraid of. Would Aziraphale be angry with him, think he was misled, if Crowley said yes only to find out later he was an omega? What about a mage? It would be a risk but, gods, everything in him yearned for the offered affection. “I- Aziraphale-” Was he going to regret this? “I can't,” Crowley eventually croaked, hating the way Aziraphale's face fell. “Not here. Not now.”

When, then? He wanted to ask, nearly did, but he held it back. He didn’t want to be a pest, and he didn’t want to put pressure on Crowley. No matter that it felt confusing. Simply baffling. He’d been so sure Crowley was going to agree, so sure he could feel him yielding to it even now. Why not now? Why not here? Can’t. “Alright. I won’t say it isn’t disappointing, but I would never disrespect your autonomy.”

“‘M sorry. I know I probably don't make any sense.”

None whatsoever. Aziraphale kissed his cheek before withdrawing, his smile easy despite the confusion. “Don’t fret, my dear. You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

Crowley closed his eyes and hid a shaking hand by grasping the top edge of the stall door. It also kept him from grabbing Aziraphale and hauling him back. “Thank you.”

“Will you let me walk you back to the inn’s entry?”

“I- I will, yeah. I'd like that.” It was much easier to agree to. Less dangerous.

“As would I.” Aziraphale turned back to Bentley, who was eyeing the pair of them with suspicion or curiosity. They could look the same on a horse. He smiled as he reached up, stroking her nose. “And I will see you again tomorrow, my dear. I’m sure you’ll delight Rhew.”

“Or she'll chase him around and try to bite his arse. You never know with Bentley.”

“As much as he likes to play, he’d still be delighted,” Aziraphale chuckled.

Crowley laughed and bumped their shoulders together. His stomach still felt twisted up in knots over having to tell Aziraphale no, but at least this was normal. “You can't let him let her bully him.”

“We’ll just see how it shakes out. He’s a stubborn thing, so I don’t believe he’ll allow her to go too far.” He'd gotten used to defending himself from a young age, the wobbly legged colt immediately seen as different. Aziraphale offered his arm with a smile. “Shall we?”

He was still doing these gentlemanly things, he hadn't demanded his token back. Crowley threaded his arm through Aziraphale's with a relieved sigh. “Yeah, gotta get my beauty sleep and be rested enough to kick Uriel's arse tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes. And well enough to handle reins. How's your wrist feel?”

Crowley rolled it, only feeling a twinge of pain. “Getting better. Should be just fine by tomorrow.”

“Good.” He bid Bentley goodnight before guiding Crowley out, and encouraged his purrs to come back.

Hearing them again just made everything better, soothed the worries and fear that he'd made an awful mistake. Even though he'd denied him, Aziraphale still purred for him. “Thank you,” Crowley said softly again as they stepped into the night, the sun having set while they were inside. “Really. Thank you.”

“What is it you keep saying? I'm just being me.” Aziraphale smiled. “Even when I try being someone else, I don't believe I'm very good at it.”

“No? Not good at playing pretend?”

There were so many things he already had to keep secret, it was difficult to add more. “I do enjoy games, but they're brief. Even at the masquerade, I still behaved like myself despite altering my appearance a touch.”

“So you were still adorable and sweet, got it.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “I feel as if you'd garotte me if I attempted to call you adorable.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled. “I haven't been adorable since I was a kid.”

Aziraphale disagreed. “I imagine you a precocious, devilish little thing.”

“Sure was!” Crowley said proudly. “And I bet you were just a fluffy little angel.”

“Oh. Ah. Well.” Pink dusted his cheeks. “I suppose it, ah… Hm.”

Crowley's grin slowly spread wider. “Ooohh.” He gave Aziraphale a nudge with his hip. “You were a little troublemaker, I see.”

He’d terrorised the kitchen staff more than anyone else, really. He’d had a terrible habit of stealing snacks and hiding away in roaring fireplaces to eat them in peace. Too often, he’d eaten and laid down for a nap only to be awakened by the shrieking of a new person or a cauldron being swung into his space. A few maids he’d played hide and seek with in the same way and he could distinctly remember setting the flamboyantly decorated coat of a count alight because he’d been bothering his mother. The count had never known it to be anything other than a candle, but he’d gotten a very stern scolding for it. “I was… a smidge rambunctious, but it was a bit difficult to not have anyone my own age about to play with.”

“I can imagine.” And he wondered how much of a menace he might have been had he not had Agne’s granddaughter to grab him by the back of his shirt and drag him away from trouble. “It must have been hard being a kid surrounded by so many adults and no other children.”

“It was on occasion, but I had an endless sea of distractions. Lessons and books kept me very busy.”

“Oh, gods, that sounds awful.”

“I wouldn’t call my childhood awful,” Aziraphale laughed, stopping at the door. “I’ll see you come morning, my dear. Thank you for spending time with me this evening. I look forward to tomorrow.”

“Y-yeah. It was… good to just be able to talk. Like normal people.” Crowley flushed a little and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry, I'll kick Uriel's arse tomorrow. She won't know what hit her.”

Aziraphale wanted to say they were normal people, but his crown was still heavy on his head and he knew it simply wasn’t true. Whatever his personal beliefs and behaviours, they were in vastly different social areas. Aziraphale broke away to take his free hand, lifting it to his lips. “I have full faith in you, my dear. Even if you only do it to avenge Raphael.”

“He deserves a little avenging,” Crowley reasoned, still amazed at that Aziraphale was behaving the way he was. “Don’t get ambushed on your way back to the castle, Your Majesty.”

“Knowing my very protective guard captain, someone is waiting nearby to escort me. If it isn’t Raphael himself, it’ll be one of the other knights.”

“Another reason not to keep you out too late,” he teased, hand moving to cup Aziraphale's cheek when it was released. Crowley bent and kissed the other, just a barely there brush, but he saw how round Aziraphale's eyes had gotten when he pulled back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Gosh. Yes.” He blinked twice before his smile spread across his features. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yes. Have a lovely evening, my dear.”

Crowley nodded. “Goodnight, angel,” he said and hated how he forced himself to flee inside before he changed his mind, before he dragged Aziraphale back to the stables, shoved him against a wall, and kissed him like he wanted to.

Aziraphale’s smile stayed as he turned away from the door, humming happily as he began to make his way down the walk. He wasn’t surprised when a knight sidled up beside him, but did lift his brows when he recognised which one it was. “Sir Nina,” he greeted, “how lovely to see you.”

“Your Majesty,” she replied with a respectable enough nod. Respectable wasn’t something she tended to lean towards, which was delightful to him. She was on the sassier side of things, much like Crowley. “Wasn’t expecting you to leave so soon.”

“No?” The look she slanted him said definitely not, which made his smile brighten. “I wasn’t asked to stay. For all his bravado, I think the darling man is shy.”

“Shy? That one?”

“That one,” Aziraphale confirmed with a chuckle. “Now tell me about your fight with him. I’d love to know your perspective.”

He knew the tournament grounds well by now, recognised and was recognised in turn by the guards that had regular gate duty. They nodded to one another and it was… nice to feel like a part of something. To be known and trusted. He didn't often get that, constantly on the move from town to town, never staying in one place long enough for anyone to see him and know who he was on sight.

It was also a little strange and Crowley rushed to the competitors tent to get ready. There was already a crowd gathered and even more filing in ahead, behind, and around him. Crowley secretly wished he'd gotten up sooner but… he'd laid awake wondering if he'd screwed up for far too long and overslept more than he'd intended. Screw his bad luck for getting the early matches every bloody day.

When he pulled the tent flap aside the only people there were the two knights, Sirs Raphael and Gabriel, deep in discussion about things that probably weren't Crowley’s business but that he was curious about all the same. He went right to his designated trunk and almost startled to find a pair of vambraces sitting right on top that he knew weren't his own.

“Good morning, Mr. Crowley,” Raphael greeted, quietly grateful for the distraction. Gabriel's nonsense was baffling on a day wherein he could devote all of his energy towards solving the riddle of his brain, and that day was not one where he had that capability. One arm was still in a sling, but it was a sturdier one than the slapdash cloth thrown together the day before. “Sir Uriel’s already on the field, but no need to rush. King Aziraphale hasn't opened the games for today yet.”

“Oh, er, thanks.” He was still staring at the armour. “Um… did someone leave their things over here?”

“Sir Nina,” Raphael confirmed. “She’s letting you borrow them until new ones can be fashioned for you. At the crown's expense, of course, being that yours was ruined in the tournament.”

“Oh… Oh!” That was right, they would replace his equipment. He'd sort of forgotten about that amongst… everything. “Wow, that was nice of her.”

“Considering that you left her with quite the bruise, I'd say so.”

“I wouldn't let a competitor use anything of mine,” Gabriel announced, somehow sounding as if he was bragging. “But if she already lost, I guess deferring to you is best. It's always a good idea to show respect to the people who are better than you.”

“And how do you know when you're better than someone again?”

“In the absence of titles, you win. Obviously.” He grinned, teeth almost absurdly straight and white. “You know, defeating Uriel isn't going to be easy. There’s a reason she was chosen to protect our future queen.”

“She’ll only be queen if our king passes before siring an heir,” Raphael said with an unusual sharpness. “Kindly refer to the royal family properly.”

Something about the whole ‘siring an heir’ thing made Crowley want to twitch. Aziraphale could have literally anyone, any omega or beta or, hell, probably any alpha he wanted. It was ridiculous for him to care about what Aziraphale did when… he would likely be at the bottom of the picking list. He wasn't noble born, didn't have money or means, no power and no sway anywhere. Crowley swallowed and turned back to his trunk. “And gods forbid that.”

“Yes. Gods willing, he’ll have a long reign.”

“The princess won't like that,” Gabriel pointed out. “Besides, she’ll also be queen once her brother fails his quest.”

Raphael gritted his teeth. “If he fails, his companion also fails.”

“I’m not going to fail,” Gabriel scoffed.

“Then long live the king and long may he reign.”

“I’d drink to that if I had something to drink right now.”

“We’ll have to get a pint together, Mr. Crowley. Soon.” Raphael's smile turned more genuine. “We’ll toast to your victory over Sir Uriel.”

Crowley chuckled as he buckled the vambraces and other armour he didn't usually wear out and about onto himself. “I’d like that. Are you going to invite Aziraphale along, too?”

Gabriel’s brows shot up. “I think you mean Prince Aziraphale, buddy.”

“King,” Raphael corrected, a hand lifting to rub at his temple. “And yes.”

“Oh, fun. He needs some down time.”

“I heard he's going to get that today. He hasn't had a chance to take Rhew out in a while.” Though Raphael didn't want to say much with Gabriel there. “We’ll go tonight, though.”

“Sounds good to me.” He finished up putting everything on, only a little frustrated that Sir Nina’s loaned armour was a better quality than his ruined ones. The perks of being a knight and living in the city. “Just let me know time and place and I'll be there.”

“Later,” Raphael promised, looking towards the entrance when they heard familiar trumpets. “My cue to return to the royal box. When His Majesty inevitably asks how you are, what shall I tell him?”

Aziraphale wanted to kiss him, probably wanted a bit more than that, wanted to know how he was and wanted to spend time with him. It almost felt like being courted but Crowley dashed that thought away before it could fully take shape. “You can tell him my wrist seems a lot better. That I'm doing alright.”

“I will, then. Best of luck today.” Both in the field and out of it, but Raphael gave him a nod. “Good day, Sir Gabriel.”

He clapped him on his good shoulder hard enough to buckle a lesser man’s knees. “Thank you, but I don't need luck. It's only Sandalphon.”

The luck had been for Crowley, but Raphael only sent Crowley a pained look before stepping away. “Of course,” he agreed simply and left the tent.

Gabriel turned his grin on Crowley. “You know, for common rabble you are an impressive fighter. You should think about joining my guard if you're ever knighted.”

Crowley debated on revealing that Aziraphale said he would knight him regardless but decided against it. Let it be a surprise. “While I appreciate the offer, I like being able to travel as I please.”

“We send scouts out all the time. The Duke keeps us busy.” Gabriel shook his head, but offered a hand to shake. “Uriel might kill you, but good luck!”

It would take more than the princess’s pet guard to kill him but Crowley nodded and took the knight's outstretched hand. “Thanks. I'd wish you luck as well but I don't think you'll need it.”

“Not at all!” he cheerfully replied, giving Crowley a firm pump before letting go. “If you win, I'll beat you tomorrow.”

Crowley couldn't allow that to happen. He'd already given Aziraphale his word that he would win and go with him on his quest. “We'll see about that.”

“But you've got to beat Uriel first,” Gabriel reminded him, lifting a hand in goodbye as he turned away. “See you around, Mr. Crowley.”

“Heh, yeah,” Crowley waved back and pulled the tent flap aside. He did need to beat Uriel for both Aziraphale and Raphael's sakes. Though he figured he'd be fine, how tough could the princess's personal guard be anyway?

Chapter Text

Crowley stepped out onto the tournament field just as the second set of trumpets sounded off. Sir Uriel was already there, as Raphael had said, arms crossed and looking as serious as ever. He crossed the field to her in a casual swagger, unhurried but he wouldn't necessarily say he was entirely without worry. He just needed to exude an air of such, which he thought he did rather well. “Sir Uriel, you're here early.”

He barely earned a glance. “Or you're late.”

“Late? Nah. Not late until they're calling my name and sending people to go look for me. That would be late and not even fashionably.”

“There's nothing fashionable about tardiness.” As Aziraphale began his opening announcements, she laid a hand on the hilt of her sword. “I hope you slept well enough to not be a sore loser.”

“I know how to acknowledge a loss,” Crowley said but he was grinning. “I just hope you do as well.”

“I don't lose.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” He was still grinning, as it seemed to annoy her. “And I have no plans to lose today.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “Plans change.”

“Yeah, they do, and I'm going to beat you and then I'm going to beat Sir Gabriel. Hadn't planned on beating Gabe but, as you said, plans change.”

“Showing off for your king, then? Hoping to become his latest conquest?”

Crowley's jaw clenched. He knew he couldn't expect the rumours to have stayed among the common citizens, but if she was going to go there… “I’d rather think I'll be the one conquering him.”

She sneered. “He won’t be king long enough for you to gain anything. Besides, it isn’t as if sharing his bed would make you special.”

No, Crowley knew he wasn't special, that there were plenty of others who'd caught Aziraphale's eye in the past. “Don’t need to be special. Fucking royalty is it's own reward.”

Her eyes rolled. “Pathetic,” she muttered, withdrawing her sword when Aziraphale told them they could begin on his countdown. “I’m sure pity sex will be delightful.”

“It sure would be. Almost as delightful as celebratory sex.” Crowley drew his own sword, twirling it with his fingers. “I’ll be sure to let you know how it goes.”

“That’s disgusting,” she snapped, wasting no time in striking with a speed and a precision that had kept Raphael on his toes and would Crowley as well.

The suddenness of it almost threw Crowley off. Aziraphale had barely gotten the number out before he was having to lift his sword to block her swing. She didn't have the same brute force of Hastur or Ligur but she was accurate and quick. Crowley thought she would even be deadly in a real fight. He blocked two swings and just barely dodged another, a few of his long hairs sliced by Uriel's razor sharp sword.

She didn’t speak as others Crowley had fought. Her eyes stayed focused, her own dodges when Crowley tried offensive manoeuvres performed with the sort of seamlessness only consistent training could bring. Also unlike others Crowley had fought, she knew how to anticipate the unexpected and could move accordingly. The crowds were drowned out by the consistent clang of metal, swords meeting again and again as they made use of most of the field. Neither of them stayed in one place long, footwork almost the same but for Crowley’s impossibly good balance. It was the only thing that pinched Uriel’s expression, the knight positive more than once that he was about to overbalance and fall only to have his feet plant firmly on his next move. Be it a swing or a jab or a block. She would never admit he was good, however. Not aloud.

Meanwhile Crowley was thanking every bloody lucky star he had that his balance was so good. There were multiple instances where he was sure he would have toppled right over, either from having to twist about to avoid her blade or from tripping over his own feet. The earth and the ground, however, never allowed it to happen, it met the soles of his feet as it always did and kept him perfectly upright. The fact that she couldn't unbalance him seemed to annoy her with every traded blow. She wanted him to fall, to fail, and Crowley refused to give her the satisfaction. Sweat rolled down his neck and his arm grew heavier. He was using his left, the right not in as much pain but still not good enough for a fight, especially not for this one. He just needed to find an edge, an opening, something before he grew too tired to keep up with her.

One didn't seem to be coming, not at first, but her annoyance was making her just reckless enough that Crowley's blade was eventually able to slice against her breastplate. Though mostly metal, he managed to cut cleanly through one of the leather straps buckling it together. Not enough to make it fall, but enough to change the angle it sat on her body. Enough to make her uncomfortable. She leapt back, wanting the space to get her bearings and glare at him for the damage.

Crowley smirked, just a little, and flicked his blade. Giving her some space and himself some breathing room. “Careful, wouldn't want an equipment malfunction.”

“There won't be one. I take better care of my things than Sir Raphael, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Crowley repeated back, wiping sweat from his brow with his free hand. Uriel's armour falling off in the middle of combat would be a little bit of payback for Raphael…

There was a sheen of sweat across Uriel’s brow as well, but she struck out with the same precision she'd started with. She could and would fight until her last breath if she had to, and wasn't prepared to lose to a common sellsword.

Fighting to the last breath wasn't in Crowley's plans today and those plans weren't changing. He just needed to hold her off long enough to concentrate because, the problem was, they might have looked evenly matched to the casual onlooker, but Crowley knew they weren't. She was better. If he hadn't had his unnatural advantage… well, he was sure she would have beaten him already. So Crowley bided his time, waiting and watching and deflecting her blows as well as he could. He couldn't block all of them, was especially irked when he saw her sword too late and earned a very thin, very shallow slice across his cheekbone. It was the only thing that seemed to bring her any joy, the corner of her mouth quirking momentarily before it turned stoney again. Crowley hissed, closing one eye in instinct and glared through the other. All he needed was just a moment, a second.

It was a little like cheating, at least it felt that way. He didn't think she'd let him cut the strap on the other side but… he didn't need to cut it. Armour was heavy and they were moving enough that it had to be putting strain on the remaining strap keeping it up. Crowley’s remaining open eye narrowed, focused on the place he knew leather was riveted to metal. He just needed a whisper of intent, a little ripping, some extra pull. The breastplate falling forward and open as Sir Uriel rushed at him was probably more comical to him than to anyone else but it did exactly as he'd hoped. Uriel looked down, horrified, and gave Crowley the perfect opportunity to smack her sword from her hand.

It was a stunning enough combination that she didn't clutch her sword tighter at the smack as she tended to do, distracted enough to instead yank her hand towards her body. She only realised what she’d done when her sword landed with a hard clang against her fallen armour. “No. That's not-”

“We have our winner!” Aziraphale announced, his sister seething as he rose. “Mr. Anthony Crowley now advances to the top two.”

Crowley flicked his sword, still breathing hard as he bowed to both the royal box and the cheering crowd. He cocked his head at the clearly enraged Uriel as he straightened. “Celebratory it is.”

She snatched her sword up, but sheathed it neatly. “You got very lucky.”

“I’m sure gonna be, yeah.”

Her eyes rolled as she grabbed her breastplate as well. “That’s enough. I don’t need to hear your advertising your own whorish behaviours.”

“You’re the one who brought it up in the first place,” Crowley reminded her as he sheathed his sword. “If you don't want to know, I'd suggest keeping your unwanted opinions to yourself next time.”

She turned away from him abruptly and stormed away, and Aziraphale made quick work of his next announcement to remind everyone of the next match time. For the time being, he had something to do besides wait on the tournament grounds. “Well, Michael, your guard’s lost to a sellsword. It would seem both of our guards are unlucky this year,” he mused when he could, turning towards her with a smile more placating than bursting with the actual delight he felt. The worry would be dealt with soon.

“Or perhaps your little favourite is a cheater,” she snipped.

“Now it’s very rude to call someone a cheater simply because you aren’t pleased with the results. I never accused Sir Uriel of any such thing.”

“She would never. She doesn’t need to.”

“Mm. But she does seem to need to keep better control over her equipment. Goodness, imagine what would happen if that was in the midst of a true battle.” It was a mimic of what she’d said to him after Raphael’s loss, the nearby knight far better at hiding his smugness than Aziraphale was hiding his joy. “Now I’ll be off until the next match. I need to tend to my horse.”

“Your mixed breed,” she groused, but he ignored that particular jab. He was used to it, so made his way down the steps with Raphael.

“That was far from an easy fight,” he said quietly.

“He is human, Majesty. No one’s unbeatable.”

“I know, which was just why I was worried over their fight in the first place. Particularly since he was already injured. Forced to use his non-dominant hand throughout an already challenging fight must’ve been quite the struggle.”

“You’ll have to ask him on your ride. I’ll be asking him later over drinks.”

“Oh?”

“I suggested we go for a pint, and he asked me to invite you. One of your usuals?”

“Yes. One near his inn. Near the water. It’ll be a wonderful time.”

“He probably won’t go upstairs with you,” Raphael cautioned.

“I know,” Aziraphale acknowledged, “but he might.” Smiling, he ducked under the flap when Raphael lifted it and glanced about. No competitors were there but Crowley, one of the medics dabbing a cloth to his cheek while he grimaced at her. “Hello, Crowley, miss. How are you, my dear?”

The grimace faded almost instantly, only to return with a hiss from another dab at his cheek. “Well, I'm pretty sure Sir Uriel is planning my murder, but I kicked her arse so not bad.”

“You did an excellent job, regardless of how anyone else feels.”

“She’s not an easy opponent by any means,” Raphael added. “She took to her training with a serious strictness that makes her deadlier than most.”

“Yeah, I could tell. She almost had me a few times.”

“We saw. His Majesty was on the edge of his seat.”

Cheeks pink at the undeniable fact, Aziraphale smiled. “Yes, well, it was a very intense match.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” Crowley smiled crookedly up at him despite the sting of the cut on his cheek. “I’m just lucky her armour fell apart. Not sure I would have won otherwise.”

“No? I thought you were holding your own well enough, despite a certain mishap.” Aziraphale stepped closer, the medic neatly stepping out of the way. He cupped Crowley’s chin, gently tipping it so he could see the thin wound. “Oh, good, this doesn’t look too terrible.”

Crowley swallowed and held more still for Aziraphale than he ever had for the poor healer. “No? Not gonna give me a rugged scar?”

He chuckled. “Are you wanting one of those on this lovely face of yours?”

Lovely face. Gods how he was regretting telling Aziraphale no. It wasn't fair that an alpha who smelled like the best kind of fire had to be the king and that Crowley had to be himself. “Don’t think it would make me more handsome?”

“It might, but would you really want Sir Uriel to be the reason you’re more handsome?”

Crowley's nose wrinkled. “Maybe not.”

“See? Scars should come with stories you like to tell.”

“One doesn't always have control over that, Majesty,” Raphael reminded him.

Aziraphale smiled. “I know, but there are some grand storytellers in the world.”

“Liars. In that case, they'd be liars.”

Crowley chuckled and turned his head, letting Aziraphale's hand fall away. “Come on, Raph, don't be like that. Everyone loves a good story.”

“I wonder what tale you’ll tell if this scars over.”

Aziraphale’s laugh bubbled out. “Oh, I’m sure it won’t have to be embellished overmuch.”

“Nah, probably not. I did beat the princess’s personal guard one on one. That's pretty impressive in and of itself.”

“You did indeed do that,” Aziraphale purred. “Michael’s furious.”

Crowley winced despite Aziraphale's clear delight. “Note to self, avoid Princess Michael at all costs unless you're between us.”

“Don’t worry, pet. I won’t allow her to threaten you.”

“Luckily for him.” Raphael shook his head. “It was a good fight, though. Very nice to see her downed due to her own equipment.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened, turning wicked at the corners. “Poetic justice, perhaps.”

Or just her opponent being a vindictive little shit. Not that Crowley would admit to such. “Maybe she'll learn to be less of a self-righteous cunt.”

“Maybe,” Raphael said in a way that led no one to believe he meant it.

Aziraphale offered his hands to help Crowley up. “In any case, I’m ready to go if you are.”

“Yeah, suppose I am.” Crowley took the offered hands, never failing to note just how warm Aziraphale always seemed to be. He'd probably be perfect to curl up with on winter nights, a thought that warmed Crowley's face as he let Aziraphale help him up despite not really needing it.

“Would you like to meet my Rhew first? It’ll keep Bentley from having to wait too long.”

“Yeah, sure. Bentley's impatient anyway. Make her stand still for too long and she's liable to start biting.”

“So you keep saying.” Aziraphale tipped his head towards Raphael. “We’ll see you before the next match?”

“Please do. Unfortunately, too much time alone with Sir Gabriel is hazardous to his health.”

“Not to yours?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Goodness, Raphael. He may a bit… much, but that’s no reason to threaten him.”

“Hardly a threat, Majesty. He isn’t around to hear it.”

Crowley shared a smile with Raphael. “Even if he heard it I don't think he'd understand.”

“You’re both rude,” Aziraphale scolded, but his lips twitched anyway. “Come along, my dear. You won’t have to worry about Rhew biting you, but… he may lick you.”

“He’s weird,” Raphael supplied.

“That’s fine. I like weird.” Crowley decided that if the entire castle and town already assumed he was sharing Aziraphale's bed, he might as well give them more to talk about and threaded his arm through Aziraphale's. “Am weird, even.”

“There’s nothing at all wrong with that,” Aziraphale purred, delighted to have him close. Willingly so, especially.

“Because you’re weird too, Majesty. Enjoy your outing.”

Crowley laughed and waved at him and let Aziraphale guide him from the tent. They were going to get looks, he knew they would, but he thought it might be worth it if Uriel saw them. “No one’s going to throw a fit over you sneaking off, will they?”

“No. While it isn’t… typical for me to leave the grounds entirely during the tournament, there’s no rule which says I must stay the entire time.”

“Good. I'd hate for an angel like His Majesty to get into trouble.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Are you not trouble?”

“Oh, I am most assuredly trouble.”

Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered. “Then I’m very interested in getting into trouble.”

Crowley coughed and probably would have choked had he been eating or drinking anything. “When all this nonsense is over, court me like a proper gentleman ought, and trouble might consider it.”

“Oh. I-” Aziraphale blinked at him, but surprised quickly shifted to a delighted smile. He wasn’t at all used to courting properly, but he’d like to. He enjoyed little rituals. “I shall.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” And when all this was over he could go away, have a heat in peace, listen to Agnes shout at him over putting it off as he intended to do, and come back with a more level head on his shoulders.

The royal stables were far more grand than the ones at Crowley’s inn, though Aziraphale did look about before drawing Crowley inside. The stable master was strict and on the frustrated side when it came to Aziraphale, and had been for the last five years especially. But it was well worth it, his smile brightening and his arm leaving Crowley’s grip when they approached the last stable on the left.

The preference within the royal stables had been Clydesdales for more generations than Aziraphale could realistically say, the proud, large horses quite the sight on any battlefield or any show. The breeding was, therefore, careful and selective and very particular. Every horse which had its very own stable was a very similar shade of brown with a bald face and, unseeable through the stable doors, also white around their feathered lower legs.

The face that eagerly nuzzled into Aziraphale’s palm was white… partially. It was where the similarities between him and the others ended, even his mane streaked with black and grey. Not quite as tall as the others, either, but endlessly friendly. “Our stable master won’t allow him to breed with anyone as he’s a mixed breed. An Appaloosa got into Rhew’s mother’s pen, and no one has ever figured out how. He was going to sell him off to farmers in a town just east of us, but I refused to allow it. I wanted him from the moment I saw his silly coat. It looks as if he’s been snowed on.”

Crowley laughed and held his hand out for Rhew to sniff and then lick with great enthusiasm. He was a little silly looking, the coat that Crowley could see a medium grey and dabbled with lighter grey and white. Some of it even looked like snowflakes. “He’s very handsome. And tall, good gods, I never knew the royal horses were so big.”

“Mmhm. Sixteen hands on average, but Rhew’s only fourteen. He just turned five, so newly a stallion besides.” Aziraphale stroked his neck, smiling like a proud father. “I was supposed to have a properly bred one, but when I saw him wobbling about with his unusual coat, I couldn’t let him go.”

“You’re adorable, and he's lucky to have you.”

“Thank you. I’ll fetch him a carrot.” Rhew’s ear flicked towards Aziraphale at the word, his hooves audibly shifting just behind the stall door. “Once you’ve fed him, he’ll be your dearest friend.”

“Oh? Is that right? You like carrots?” Crowley asked, gently scratching the massive animal's jaw. Rhew's ears flicked toward him momentarily but his gaze stayed on Aziraphale. “You’ve got his full, undivided attention, angel.”

“I know it, but I’m willing to share it with you.” Aziraphale didn’t have to go far, the feed in storage just out of Rhew’s reach. It had to be after one or two (or a half-dozen) instances wherein he’d claimed everything in his reach. He returned with a carrot, dark eyes locked onto him, but he offered it to Crowley and earned an unhappy whinny for it. “Oh, be patient, you enormous infant. You’ll have it.”

Crowley laughed again and broke the carrot in half, much like Aziraphale had done Bentley's apple the night before. He offered his half to Rhew, earning happy tail flicks as the massive horse ate with enthusiasm. “Be nice to him, angel, he was just hungry.”

“He always is. Another reason our stable master detests him. He tends to eat anything and everything he can get his teeth on.” Aziraphale’s smile warmed as he stroked the spotted neck. “I love this menace.”

Crowley could tell. It took effort to actually speak with animals but he could naturally see their bond, the trust Rhew had in Aziraphale. “I think he knows.”

“I hope so.” Aziraphale turned his soft smile on Crowley. “Now I’ll get him ready to go. I’m not sure how Bentley is, but you’re able to come into his stall with me if you’d like. He’s never kicked anyone,” though Aziraphale knew he wanted to kick one specific person as the dislike was far from one-sided, “but I’d still avoid his hind quarters.”

“As one should do with any horse you're not familiar with. Though Bentley has kicked me a few times just because she wanted to.”

“That’s very good to know. I won’t be joining you when you saddle her up,” Aziraphale laughed, unlatching the stall. As the door slid open, Rhew’s ears lifted high and his hooves danced a little, but he stayed where he was. And his gaze didn’t leave the carrot half still in Crowley’s hand.

“Just don't stand behind her.” Crowley patted Rhew’s neck and let him have the other carrot half while Aziraphale went around to his side. “Though she warmed up to you faster than she ever has anyone else.”

“Which I’m very pleased with. Technically, he’s a destrier. We’ve gone out in full armour a few times, especially around the tournament. I’ll likely bring him tomorrow fully dressed for the final day. He isn’t usually fond of the chanfron as he doesn’t like things near his eyes.”

“Aww, poor thing.” Bentley had never had anything more fancy on her than a saddle and bridal. “This’ll be a nice treat for him, then.”

“Oh, yes.” He laid the saddle pad over Rhew’s back, the horse turning his head to try seeing what it was he was doing, and Aziraphale smiled. “Stop staring, silly thing. It’ll just be the saddle and bridle today for you as well.”

“No barebacking for His Majesty, I see.”

“No. Neither of us are very comfortable with it.” Aziraphale stroked his neck on the way to his saddle, the leather decorated with actual colour. Branded into it were symbols of his royalty and family history. “But he'll tolerate it if need be.”

It was much fancier and nicer than the one he had. Crowley's fingers itched to touch but kept on petting Rhew’s neck instead. “I learned bareback. Had to save up to buy a saddle myself.”

Aziraphale had never once had to save up for anything. “I learned that way as well. Mother insisted I master it before I was allowed a saddle. Rhew responds differently to it than most horses. Almost as if he's offended by the lack of proper clothes.”

Crowley chuckled. “Why do I get the feeling you'd be the same way?”

“One must dress for the occasion.”

“You and your fancy pants horse.”

“He’s well-loved,” Aziraphale replied, tightening the saddle until Rhew’s ears said it was enough. Then he reached for the bridle. “And he knows it. What do you think of him?”

“I think he's pampered, spoiled, and very sweet.” Crowley smiled at the way Rhew’s ears flicked. He might not have been trying to specifically speak with the horse, but animals often knew the general gist of what he said anyway. “He’s also very well trained.”

“I would say all of that is entirely true.” Aziraphale rubbed his snout once the bridle was in place, then his ears when Rhew lowered his head enough. “He’s also very mischievous when it comes to the things he wants. I think he’ll like your Bentley, and I hope she's willing to give him a chance.”

“She very well might. Although Bentley’s particular, and I can never tell when she's going to decide she likes someone or not.”

“Thankfully, Rhew likes nearly everyone.” A very wet tongue swiped up his cheek and he stepped back with a laugh. “I said nearly. I know who your dislikes include.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted curiously. “Oohh? Care to share?”

“The stable master, for one. He's also, ah, bucked my sister more than once. Twice directly into mud after convincing her it was safe to relax her grip of his reins.”

Crowley threw his head back and cackled, patting Rhew’s neck fondly. “Amazing! Great, yeah, I think he'll get along with Bentley after all.”

“We can hope.” He'd also bitten his uncle once, but many horses in this stable had. It didn't seem particularly specific to Rhew. “Here. If you'll kindly lead him out, I'll get some food for the pair of them together. It's best that Rhew not know what's being brought.”

“Yeah, alright, I can do that.” Crowley took the hanging reigns. “Come on, Rhew, let's go for a walk.” Whether Rhew understood him or was just eager to follow, Crowley didn't know, but Crowley led him through the stable and out to the yard. But, instead of just waiting for Aziraphale, he led the horse in wide circles, letting him stretch his legs. “Yeah, I bet that feels good after being cooped up in the stable, hm?”

He nickered in response, bending his nose to sniff at Crowley's hair. It wasn't quite the colour of carrots or apples, but very close to both and he did smell distinctly earthy.

Crowley laughed and gently nudged Rhew’s mouth away from his hair. He knew from experience with Bentley that it would end in disaster. “None of that, now. Aziraphale's bringing food with us.”

He did like that and knew Aziraphale’s name as well as his own. Nearly as well as the word food, for that matter. He snorted and pranced his hooves, feathered legs fluttering.

He was even more of a handsome beast when he was out and about, black grey and white mane catching the sun. He might not have been ‘properly’ breed but Crowley had never cared much about that anyway. “Yes, I know, just be patient. And don't be a pest when you meet Bentley. She won't put up with it.”

“As she shouldn't,” Aziraphale agreed as he approached, soon fixing the bags he carried to Rhew’s saddle. “She's a fine lady.”

“She’s a menace.”

“So is Rhew, but he's still a fine gentleman.” Aziraphale patted his neck. “Would you like to ride him?”

“Nah, I'm good. I'm sure I'll have plenty of chances on the road.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “So you would prefer to walk to the inn?”

Crowley crossed his arms. “You asked if I wanted to ride, not if I wanted to ride with you.”

“I’m very sorry for not being more specific. Would you care to ride him with me to the inn? Teasing you aside, I am also perfectly alright with walking.”

In lieu of answering him Crowley hefted himself onto Rhew’s back and held a hand down to Aziraphale. “Come on, I’ll even let you ride in front.”

Laughing, Aziraphale took his hand. It took some adjusting to fit comfortably with the narrow saddle, but Rhew waited patiently through it. Aziraphale took the reins. “Hold on,” he encouraged. “I won't send him into a full gallop, but I'd still prefer you not fall.”

Crowley had never, not once, fallen off a horse or in general. Not unless he'd wanted to. His hands still found Aziraphale's waist, front pressed to the alpha’s back. This close it was easier to smell him, smokey and herby and sweet. Crowley was tempted to nose at his throat and resisted only because it would so easily give himself away. “Don’t worry, angel. I won't fall.”

“Good.” A gentle nudge had Rhew walking forward, his flicking tail and bouncing ears sign enough of his delight to be out and about. It was safer to focus on him than the way Crowley felt against him. So close yet somehow not nearly close enough. To think, he was actually going to allow Aziraphale to court him. They'd already begun, in his opinion, and this outing was just an important part of it. Scandalous still, considering neither of them were chaperoned, but Aziraphale preferred a private courting to one that could be judged. Or one where either of them were pressured to be less than they were.

There was enough of that sort of pressure for Aziraphale’s tucked away abilities. He didn't want to have to hide away anything else which was integral to himself as a person.

They both hid the important things, though at the moment Crowley was mostly trying to keep himself from being a bit of a creep. He liked Aziraphale, probably too much for who they both were. No matter how sweet or adorable or interested Aziraphale seemed, Crowley knew it would only ever be a casual fling - if that. It was fine to flirt and tease but if he ever got found out as an omega… it would ruin his chances of being a knight and whatever else he might be, he wasn't some royal’s playtoy.

Crowley didn't necessarily disparage that sort of thing and riling Sir Uriel up had been fun, but the looks and whispers that followed them to the inn rankled. Another notch on the king's bedpost, a lover to join the ranks of many others. And Crowley wanted so much more for himself than that.

He dismounted before Aziraphale had a chance to when they arrived at his inn's stables, sliding off Rhew’s back with the ease and fluidity of someone who'd ridden most of their life and fled inside before he could think about pulling Aziraphale along with him and pushing him down into a pile of hay.

Aziraphale had been hoping for the opportunity to heft him down himself, but supposed it was for the best. It would've been odd - being the one between a horse head and a person - to be the first down. The absence did make his back feel cold, though. An odd sensation he wasn't at all used to. Cold was avoidable, ignorable, fleeting. He couldn't ever remember feeling the chill of winter.

The chill of his absence reminded him of the same feeling he'd gotten after dancing at the masquerade, tucked away with a mysterious man who'd tasted of a tomorrow. He'd been impossible to find and guilt did tend to nip at him after he and Crowley parted, but when he was with Crowley, nothing else seemed to matter.

He wanted to know if Crowley tasted of tomorrows. He felt like it, and the idea of courting lit him up in ways he hadn't felt in years. But was that because Crowley had come along at the lowest point of Aziraphale’s life or was it because he was Crowley? That wasn't something he knew how to answer yet, but he was willing to do the work to find out.

He smiled when Crowley returned from the inn’s stables. A future with him could be very nice indeed. “Best behaviour now, Rhew. You need to make a good impression.”

He was guiding Bentley by her reins, a hand on her side. Her ears flicked in interest at the new activities after being stabled so long, though her attention was pulled immediately to the stallion and rider. Crowley laid a hand on her side as they approached. “Be good, Bentley. Or you're going right back inside.”

Aziraphale laughed, but looped the reins an extra time around his hand. “Don’t threaten her. That’s rude.”

“Have you really spent this much time with me and not realised I am rude?”

“I’m of the opinion that your rudeness is merely one facet of many.”

“One of many,” Crowley agreed. He walked Bentley up to Rhew and let them sniff each other out, keeping a close eye on her ears. “That’s right. He's a friend. No biting.”

“Don’t lick her,” Aziraphale warned. “You don’t know her well enough yet.”

Rhew snorted in response to that, but kept his tongue behind his bridle’s bit and butted his snout against her smaller one instead.

Crowley watched her and her flicking ears intently for any sign of annoyance - or fear, Rhew was quite a bit bigger than her, after all - but it seemed he needn't have worried. Bentley huffed at the larger horse and turned her head away to nibble Crowley's sleeve, seemingly uninterested after all.

“No, you're not getting another treat right now. We're eating later.” But at least she wasn't trying to bite poor Rhew, that was the important part.

Aziraphale chuckled. “Soon. They’ll both be happier for it, I think.”

“Yeah, probably.” Content that Bentley was going to behave, Crowley pulled himself up into her saddle and gave her neck a pat. “I think she'll also be happier to be in some wide open space she can run in.”

“She’ll have that. And I hope you enjoy the views the trails afford.” Aziraphale gave the reins a tug and Rhew’s sides a nudge, urging him away from the stables. “Having to look down at you is new.”

Crowley chuckled and steered Bentley to follow them. “You’re not that much taller than me like this.”

“It’s still a different angle.” Aziraphale guided Rhew so they could walk side by side. Rhew seemed as interested in all the goings on as Aziraphale tended to be, but his distraction never took them off course. “You’re just as lovely.”

He probably said that to all his lovers but it still made Crowley flush. “And which do you think is the better angle?”

“I think they’re equally as fascinating. I do see you from a higher vantage point during your tournament bouts as well, you know. There, you’re so focused even when I can see that you’re speaking. I always wonder what it is you’re saying to your opponents, especially when you smirk. Walking beside you is very nice because I’m able to see the angle of your jaw, the way your hair escapes and curls about your shoulders. Sometimes I think I can even see your eyes, but your glasses are very thorough. This one, I get to see the way you control your mare. You didn’t don spurs, so you trust her to heed you without hurting her. I admire that. I’m also terribly fascinated by the fact that you manage to slouch even in a saddle. Your back is liquid.”

By the end of Aziraphale's little monologue Crowley felt like he'd just had his face a little too close to a roaring campfire. It was a lot to take in all at once, a lot to listen to about himself. People didn't usually pay so much attention to him, not like that. “‘Course I don't use spurs,” Crowley grumbled because it was the only thing he felt like he could reply to. He definitely wasn't going to mention his eyes. “Never have. Don’t need to hurt Bentley like that; she knows what to do.”

“As with most tools, there's a right and a wrong way to use them. But I'm impressed by the lack nonetheless. It shows how well you've trained her.”

It had been less training and more using magic to speak to her and develop a bond. They understood one another. Crowley shrugged at him and slouched further. “I’ve just never really seen a need for them.”

“Nor have I. Not with any of the horses I've been on.” He patted Rhew’s neck, smiling at his happy sounds. “I won't let anyone ride him wearing them.”

“Good. You shouldn't.” Crowley gave Bentley’s reins a gentle pull when she attempted to stray towards a side street, the curious thing, and she corrected with no hesitation. “I know it's not… typical… but I've never been fond of using pain as a motivator. For animals or people.”

“Nor have I. I don't find fear very effective, and I believe respect can come from other avenues.”

Crowley snorted. “If you have to use fear to make someone or something respect you, you're not very worthy of it in the first place.”

“Agreed.” Aziraphale nodded his head towards an upcoming break between buildings. “We’ll make a left here. We're leaving the city proper.”

“Oh, good, I was starting to feel cooped up.”

“In a city as large as this? How do you feel in small villages?”

“Villages aren't surrounded by massive stone walls, they don't have buildings as big as these.” Crowley tilted his head back and stared up at the blue sky. “There’s so many less people. I don't think I've ever bumped into so many people as I have since coming here.”

“Ah. I don't think I would be able to handle anywhere smaller. I may have thrown caution to the wind and run off by now.”

Crowley laughed and tilted his head to look up at him. “You say that like I didn't run off every few months, only to come back before night really fell.”

“Goodness, you were a troublemaker.” And Aziraphale was all the more fond of him for it. “Did your grandmother worry?”

Crowley blinked for a moment before realising. “Nah, Agnes always knew I'd come home. Even when I got older and was gone longer and longer, she always seemed to know when I'd come back and have a meal ready.”

“Then she trusts you as much as she loves you.” Aziraphale envied that.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Sometimes he wished she'd gone after him, looked for him, tried to make him stay. His parents hadn't wanted to keep him and, despite how he knew she cared, Agnes hadn't tried to. “It made leaving when I became an adult pretty easy, so I guess that was alright.”

“Yes, I think I understand that. You've been able to gain quite a bit of independence that way. And so many life experiences. I'm sure I've hardly heard a smidge of them.” Aziraphale encouraged Rhew to turn, the exits nearly empty with so many visiting for the tournament or taking advantage of few fights to explore the city proper.

“I have so many stories I could tell. Most of ‘em probably aren't that interesting, though. I've played it safe for the most part.”

“That says to me you're wiser than your reckless nature would lead one to believe,” Aziraphale mused. “Perhaps you'll share a tale or two with me today.”

He'd have to think of one that didn't involve magic or find a way to edit it out while still being believable. “I will, if you'd like.”

“I would. I adore hearing tales from travellers.”

“Then I’ll think of something and tell you a little story while we're out.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale purred, slowing to a stop as they reached one of the gates. He had to whistle for the guard’s attention, which amused rather than irritated. “Hello, Sir! Kindly open the gates, would you?”

“Yes, Your High- Majesty! Your Majesty. Right away, Your Majesty,” he stuttered, flustered as he hurried to the wheel that would raise the bars.

Aziraphale shook his head. “They don't expect anyone to be leaving this time of year.”

Crowley chuckled as the portcullis gate was slowly raised. “I would expect not. Who wants to leave when you have everything you could want already here?”

“Along with the additional entertainment,” Aziraphale agreed, but felt a buzz of excitement as he was finally able to encourage Rhew beyond the city walls. It was the same thing he felt each and every time he was outside of the gates, a tugging to explore. To see what the world was really made of beyond the confines of where he’d been raised. He did want to leave, despite having everything he could want at his fingertips. Some things just couldn’t be bought and this was one of them. He sent Crowley a bright smile, the only warning before he nudged Rhew into a much faster gallop than what was allowed within the city. The limits were different outside.

Crowley only gaped after him for a moment before he was flicking Bentley's reins and urging her to chase after them. The cobblestone road of the city gradually fading into dirt of the farming roads that spread out from Berwick like spiderwebs. Buildings became shorter and smaller and more spread out. Crowley recognised the road from when he'd arrived and, for the first time since then, actually felt free.

“I’m sure you’ve been on seaside cliffs before, but have you ever been on the ones near Berwick?” Aziraphale asked.

“I haven't, no. Is that where we're going?”

“Yes, they’re where my favourite trail ends at.”

“Sounds good to me.” It had been a while since he'd been to such a place. “I’m curious as to why it's your favourite.”

“If you see it the way I do, you’ll understand,” Aziraphale replied, flicking his reins to urge Rhew faster. Faster and away from the paths Crowley recognised. He could smell the sea in the air, feel the wind whipping around him, see the trees as they approached. He’d never felt drawn to the water, air, or earth as he had flame, but he wasn’t entirely unaware of them either. He loved places where he could feel all four rushing through him, though the flame was all internal as they entered the swell of trees. It was obviously well-travelled, the branches arching like a canopy above them, letting the sun in flickers and flutters. It was cooler in the woods than outside, the birdsong and chittering of smaller wildlife more prevalent.

Crowley tilted his head back as they entered the little woods, breathing in the earth and the trees. This was where he was most at home, this was where he was most free. Everything around them sang, called out him. Knew that if he slipped from his horse that, even through his boots, he'd be able to feel the plant growth beneath his feet. Crowley smiled up at the light filtering between the leaves, not bothering to guide Bentley, she knew not to wander off the trail. “This is nice, I was kind of missing forests and trees.”

“Oh, yes. We’ve taken a few from another nearby forest for buildings over the years, but this one is off-limits.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “What do you know about Aelfric’s companions?”

“A little bit. I know he had a mage and a knight.” And the mage had, supposedly, ‘betrayed’ him in some way, though Agnes had always glossed over that even when Crowley had pressed.

“Mmhm. Some say when they were young... Well, it's said that it was the mage who shaped the trees and forged this path. Unfortunately, it was the fear of curses which ensured these trees couldn't be taken down. But...” Aziraphale’s hands fidgeted on the reins, a little nervous to say but he had to know if Crowley would be offended by this or not. He had to know how quiet he'd need to be on this journey if Crowley did indeed go with him. “I don't believe they're cursed in any way. I think they shouldn't be torn down because they're beautiful and the path is as well.”

Crowley frowned a little, the tale feeling something like familiar. He could almost hear Agnes’ voice in his head but couldn't remember the words. “Nah, not cursed,” he murmured. Cursed places could be felt, they exuded a particular aura of malice. “This trail’s well worn, it wouldn't be so travelled if it was cursed.”

“Would you call me mad if I said it felt... loved?”

“Loved?” He wasn't sure about that but there was power here. Someone had cared enough about this place to infuse it with magic, that much he could feel. He could possibly tell more if he had the time and focus to pick apart the residue that was left behind, the feeling of it a gentle prickle against the back of his neck. To someone who didn't know what they were looking for or feeling, it could possibly feel like love. “Nah. You're not mad. It feels… like other places I've been. Places where magic has seeped into the surroundings and changed it.”

“Such as that lake with the glowing fish?”

“Yeah. Locals claim a mage enchanted the fish to glow like that a long time ago. It has a… feeling about. Peaceful-like.”

Aziraphale nodded. “So you’re not one of those persons who believe such things should be, ah, eradicated?”

Crowley tensed, fists tightening on the reins hard enough to leave his knuckles white. “Don’t really see a point in destroying things that aren't hurting anyone.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed, quietly relieved. It could be alright to journey with him, to reveal more as time went. “Neither do I. Thank you for your honesty, my dear.”

The tension Crowley had held suddenly released with a quiet breath. He'd said as little as he possibly could while still being truthful and even that could get him in big trouble in some places. Hell, it could have gotten him in big trouble right here. “I’m just glad I'm not being promptly marched to the gallows.”

Aziraphale winced. “Goodness, no. Unless you’ve gone out murdering innocent people for nothing more than your own enjoyment, I see no reason whatsoever for such barbaric actions.”

Crowley gave a soft chuckle. “It was a joke, angel. Though maybe a bad one.”

If his uncle hadn’t recently expressed just that sort of sentiment, perhaps he would’ve recognised it as such. “Regardless, such a thing hasn’t happened in Berwick since my parents had their coronation and it’s a tradition I’m quite happy to continue.”

Dark glasses hid the way Crowley glanced at him. It wasn't the sort of sentiment he expected, not from someone whose job it was to hand down the laws. It made him wonder how Aziraphale would react to finding out there was a mage right under his nose, if he would be frightened or curious, angry or delighted. He nearly did, just to see the reaction, but couldn't bring himself to. “‘S good. Kind, even. The world needs more kindness in it.”

“Well, thank you. I’m glad you approve. I much prefer that over the alternative.” Aziraphale smiled. “After how quickly you earned my attention, I’d hate for you to lose it equally as fast.”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “Gods forbid that.”

“Oh, yes.” Aziraphale encouraged Rhew to get a little closer. “Now I’ve always thought forests were wonderful places to hear a good tale. We may not be in a proper forest, exactly, but we can certainly make do. And I am very eager to learn one of your stories.”

“Aright, alright.” He could do that, considering the conversation they just had, Crowley thought he might have something Aziraphale would like to share. “So, as you know, sellsword. Though I usually consider myself more of a… general problem solver. A lot of that can be dealing with rabid animals, sometimes chasing off unsavoury people who want to cause issues, I've even assisted in barn raising and general construction. Basically if a job needs doing I'll do my best to get it done. And then, sometimes, very rarely, creatures from the deep wilderness get a little too close to a human settlement. It really, really, doesn't happen very often but a few years ago I was travelling through a village that was having issues with a griffon.”

“Gosh,” Aziraphale replied, eyes rounding. “A griffon. Really?”

“Yep,” Crowley said with a little pop at the end. “Honestly I didn't believe them at first because, I mean, those things never come near humans if they can help it. They’re too smart. But I told ‘em I'd see what I could do. The place was terrified, apparently the thing had been swooping over and even picked someone up. They survived!” He clarified at Aziraphale's horrified expression. “Just scared out of their minds and had a broken leg. Could have been much worse.”

“Oh, yes. What on earth was the poor thing doing? Was it lost?”

“Not… exactly. Took me a while but I tracked it back to its nest one morning when it was out hunting. At first I thought it might have been a male, considering it was being a bit aggressive. Imagine my shock when I realised I was very wrong when I found three very fresh eggs.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale cooed. He'd only ever read about griffons, had never seen one or even imagined seeing one. Well, that wasn't true. He'd imagined it plenty of times, but it wasn't something he'd truly believed possible. “How sweet.”

“Sweet, yeah, I guess. She was attacking the village because the idiot built her nest too close to it and started feeling threatened.”

“Yes, yes, very poor planning on her part. But eggs. Just a protective mother doing her best.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn't just let her rampage all over, so… I did the only thing I thought I could do. Made something of a sling from a blanket I'd been planning on getting rid of anyway, packed the eggs safely into it, got on Bentley here and rode like hells.” He didn't say how he used magic to utterly destroy the nest, ensuring the griffon would never return to it. “The mother hadn't been gone very long and they've got an excellent sense of smell, so we rode as fast and as hard as we could. Dunno how far exactly we went into the forest, wasn't keeping track, just wanted to lure her as far away from humans as possible.”

“Oh, my goodness, Crowley. You stole her eggs? She could've killed you.”

“What else was I supposed to do? Wasn't gonna fight her; that'd be a bloody suicide mission by myself, and… well…” Crowley looked down at where he was holding Bentley’s reins. “That would've left the eggs without a parent.”

“Which would've been terrible,” Aziraphale agreed, smile softening. He was precious. Every day, he seemed to show Aziraphale more of the softness he seemed determined to hide. Failing miserably, but clearly trying. “What did you do next?”

“Like I said, rode Bentley as far into the forest as we could possibly go. Got pretty far before mama realised her eggs had been nabbed and came after me. When I heard her angry call I stopped, set the eggs down against a tree, didn't even bother taking them out of the sling, and rode even harder. I heard mum crashing through the trees like an angry screeching boulder and was half terrified she'd fly right past the eggs and get my arse. I was really lucky she didn't, so… when we didn't hear her anymore, I turned Bentley around and went back to the village. Obviously didn't take the same way back but it was close enough. Stayed there for about two weeks, just to make sure she didn't come back.”

“Hopefully she made use of your sling and got her babies somewhere safe and sound.”

“Hopefully. I wasn't suicidal enough to go check.”

“Then we'll assume, since you're alive and she didn't punish the village, that she hatched three healthy children.” Aziraphale wanted to reach out and touch his hair or take his hand, whichever he'd allow, but his hands stayed safely on his reins. “It was a very clever solution, darling.”

Darling. Crowley flushed and shrugged. “Wasn’t like she was being malicious or anything. It wasn't really her fault, she's just an animal. A huge, fuck-off scary animal but an animal nonetheless.”

“Which is exactly why most people wouldn't have taken the time you did. You didn't try to hunt her down or harm her little ones. You found a different answer.” He wanted to pull Crowley off that horse and kiss him so badly, it ached. “I find that far more admirable a feat.”

“I just try not to hurt things that are just doing their own thing. People being arseholes to other people is fair game, however.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. That wasn't helping his desire to draw Crowley close in the slightest, his scent warm with fondness. “Quite. I enjoy your perspective. Was the village grateful to you?”

“Not… exactly.” Crowley’s thumbs rubbed the thin leather in his hands. “They wanted me to kill it. Were kinda mad I didn't come back with its head. They were glad it was gone, for sure, but I did only get paid half of what they offered originally.”

Aziraphale’s nose scrunched. “Ah. That’s a terrible way to treat you. You accomplished what you needed to, so deserved to be paid.”

“Yeeaahh, but it wasn't what they wanted.”

“So… you deliberately forfeited the opportunity to be paid in full?”

“No! Not really!” Crowley said crossly. “I was hoping they'd be fine with it so long as the griffon was gone and not coming back. I mean, that's as good as dead, yeah? But nooooo. I agreed to kill it and didn't. They only paid me half because at least it was gone.”

He’d still taken that chance. He’d still done both more and less than he'd been hired to do. He'd risked his life and, in doing so, had not only allowed the griffin to live, but had ensured that a new generation had a chance to live as well. “Imagine how cross they may have been had you told them you'd technically allowed four griffins to live.”

“What they don't know can't hurt them.”

“Or your coin purse.”

“Gods. They probably wouldn't have paid me at all if I'd’ve told ‘em about the eggs.”

“What were you owed? Do you recall?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nah, it was a few years ago now and I wasn't that pressed about it. I might have started out expecting money and glory but… really I just liked knowing I helped people.”

“People and creatures, apparently.”

“Shut up,” Crowley grumbled, flushing again. “Just did what I felt was right.” At least he tried to.

If he hadn't been so embarrassed by it, Aziraphale would've assumed Crowley had told him the story in a bid to impress him. Instead, it was more evidence that he was sweet. “I rather like your morals, then.”

Morals… Would he be so keen to say so if he ever found out just how much Crowley had lied to him? Maybe… maybe he just wouldn't tell Aziraphale anything after all. Better that way. He wouldn't have to worry about disappointing an alpha that he actually liked.

Chapter Text

Eventually, the sound of the ocean could be heard again. The sun became more prominent. Aziraphale lifted his head towards it, eyes closing as he soaked in its warmth like a campfire heated coals. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said quietly, only just able to be heard over the clops of hooves in the dirt.

Crowley nodded in agreement. It was a nice day, only made even nicer by the magic that infused this little grove. He could feel it like a gentle caress, a warm complement to his own abilities. The longer he was here, the better he could feel the shape of it. Someone had encouraged these trees to grow with magic similar to his own. It made him miss Agnes’s garden. “I’m surprised more people aren't out here. I know the city is abuzz at the moment but… surely a nice walk like this is just as good.”

“Not many people do come here. The rumours of the curse tends to be enough warning, and others in Berwick have seen it before. I rarely see anyone else up here.”

Crowley frowned. “That’s such a shame. Hell, I like going back to places I've been before. There's always something to find that you didn't see last time if you just open your eyes.”

“Yes. Particularly in a place like this. There are always new birds, new flowers. It's always beautiful.”

Because someone had made it that way. “I’d like to see this place in autumn. I bet the colours are gorgeous.”

“They're spectacular,” Aziraphale assured him, purrs starting up. “Golds and reds and oranges vibrant enough to rival the sunset.”

He could see it clearly and could almost hear the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath Bentley’s hooves. “We’ll have to come back here then so you can show me.”

“I would love to.” He truly would. He'd seen Crowley look around and lift his head when they'd shared peaceful quiet. He'd breathed in the world around them more than once, so Aziraphale just knew he appreciated it. It was lovely to share one of his favourite places with someone who could actually enjoy it. “In the winter, after a fresh snowfall, it's just as gorgeous. It feels as if the trees and flowers are thrumming, waiting for a chance to burst free again. But the snow glistens so beautifully. It looks a bit like Rhew’s coat when it snows here, actually, fat flakes against dark wood.”

Crowley gave a little shiver. He liked the look of winter but wasn't fond of the temperature. “Note to self: bring extra winter clothes.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Get cold easily, then?”

“Oh, yeah. You could say cold and I do not get along.”

That was very good. “I’ll happily keep you warm all winter,” he teased.

Crowley was almost embarrassed at how much he wanted that, at how nice it would be to have someone he could wake up with when the world was cold and miserable. It caused a yearning ache in his chest while it also heated his cheeks. “Yeah, I bet you would.”

“I suppose you'll have to return come winter to ensure it.” Aziraphale would have to be back as well. And, gods willing, he would still be in charge.

Crowley’s lips pulled up at the corners. “We’ll have to see how long this quest of yours lasts.”

 “And pray it’s a successful one.”

“It will be.” Crowley was certain of that. “The princess and your uncle and their entourage are just underestimating you. Besides, I won't let you fail.”

After watching him fight, Aziraphale believed it. This wasn’t someone who gave up easily. “Still set on coming along, are you?”

“Yep! It's between me and Sir Lacks-A-Brain, and I can't let you go with him.”

“Goodness, Crowley. He isn’t brainless.” Just senseless. And irritating. And full of himself. Aziraphale grimaced.

“Are you sure about that? I'm pretty sure if you looked in his ear there would just be empty space in there.”

“One would have to want to get close enough to look,” Aziraphale muttered, nonplussed by the very idea. The more distance between him and Sir Gabriel, the better.

Crowley tilted his head to look up at Aziraphale and grinned. “Oh? Not interested in getting cosy with ol’ Gabe?”

That earned a full body shudder. “As captain of the guard in Hewin, I respect his position. That doesn’t require any sort of nearness.”

Crowley let his head fall back as he laughed warm and open. “There? You see? Better that I'm going to beat him and go with you instead.”

“Far better, yes.” Particularly since Aziraphale most definitely wanted to ‘cosy up’ to Crowley. He’d made it as clear as he possibly could, and did believe Crowley reciprocated. He wouldn’t have worn his scented gift the day before or claimed that Aziraphale would be able to court him if not. “How’s your wrist?”

“A lot better.” Crowley rolled said wrist. He'd been healing it a little at a time so as to not make it look like a miraculous recovery. “It’s not even swollen anymore.”

“Oh, that is good. I should’ve thought about it before inviting you on a ride.” His smile turned a little sheepish as he lifted his reins. “There is a bit of wrist work involved in this.”

“Don’t worry so much. If I didn't think I could handle it, I wouldn’t have come.”

Aziraphale would’ve come up with something else. Or tried at the very least. “Bentley seems happy for it, being out and about in nature again.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said softly as he gave her neck a pat. She replied with a soft snort. “She’s not used to being stabled so long. When we're travelling, we usually only stay still for a few days at most.”

“Two weeks for the griffon,” Aziraphale recalled. “Though she earned herself a rest.”

“For sure. Two weeks is an outlier for us, though. Just like this is.”

“I’m glad, then, to be part of your outlier.” The end of the trees was ahead, Aziraphale’s smile turning from Crowley. “Here we are. The end of the path is just here.”

Crowley gave Bentley's sides a squeeze with his legs, encouraging her to go a little faster. They broke past the trees a few paces before Aziraphale, Crowley tasting the salt of the ocean below them on the breeze. It spread out from the high cliffs like a rolling blue blanket. He'd seen the ocean before, of course, but it never failed to make him feel so small. “Wow. You can even see the harbour from here.”

“You can,” Aziraphale purred, purrs rumbling low as he gazed out towards the sea. “I’ve always felt… whole here.”

“Yeah…” It was like a meeting of elements. The earth of the forest and cliffs, the water of the sea, and the air of the wind caused by both. In the summer he thought the sun might even be able to provide fire to complete the set. Crowley closed his eyes, soaking it up, and almost immediately flung them back open again. There was a spell - he could feel it when he focused, a weaving of enchantment using the available elements. It was a warning, a gentle encouragement to come no closer, to stay away from the edge. Crowley’s hands tightened on the reins. He had no intention of jumping to his watery death, but it still gave him a chill. “You said the rumour is this place is cursed, right?”

“Not this particular spot, but the entire path. Why?”

Crowley shook his head. “Just had a sudden chill, is all.” He wasn't about to say there was a spell here at the end telling them to go back and go no further.

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “May I assist?”

It took him a moment but Crowley did, eventually, laugh. “Just can't wait to keep me warm, eh?”

“I will wait as long as you need,” Aziraphale promised, “but I do want you to know the offer stands.”

A warmth spread up Crowley's face again. He didn't get it. There were plenty of people willing to share Aziraphale's bed; he'd met more than a few of them already, so why was he so focused on Crowley? Not that he was complaining. It was nice to have an alpha’s attention; it just didn't make any sense. “Forgive me. I need… time for that sort of thing.”

“I understand, my dear. I am trying to avoid pressuring you. If I am, please tell me.”

“No! No. You're fine. Great, even. It's just… a lot, is all.”

“Is it?” Aziraphale blinked at him. “I can’t imagine you not drawing every eye anywhere you go.”

“Beta,” Crowley reminded him, almost wincing at how easy the lie came to his tongue. “Most people just look right past me.”

“Well, that's their mistake. You're handsome and clever.” Sweeter than honey and kinder than he seemed to be comfortable admitting. “Very difficult to look past, in my opinion.”

“That’s- Thank you.” Not that there was a lack of attractive people vying for Aziraphale's affection. “You’re also the king. That's not something easy to forget.”

“Well...” Why, he wanted to ask, should that matter? But it did. The crown he wore now was still from his princely status, but it felt heavier than it ever had. He reached up to take it off, pushing it into a saddlebag and coming up with an apple. “Here. For Bentley.”

Crowley smiled a little crookedly. The lack of a crown, princely or kingly, wouldn't make him forget just who was on the horse next to him. But it was a sweet gesture. Crowley tapped Bentley's neck, encouraging her head to turn towards Aziraphale's outstretched hand. She sniffed, snorted and shuffled right over. “Keep this up and she'll like you more than she does me.”

“Never.” Aziraphale smiled when she reached for the apple, the crunching immediately drawing Rhew’s attention. With a laugh, Aziraphale found a carrot and offered it to Crowley. “At least they have different favourites.”

“Thank the gods for that,” Crowley said with a laugh as he took the carrot. Rhew immediately followed it and began crunching down with no encouragement needed. “They might get jealous of each other otherwise.”

“Heaven forbid,” Aziraphale mused, watching Rhew curiously sniff at Bentley's neck. “She isn't a meal, wicked thing.” His horse nickered as if laughing.

“If you bite her she, will bite back,” Crowley warned him.

He didn't bite her, but he did rub his snout against her neck defiantly.

Crowley shook his head. “Your horse is almost as stubborn as you.”

“Almost,” Aziraphale agreed with a chuckle. “He’s quite sweet, though.”

“Also just like his rider, then.”

“You are such a darling,” Aziraphale purred, as pleased as his horse seemed to be. “What do you think of my little place here?”

Crowley glanced around and, unable to deny his curiosity, slipped from Bentley's back. The compulsion was still there, no doubt about it, but it was so subtle. He probably wouldn't have even known it was there without Agnes teaching him about stuff like it. Crowley walked right up to the edge, heart beating faster as the spell pushed against him. Nothing happened as he stood right on the edge of the cliff though he got the distinct impression that he was missing something. “It’s beautiful. A hidden gem back here, angel.”

Aziraphale trusted Rhew enough to leap down himself. He'd never felt any sense of foreboding there, but was still sensible as he approached the cliffside. “I think so as well. I always hoped... Well. It's silly.”

Crowley looked back at him and smiled. “Far be it from me to disparage a little silliness now and then.”

He'd always wanted to wed there. A simple, very unroyal-like wedding. Him and a mate of his own choosing, a dream that had felt as if it had been slipping through his fingers since the day he'd overheard his uncle saying he was only good to be married off for land or to ensure peace elsewhere. “No, it's nothing. I'm very glad you like it, though.”

He'd hoped Aziraphale would tell him, but maybe it was too personal yet. “Thanks for bringing me here. I probably never would have found it on my own.”

“Sometimes I've wondered if anyone can find it without being led by someone else.”

“Then how did you find it?”

“My mother. Somehow my father learned of it.” Somehow being shown by a very grateful healer who’d been spared the gallows and discreetly sent away with enough gold to keep her safe. “She may have grown up in Berwick, but she swears she never noticed the path. Another reason locals don't tend to come here. But, ah... That's just another enchantment theory.”

Crowley hummed and looked back out to the sea. He'd need time and focus and maybe even some materials to figure out the exact enchantments here. “That’s pretty interesting, actually, that this kind of place exists so close to Berwick.”

“Aelfric is the one who founded our city, after all. Before him, the capitol was in the North. According to my family history, that original land was buried by a volcano formed by the dragon Aelfric met.”

“Volcano, eh?” Something about that tickled the back of his mind but Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on why. “Still, I wouldn't expect to find an enchanted grove so close to the capital.”

“His friend grew up here, and it wasn't for... Oh, it was years and years before they had their falling out.”

“Oh, I know. It's just… places that are feared like this don't usually last.”

Aziraphale nodded. “If rumours of a curse and hiding enchantments are what it takes to keep this place alive, I'm happy for them.”

Crowley nodded in agreement. “Yeah, even if it means so few people get to experience it.”

“Very few. I've only come here with Raphael before, but you seemed as if you'd be just the right sort to bring.”

“Well, I'm glad you felt you could trust me with this.”

“As am I.” Aziraphale took his hand, holding it loosely in case Crowley wanted to break away. “You’ve proven yourself to be extraordinarily trustworthy in a very short time.”

His hold was a warm balm on Crowley's chilly fingers. “You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause I let you cry on me and didn't tell anyone.”

“That did put you in very high esteem, actually.” And there was no reason not to admit it. “I haven't cried since I was a pup.”

“Really?” Crowley turned his head to him, eyebrows raised. “Crying’s supposed to be good for you. Or, at least, that's what I've heard.”

“You’ve heard. Haven't partaken in the activity enough to say for sure?”

“Weeelll, no. Not as such.”

“There we are, then. Far too busy to cry, the pair of us.”

“And we'll probably continue to be way too busy. When are we supposed to leave, anyway? I'd like to write a letter to Agnes and have it sent off. Don't want her to worry.”

“Two days after the tournament. There are people in the castle, bustling about now to have things prepared. I would prefer to pack as lightly as possible to not weigh down our horses and still get us to the next town.” Aziraphale rubbed his thumb against Crowley's hand. “It gives us a day to go over the beginning of our route.”

Crowley nodded, trying not to be entirely distracted by the brush of Aziraphale's thumb. “Alright. I'll write it tonight, then, and send it off in the morning.”

“Really, Crowley, we can stop there. I don't wish to keep you from seeing her. It isn't fair to either of you.”

“Nah, it's alright. I wouldn't want to make you take a detour.”

“We won't know if it's a detour until we plan the route. I think, with you having travelled so much, your input is going to be invaluable.”

“We also don't know that it won't be. I'd rather send a letter and still end up showing up than not send one and worry the old woman into an early grave.”

“Alright, my dear, as you like.” Aziraphale knew how much an early grave could hurt. “We’ll need to get you measured for new vambraces after this, as well. Before Gabriel and Sandalphon’s fight.”

“And now you're just spoiling me.”

“No, no. It's only fair. Anything lost in the tournament is replaced.”

It still felt like he was getting some kind of special treatment. Everyone else, as far as he knew, had to go and get their new equipment themselves and then deliver a notice from the craftsman with the amount paid to be reimbursed. “I know, I know.”

Aziraphale knew he was going a smidge overboard just as Crowley did, but only squeezed his hand. “Sir Gabriel prefers offence over defence, but he will very rarely leave himself open. He fights by the rules, but in an exacting, precise sort of way.”

“So like Uriel, only more predictable.”

“And stronger,” Aziraphale warned. “He is equally as ruthless, however.”

“Sounds like a fun challenge.”

“I hope it is for you, but I also hope you don't get yourself injured too badly. I know Raphael said the two of you had invited me for drinks tonight, but we could spar beforehand. I know very well how Gabriel fights. It's exactly how my mother does. Did.”

Crowley squeezed his fingers and leaned towards him. He might have even lowered his glasses if he wasn't worried about the repercussions of doing so. “Angel, I know you're worried about me getting hurt, but I'll be fine. I know what I’m doing. A little bit of risk is just expected.”

“Well... If you're very sure, that's alright. I do trust in you. I've seen you defeat several persons now. You're not all that predictable in a fight, so I’m sure that's a part of your success.” Aziraphale smiled at him. “You’ve also gotten lucky once or twice.”

It hadn't been luck. “Exactly, so don't worry so much.”

“So sorry that I worry about you,” he teased and leaned in to kiss Crowley's cheek. “I’ll be rooting for you.”

Crowley flushed and held his hand a little tighter. “T-thanks. Though isn't it gauche for the prince- er, king to have a favourite?”

“It may be, but I don't see a reason to stop.”

“So you admit I'm your favourite?”

“You were even when Raphael was still competing.”

“That’s not very fair to your poor knight.”

Aziraphale laughed. “He knows it's true.”

Yes, Crowley was aware. Especially considering how Raphael had told him he could rebuff Aziraphale early on. He hadn't taken the advice and still wasn't sure if he'd made the safest choice. “Well I hope he doesn't mind playing second fiddle to a sellsword. Could be awkward.”

“Could be,” Aziraphale agreed with a laugh. “But I’m sure he wouldn't at all be surprised.”

“No. No, I don't think he'd be surprised at all.”

“I haven't told him that you intend on winning, but I know he'll be very relieved. He has a terrible habit of following me about even when I feel perfectly safe, yet he's comfortable leaving me with you.”

“That’s because I'm amazing,” Crowley said with a smirk, leaning their shoulders together. He just couldn't resist wanting to get closer to Aziraphale, the warm alpha scent temptingly drawing him in. “And he knows I wouldn't let anything happen to you.”

“I know you wouldn't either, but I do hope you know I would help you should anything try to attack.”

“I know you would. Hell, you'll probably get in my way trying to help.”

“I beg your pardon. I most certainly would not.”

“Yes, you would. I can see it now.” Crowley waved a hand in front of them. “I have everything under control, no issues whatsoever, but you're gonna get all worried and try to help and then we're both gonna get hurt.”

“Now I’m hardly that overprotective. I know you can handle yourself, my dear. But if help was needed, you would have it.” Aziraphale lifted their joined hands to kiss Crowley's, not daring to mention the assistance he’d already given when it had come to Hastur’s wretched cheating. Not yet. “And I would never leap in without saying something to you.”

“No?” Crowley asked with raised eyebrows. “You’ll be good and let me handle the things I know I can handle?”

Goodness, that was quite a way to phrase that question. “I can be very good.”

Crowley sincerely doubted it but, because he was being agreeable, he gave Aziraphale’s cheek a quick kiss before quickly pulling away and going to his own saddlebags to dig out an apple. “Here, Bentley, because I know you want more.”

Aziraphale lifted a hand to his cheek, purrs soft as he watched Crowley tend to his horse. His own scraped a hoof across the ground and butted Crowley in a bid for attention. Aziraphale was almost jealous when it earned Rhew a stroke to the neck. He would love to have those hands on his own skin, to feel Crowley's under his own. He was beautiful and sweet, interesting. He had opinions that meshed well with Aziraphale’s, though he hadn't failed to notice Crowley's hesitation when he thought those opinions might get him into some sort of trouble. He was endlessly fascinating, and Aziraphale knew he was only scratching the surface.

He wanted so much more. “I think Bentley may be just as spoiled as my Rhew.”

“Now, I don't know about that. Bentley doesn't usually get treated this much. We're used to roughin’ it, aren't we girl?”

“She’ll have to teach Rhew a thing or two about that.”

Crowley gave Rhew’s neck another scritch. “Yeah, your pampered stallion doesn't know what it's like to sleep on the cold hard ground most nights, hm?”

Rhew turned his head to lick Crowley's face. Aziraphale laughed. “He did alright on the tour, but no. He isn't used to it.”

“Yeah, but how long was the tour? This could be weeks, months, of travelling around looking for… for… for pieces of a broken relic of a sword…” He hadn't realised just how much of an impossible task Aziraphale had been handed until he said it out loud. “Fucking hell.”

“Hit you, has it?” Aziraphale’s smile weakened. “The impossibility of what I've been tasked with.”

“Yeah… Do you have, like… a starting point? A frame of reference? A clue?”

“I have... something. It's a bit difficult to explain. It's part of my family history, so not something we can bring along. But I've been working on making a copy.”

“Oh thank the gods.” So the task wasn't entirely impossible. “Because something is better than nothing.”

“Yes.” Barely. “I also have the journal of the ancestor who last failed the task, so we'll have that as a frame of reference. It's just a bit... ancient.”

“Ancient’s fine. We can work with ancient. At the very least it'll tell us where your ancestor already looked.”

“My thoughts as well. I've been reading some of it, and he started by heading westwards. Based on what I've seen from the tapestry, he should have started by heading east. But I've also gathered that he was very distrusting of magic, so... I'm not entirely surprised that he didn't heed the tapestry.”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted. “Tapestry?”

“Yes. I'll need to show it to you, and I will.”

“I’d like to see it. The ones in the ballroom were very interesting.”

“Did you like them?” Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “I've always been fond of the castle tapestries. My family history fascinates me.”

“That was your actual family history?” Crowley asked, remembering the colourful images of knights and royalty and clashing armies. “They were fascinating. I figured it was all just embellished stories.”

“Oh, I have no doubt many of them have been embellished.” Aziraphale shook his head, approaching him and the horses. Rhew flicked his mane, giddy when Aziraphale reached into the bags he knew had food. “There are three in my bedroom depicting Aelfric and his friends against their dragon. Aelfric’s sword is aflame, which is... Well, it's very unlikely. He would've had to have been a mage, and I've never seen a single word about that.” And he had looked.

Unless the sword had been enchanted. “Yeah, that one’s probably an exaggeration… though the stories do say he had a mage friend. The one who made this grove.”

“Would a fire enchantment even be something an earthen mage was able to do?” Aziraphale wondered, then reddened. “I- Well. Not that I- Of course you wouldn't know such a thing. Just thinking aloud.”

“No, yeah, of course, I mean- Who knows? Right?” It was something a mage of the earth could do with the right training. It would just take a lot of effort and the sacrifice of materials. “Like I said, probably made up. I mean, if they even did grow this grove.”

They had to have done. Aziraphale nodded. “Thank you for humouring me. I realise these aren't appropriate questions.”

“It’s- It’s fine. It’s just a thought experiment.”

“Oh.” It was not. “Thank you.”

“Shaddup,” Crowley grumbled, certain Aziraphale wouldn't find him trustworthy or someone to thank if he ever found out what Crowley was hiding from him. “Shouldn’t we head back soon?”

Yes, but Aziraphale didn't want to. Perhaps Crowley wasn't as comfortable with the idea of magic as Aziraphale had hoped. “Yes, unfortunately. It would be awful if I missed the next fight, and I’m feeling a bit peckish. Would you like to share a meal?”

That was a much safer avenue of conversation. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

“At your inn? We can stable our hooligans.”

Crowley chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, yeah, so long as Rhew here doesn't mind a strange place.”

“No, he's very agreeable. He appreciates new scents and experiences.”

“Good. Maybe he's not so pampered after all.”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale reached for him, stepping nearer himself rather than drawing Crowley closer. He kept his arms loose around Crowley’s waist, their cheeks resting together instead of their lips as he would’ve liked. But nearness did just as well, was just as important. “I hope he and I are both able to show you we can handle more than you think on the road.”

“N-ngk-” Crowley froze for a split second, not at all used to someone, let alone an attractive alpha, holding him. He was warm and smelled smokey and sweet. He was trembling and grasping at Aziraphale's elbows before he knew what he was doing. When he'd dared allow himself to dream, it had been something like this. Not exactly, not always an alpha and never in a place and beautiful as this, but… similar. Someone who cared, someone who actually wanted to hold onto him. He felt pathetic melting into the hold and letting his forehead fall to Aziraphale's shoulder but couldn't help doing it.

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, gently nosing his temple. “You can hold on if you’d like. As long as you’d like,” he promised, letting himself purr for him. He didn’t know what had caused Crowley to sink so thoroughly into him, but he wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to offer comfort or affection. Whatever it was he was seeking.

Crowley honestly didn't know why this simple touch had unmoored him so or what he needed from it, but his instincts insisted Aziraphale was a safe place to seek whatever it was. He held on, breathing him in in an embarrassing sort of way. “S-sorry…”

“Oh, my dear, it's alright. I don't mind giving you a hug. I wouldn’t have reached for you otherwise.”

“I know,” Crowley murmured, still not letting go.

“Then don’t apologise, darling. This is just fine.” He liked being held onto. He liked that Crowley wanted to hold him.

It still felt a bit pathetic to be laid low by a simple embrace. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my dear. Besides, you’re doing me a favour as well. I’m also getting a very nice hug out of this.”

Crowley huffed a small little laugh which helped to distract from how his eyes burned. “Always figured I was too bony to give good hugs.”

“Heavens no.” Aziraphale gently rubbed his lower back. “I think you’re just right.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“A wise choice, being that I’m the one who gets to embrace you.” Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his temple, right against an inked serpent. “Precious thing,” he purred.

It had been such a long time since Crowley had purred, since he'd felt safe and happy enough to do so. And even though Aziraphale seemed to do so regularly it was different to hear this close, a gentle comforting sound right in his ear. “Think you do that every time we're together.”

“Mmhm. Being with you pleases me, and you said you liked it.”

“I do like it; it's nice and… and not a sound I usually get to hear.”

“That’s quite a shame.” Aziraphale had spent most of his life listening to purrs, his own or his mother’s. “But I can understand. I’ve only heard an omega’s purr once or twice, and they’re rather different from what I’m used to. They manage a lovelier sound than I can make.”

“I- I wouldn't know. Omegas don't purr for me.” And it had been so long since had heard his own, he wasn't sure he could remember what it sounded like.

Aziraphale couldn’t fully recall what an omega purr sounded like either, but he did know the sound had reached his instincts like nothing else could. He wouldn’t say it was that which made him so fond of the sound, but it helped. “If one did now, I think I’d be very jealous.”

Crowley made another quiet laugh. “Don’t gotta worry about that.”

Smiling, Aziraphale nuzzled him again. “So happy to hear it.” He could hear restless hooves, so sent an amused look towards the midnight horse. “We’re boring your lady.”

“She’s always bored,” Crowley grumbled, finally lifting his head to frown at her. “You can't ever let me have anything, huh?”

“Perhaps she's the jealous one,” Aziraphale suggested with a soft laugh.

“I wouldn't put it past her.”

Aziraphale gave him a fond squeeze. “Should we part before she begins nipping at us or would you rather continue to risk it?”

Crowley chuckled and squeezed back briefly. He wanted to stay just like this for as long as Aziraphale would let him but he was already still embarrassed about how he'd acted. Crowley stepped back, though his hands hadn't yet left Aziraphale's arms. “Probably should head back before the next fight and before your sister and uncle cause a fuss.”

“Yes, yes.” Aziraphale smiled. “Your concern is highly appreciated, but they really aren't all that bad. They're just... different from me.”

To Crowley there was a difference between just being different and being… difficult. “All I'm doing is keeping you out of trouble.”

It was, simply put, frustrating to know neither of his remaining family members would approve of that. Any mistake deserved punishment without leniency. “I genuinely cannot begin to explain how deep my gratitude is.” Not without saying unkind things about his relatives. “Shall we?”

“Yeah, sure. You still owe me those vambraces too.”

“And lunch.” Aziraphale lifted each of his hands, pressed firm kisses to both before reluctantly letting go. “Let’s be off.”

Crowley's hands felt distinctly colder without Aziraphale holding them, but he nodded in agreement, fingers only flexing once Aziraphale had turned away. He was, he realised, in way too deep with absolutely no route for escape. If he even wanted escape in the first place.

Chapter Text

“Leaving Rhew in a different stable all afternoon is one way to get on the stable master’s good side,” Raphael mused.

“It was practical,” Aziraphale insisted, resisting the urge to take Crowley's hand. “It hardly seemed sensible to take him home simply to return for a meal.”

“The innkeeper won't mind,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. Even with the conversation, he was struggling to ignore the way the few patrons kept staring over at them. “Rhew seems way more behaved than Bentley, at any rate.”

“Don’t let our stable master hear you say that. He’ll throw you out on your ear,” Raphael warned, grin broad. “And so will most of the other stablehands in the city.”

“Now that’s certainly not true. He’s only eaten, ah, more than his fair share at three stables in the city.”

Crowley laughed. “If all he does is eat them out of house and home I consider that ‘behaved’.”

“There you are, then, He’s well behaved.”

“I never said he wasn’t. I’m only quoting others,” Raphael pointed out, lips twitching. “He is a good horse. Sturdy, listens well, strong as anything - but he’s always hungry.”

“He is food motivated.”

“So not much different from Aziraphale, then.”

Aziraphale laughed. He couldn’t not. He was, after all, the only one with a bowl of thick stew at their little table. It had been a long afternoon for him after separating from Crowley, listening to his uncle sing Sir Gabriel’s praises and comparing his professionalism, skill, and supposed intelligence in front of Raphael. Awful. “Know me well already, I see.”

“Considering multiple of our outings have included food now…”

“It is his fault that Rhew is how he is,” Raphael said. “Right from those first wobbly steps, Aziraphale was helping him eat.”

“Oh, stop. All I did was prevent the stable master from keeping Rhew from eating. He knew how to nurse without me, and his mother was wonderful.”

Crowley shook his head fondly. “You’re adorable, no wonder he's so attached to you.”

“If I wouldn’t allow him to be sold, I most assuredly wasn’t going to allow him to be starved. For the crime of questionable parentage. Tch.”

“So you made sure he could nurse and then feed him yourself when he started on solids, is what I'm hearing.”

“Of course.”

“And,” Raphael prompted.

Aziraphale’s cheeks reddened. “There- Well. There is no- There isn't an and.”

“And,” he said again, and laughed when Aziraphale pushed a spoonful of food into his mouth. “He showed Rhew how to access the grain if he wasn't fed that night for whatever reason, and it's all been downhill from there.”

Crowley threw his head back and cackled.“Angel! No wonder he's a menace to all the stablehands in town! They can't keep him out of the food storage if they tried!”

“Well. If he'd been treated with the kindness he deserved, I wouldn't have had to teach him how to fend for himself.”

“Taught him how to be a thief is what you did, Majesty.”

“Yeeaahh, sorry, angel, but I have to agree with Raph here.”

“Raph,” Aziraphale echoed and Raphael lifted his mug in an amused toast.

“It’s wise to agree with someone who's correct.”

Crowley also lifted his mug and lightly tapped it to Raphael’s. “Absolutely, not to mention staying on the guard captain's good side.”

“It’s simpler staying on my good side than on Sir Lucian’s.”

“Oh... He's just thorough, Raphael. And quite particular. He took his duties very seriously.”

“And he wasn't upset that you promoted Raph above him?”

“Well...”

“Furious,” Raphael admitted, voice lowering as he leaned in. “He’s been captain longer than I've been alive, and he was expected to stay that way until he was ready to retire.”

“It’s my right as king to promote someone. It was my parents who promoted Sir Lucian to his place, so it's hardly against tradition,” Aziraphale defended, thumb rubbing against the side of his spoon. “It’s also well known that you've been performing the majority of his duties the last five years, so it wasn't a complicated transition by any means.”

Crowley hummed around the lip of his mug, fascinated by castle politics. “Yeah, no, sounds like Raph deserved the promotion to me. ‘Sides, Sir Lucian has to be getting on in years, right?”

“Yes, obviously.” Aziraphale lifted a hand in a partial shrug. “The captain needs to be someone younger and capable of performing all necessary duties in cases of... disagreement.”

“Politics should match as well,” Raphael mused, “and Sir Lucian and Aziraphale do not see eye to eye.”

“He and my mother didn't either in many cases, but... yes. It would be best.”

“I’m also hoping a few of our wandering knights return.”

“Wandering knights?” Crowley asked. “Are they just out doing their own thing?”

“Many of them are like you,” Raphael mused. “People who win - or are knighted amidst - the tournament, leaving to find their own way with the backing of the crown. There are a few who tried being part of the royal guard, but were driven away for...” Raphael looked Aziraphale’s way, shrugging at the pinched expression. “For one reason or another. Like being an omega.”

“Raphael.”

“You will never convince me his bias isn't there, Majesty.”

Crowley swallowed and did his best to not seem overly interested. “Oh? There's none here?” As if he hadn't already noticed that.

“I’ve knighted several omegas over the years,” Aziraphale defended.

“And none of them are here. You and I may think they're strong enough, Majesty, but he does not.”

Crowley ran a thumb over the side of his mug, frowning. “No one likes to have their competency and strength constantly challenged. ‘Specially after they've already proven themselves.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’m very happy to send a messenger or two off to locate them. Explain there's been a change in leadership and see if they'd like to return. However, that invitation should be extended to everyone.”

“I’ll be happy to make that happen while you're gone. Our people will very likely keep an eye out for you, you know.”

“I would hope so.” Aziraphale’s smile returned, small but genuine. “You believe omegas are equally as capable as alphas, don't you, Crowley?”

“Well, yeah,” he said almost automatically and regretted the quick answer the second it left his mouth. “Presentations have never really made much of a difference to me.”

Luckily for him, neither of his drinking companions found fault with the answer or its swiftness. “Nor I,” Aziraphale agreed, and Raphael nodded.

“The queen never discouraged anyone from attempting to participate in any of our programs geared towards knighthood. Sir Lucian, however, thinks having a heat somehow makes a person addle brained.”

Crowley's eyes rolled behind his glasses and he made a mental note to, if he ever revealed his presentation in the first place, never reveal it to Sir Lucian unless he was feeling particularly murderous. “And I bet he's an alpha, too.”

“Yes. And if he can manage around his rut, an omega can around their heat,” Raphael insisted.

It was technically such an inappropriate thing to be talking about at a public place. Aziraphale sighed. “Raphael, I do understand that you're angry with him, but there's no need to turn everyone against him. He'll be returning to Hewin soon enough.”

It sounded to Crowley like it couldn't come soon enough and he hadn't even had the displeasure of meeting the man. “I’m sure they've missed him.”

“After all these years? I suppose so.”

“That was sarcasm, angel.”

He turned pink. “Oh.”

Raphael shook his head. “He has a son, but he didn't stay near us either.”

“Oh, yes. The younger Lucian left many years ago, before even getting a chance to be knighted, and I’m afraid we haven't heard much about him in quite some time.”

Interesting. Crowley wondered if he'd left to get away from his father. “No mate or spouse?”

“There are... rumours regarding what happened to his partner, but they're unfounded.”

Crowley pouted. “Aww, come on, angel. You can't say that and then not spill.”

“It isn't very appropriate for a public chat.”

Most of their conversation wasn't where Lucian was concerned. Raphael lowered his voice and leaned forward again. “The largest rumour is that his attentions weren't wanted, per se. And once the babe was born, she fled.”

“Yikes,” Crowley said with a wince. “If true, I couldn't blame her.”

“Nor I,” Aziraphale murmured, “but he still lived in Hewin. When he came to Berwick as my father's wedding present, he only had his son with him. He never spoke of the mother, so rumours grew.”

Perhaps the son had gone off to find the mother, then. “As rumours are wont to do.”

“Yes. But I don't believe my mother or father would've kept him about if there had been any proof.”

No, of course there'd be no proof. The mother had fled, anyone who might have known her was far away, and the father wouldn't speak. What proof even was there to find? “No, I wouldn't expect them too. Scandals aren't fun.”

“And throwing aside a gift from his own parents would've been...” Aziraphale grimaced, shaking his head. “Well, it would've been akin to a declaration of war.”

“And nobody wants war.” At least, it had seemed the late king and queen hadn't wanted war. Crowley was aware that they'd made great efforts to keep their vassals happy; there hadn't been whispers of war since Queen Frances’s ascension to the throne.

“No.”

Raphael looked into his mug. “I’d like to speak out of turn.”

“My dear fellow, you have been most of this conversation.”

“Then you won't object.”

“I definitely won't,” Crowley said with a cheeky grin. “Speak all you want.”

“This journey of yours could lead to war. Technically you could take your uncle's insistence on it a declaration.”

“Raphael-”

“He is deliberately defying the queen's wishes because they don't align with his beliefs,” Raphael continued. “Your absence is only going to allow them time to take advantage of the throne.”

“I don't think Michael would do that,” Aziraphale insisted. “She may not like that things have changed, but she wouldn't go against our mother.” Except... He looked down, teeth scraping against his lower lip as he poked at his stew. “I will succeed, and I will return. Not going would be akin to failure in their eyes, and I... I deserve an opportunity to prove to everyone that mother made the right choice.” To prove it to himself too.

“It’s still wrong, and I think they'll be an issue even after you return considering your plans.”

“I might not know what these plans are, but going against Aziraphale when he returns successful will prove a challenge. People will rally behind him even if just because of the symbol he carries. It's going to be a pretty big motivator.” A flaming sword, like in the stories and myths. “Hewin might not, depending on how attached to the Duke they are, but most of the others will likely see a myth come to life and fall in place.”

“That is the hope.”

“And if Hewin doesn't fall in line?” Raphael asked. “If the Duke is able to keep his closest allies from conforming?”

“I...” Aziraphale frowned, but his shoulders and spine stayed straight and even. “I’ll do what needs to be done, Raphael. Titles can be taken away. Power can be given to the people. But I'm going to avoid bloodshed as much as I'm able.”

It wasn't always that easy, but there wasn't a whole lot of point in arguing about it in the hypothetical. “That’ll be a bridge to cross when you get to it. A lot could change between now and then,” Crowley reasoned.

“That won't. What I want to do is good.”

Crowley tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Then do that. Saying you want to is all well and dandy but actually doing it is the hard part. And it's the hard part that matters. Words are as frivolous as the wind.”

“Oh, Crowley, I do know it.”

“He could be risking his life,” Raphael explained, knowing Crowley would understand that one day.

“My father tried,” Aziraphale murmured, “but he was taken before he could make much headway. And mother... She didn't have the strength without him.”

It was hard to feel sympathy for the ones who'd perpetuated the executions of people like him. Crowley's thumb rubbed the side of his mug as he looked down into it. “Doing the good thing is rarely easy. Or safe.”

“You would know that better than many, it seems.” Aziraphale laid a hand over Crowley's, smile soft. “Yet you're still so willing to do so much.”

Crowley shrugged one shoulder. “I have the skills and ability to help people; therefore, I have a duty to do so. That's all.”

“You, my dear, are exactly right. I do hope you’ll be willing to help me when the time comes.”

“If it'll make the lives of regular folk easier, probably.”

Easier, more honest, safer. But it was also asking people to trust something they didn't understand. It was a risk, but one Aziraphale was determined to take.

It also wasn't a safe topic to be discussing in public, and Raphael could see Aziraphale’s desire to explain himself. “Crowley, are you looking forward to your bout against Gabriel tomorrow?”

“I’m looking forward to kicking his smug arse and showing him he's not as special as he thinks he is.”

Raphael blinked. “What?”

Crowley smiled crookedly. “I know you warned me and all and I appreciate it, but… apparently I'm too much of a sucker for pleading kicked-puppy eyes. So I'm winning.”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to blink. “Kicked-puppy eyes?” he asked, Raphael’s laugh thundering out.

“Yep. That's what I said.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“It’s a relief, honestly.” Raphael toasted him again. “You may be able to keep him out of trouble.”

“I have never once gotten into trouble,” Aziraphale huffed.

“The fact that you believe that worries me, Majesty.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure His Royal Majesty stays trouble free. I'll have him returned with all limbs intact.”

Raphael was at least tactful enough to not make the joke which immediately sprang to mind, particularly since he didn’t think it was strictly a joke at all. “I have no doubt you will.” Limbs intact and, along with the rest of him, thoroughly inspected.

“Of course he will. I won’t be getting into any trouble.”

Crowley patted his shoulder. “Of course you won't. I'll be there.”

Raphael took a sip of his drink while Aziraphale did his best to defend himself. Crowley had no idea how difficult it was to actually keep their king out of trouble, but he’d learn. They both would if they had any hope of succeeding.

It was the final day. Sir Gabriel had defeated Sir Sandalphon with an ease which bordered on embarrassing, for the loser and for Hewin on the whole. It was well-known that Sir Sandalphon was Sir Gabriel’s second in command, so to see him defeated so easily… Well. Was his loss a purposefully pitiful bout and tantamount to cheating? Or was Hewin’s second-in-command really so pathetic?

He’d fought differently, in Aziraphale’s opinion, but he hadn’t dwelled on it overmuch the day before. It was only after overhearing discussions amidst his own guard the night before that he’d learned people had noticed. Sir Sandalphon’s usual viciousness had been cast aside when directly facing his superior.

In Aziraphale’s opinion, that was all the better. Sir Gabriel wouldn’t be an easy foe, but at least he wouldn’t intentionally aim for deadly points of the body. He had no respect for Aziraphale or anyone else of Berwick, but Aziraphale was fairly confident that the imbecile wasn’t an outright murderer.

The fact that he couldn't readily say the same about others of Hewin’s guard bothered him a great deal, but he kept his opinions to himself and wished his mother was there to commiserate with. She’d never had issue scolding his uncle, and Aziraphale had always been the rational, quiet one. Standing behind her quietly until they were alone and he could cheerfully share his agreement over her actions or words.

Without her, he felt so uncertain around his uncle and sister. Uncertain, uncomfortable, other unpleasant things - it was nigh impossible for him to be himself near them and he privately wished they would simply go home. Back to Hewin where they bothered no one, as far as Aziraphale knew.

Rhew must've sensed his distraction, the mighty horse giving his shoulder a headbutt and an encouraging knicker.

“Thank you, my dear. I know my mind is wandering this morning. I apologise.” His horse was covered in shining silver armour, the metal plate providing defence as well as allowing for nearly free range of motion. The tail guard was ridged and only went halfway down his tail, the rest of it flowing freely because he hadn't had the heart to shorn or braid it. The poor dear was going through enough, wearing all of this heavy gear. The crupper protected his rear haunches and the flanchard his sides beneath the saddle.

It was, as expected, the last two pieces which gave him the most trouble. “I know, I know. I wouldn't enjoy the chanfron or crinet either, but your face and neck would need protection in battle.”

Rhew whinnied in protest, clearly aware of the fact that he wasn't marching into battle.

“I know it isn't as complicated as all that, but we must look the part.” Aziraphale did, though his crown was cast off to the side. He wasn't in armour, but his finest clothes and robes. His crown would be atop his curls soon enough, magically secured so he wouldn't forget or lose it on his ride through the city. That day, a winner would be revealed.

Aziraphale hoped it was Crowley.

He had faith in the man, truly, but it still seemed so unlikely. It was baffling to imagine he would actually want to go when he had other obligations, and the abrupt change of heart was outside of what Aziraphale was used to from others.

It was also very much outside of what Crowley was used to giving others but… he couldn't have resisted Aziraphale's sad eyes just like he couldn't resist coming to look for him first thing when he arrived. Like a moth drawn to a flame.

He knew he'd find Aziraphale at the stables preparing Rhew himself as if he didn't have a whole household and horde of stablehands ready and willing to do so for him, as if he wasn't the king.

“You do realise you could have someone else do all that, right?”

“I could, but then I wouldn't be able to.” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, surprised to see him but inordinately pleased. “Good morning, my dear. Were you able to get a bit more sleep today?”

“I did, especially since I didn't have to be up as early this time.”

“There you are, then. You've had yourself a well rounded tournament experience.” Rhew tossed his head when Aziraphale tried again to settle the neck covering on him. “Oh, you. Behave.”

Crowley chuckled and walked up next to Aziraphale and put a hand on Rhew's neck, drawing the large horse's attention. “Relax, boy,” he said soothingly, letting a little magic into his voice. “Stay still, now.”

Rhew knickered at him, curious and intrigued. And, most importantly for Aziraphale, distracted long enough for the crinet to be secured across his long neck. Aziraphale was very careful to keep his mane safe, but dark ears still flicked unhappily. “Thank you, Crowley. I do hate doing this part to him when I know he isn't fond of it, but I trust him more than any other steed around crowds.”

“Sometimes we have to do things they don't like, it's alright. Not like he's being hurt or anything.”

“No, but I always worry he’ll be upset with me.” Aziraphale smiled, self-deprecating. “I realise that sounds terribly silly.”

“Not really,” Crowley argued, continuing to pet Rhew and keep his attention. “You care about him, of course you don't want him upset with you.”

The smile softened with gratitude as Aziraphale manoeuvred the chanfron over Rhew’s face. It left his eyes uncovered and his ears free to move, but even with Crowley’s distraction, he swivelled his head towards Aziraphale and blew out a displeased snort. “I know, Rhew. I don’t find plate comfortable either.”

“He reminds me of Bentley when I have to give her new shoes. She hates it even though it feels good in the end.”

Aziraphale chuckled, petting what he could of Rhew’s face. “He behaves for shoes. If his feet get too uncomfortable, he’ll even let me know in his way. It’s only having his face and neck covered that he dislikes. I think it’s the restriction of movement.”

Crowley hummed and tilted his head. “I imagine Bentley wouldn't like that either but it's not like I've ever dressed her up like this before.”

“I try to only do so when tradition requires it, and riding him today unfortunately does.” Aziraphale sought a carrot for him, finding one quickly to share and hopefully soothe. “It won’t be for long, though.”

Rhews ears flicked in annoyance but he gladly munched the carrot while Crowley chuckled. “I think he likes wearing all this about as much as you like wearing that crown.”

“I think you may just be right, but we will do what we must, he and I.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley. “What brings you here rather than heading directly to the tournament grounds?”

Crowley shrugged and suddenly felt very self-conscious. “Only person in the tent now would be Gabe and the less I see of him the better.”

“Ah, yes, I do fully understand that.” Aziraphale reached for his hand, clasping one in both of his. “Are you prepared for battle, then?”

“As prepared as I can be, I suppose,” Crowley murmured. “I’ve watched him fight, I'm rested, not much else I can do.” Not with so little time, anyway.

Aziraphale nodded. “I suppose there isn’t. Whether you win or lose, however, you’ll be knighted tonight. You’ve earned it and changing your mind regarding the quest won’t change my mind.”

“Angel…” Crowley softened and gave the fingers holding his a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to win, have some trust and faith in me.”

“It isn't that I don't. It's only that I don't want you to feel pressured.”

“Aziraphale, I’ve already made up my mind. There's no changing it now.”

“Stubborn thing,” Aziraphale laughed, some of his tension easing. “Walk with us for a moment? Just until we're at the limits of the castle grounds. We'll have to part then, unfortunately.”

“Yeah, sure. We're both going in the same direction anyway. Might as well.”

“We are indeed.” Aziraphale gave him a soft squeeze before releasing his hand and reaching for Rhew’s decorated reins. They were threaded with shimmering golden threads that were thoroughly impractical in Aziraphale’s opinion, but this wasn’t about practicality. A little tug had the horse moving forward, his snort an unhappy one, but he went along regardless. “There we are, my dear. The sooner we finish this, the sooner someone will bring you home and rid you of all this.”

Crowley didn't pat Rhew on the neck like he might've. The fancy armour impeded his vision and Crowley didn't want to spook the already stressed horse. Though he did keep threading calming magic into his voice, hoping it would help. “That’s right. And it won't take long. Just gotta put up with this for a little while.”

Aziraphale smiled as they walked out of the stables, Rhew not pulling quite as much as he typically would. It seemed to him as if his silly horse just wanted to show off for the new person, and that was just fine by him. “We’ll be making our way through the streets of the Whickber district, encouraging people to follow. It’s traditional for the last day, so many citizens will have stayed home this morning. As they form something of a… parade. Once I lead them to the tournament, I’ll have Rhew leap the fence - we’ve practised both in and out of his armour - and then I’ll be able to announce the beginning of things. He’ll be able to return home then and you’ll have five minutes or so before your bout.”

“A parade, eh?” Crowley tilted his head and smiled at Aziraphale. “Does that mean I'm the first to join this year?”

Aziraphale laughed. “I suppose you are if you intend to stay with me.”

Crowley gave an approving nod. “Then I am. How fortunate that I came to find you since I wouldn't have even known you threw a whole parade.”

“Today is supposed to be the first day of spring, so it’s supposed to be an ushering in of the new season. All the greenery and warmth as the days begin to lengthen are celebrated.” Aziraphale’s smile shifted, a shadow dimming his eyes. “Something else about this year that’s different.”

“It’s still early spring,” Crowley reminded him. Though he could see how some of the… magic of it might have been lost. The death of a loved one, being the one in-charge of the whole thing now, the slightly altered timeline. Much had changed but not so much at the same time. Crowley reached out and gave his arm a squeeze. “Hell, there was frost on the ground this morning.”

“Only a smidge.” Aziraphale shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the melancholy. “I’m sorry. It shouldn't bother me so.”

“We’ve talked about this, angel. You're allowed to be bothered or upset. I don't expect you to be some stoic statue. You're only human.”

Some thought he should be more than that. It was a refreshing blessing to be with someone who didn't. “A habit, I'm afraid. I always seem to be thinking a bit too much.”

“Overthinking is bad for you, which is why I never think about anything ever.”

That finally earned a laugh, Aziraphale’s smile warming his eyes again. “I somehow doubt that, my dear. You're far too clever to be thoughtless.”

Hearing him laugh was much better, especially when it was paired with his scent getting rich again and less muted. “Or maybe I just let you think that.”

“That sounds as though a plan would’ve needed to be made,” Aziraphale pointed out with a cheerful wiggle. “Something which requires thought.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but he was smiling. Somehow he'd become more at ease with being near Aziraphale than he'd ever thought possible. “Obviously I didn't think that one through.”

“You can’t always be successful, I’m afraid. It would be unnatural.” Aziraphale paused at the edges of the castle grounds. There were already a few people gathered, a handful trying to be surreptitious as they waited for their new king to emerge. It was a little easier to see them than it might’ve been without Crowley and the cheer he’d brought. “Well, I suppose it’s time.” He fetched his crown from one of the bags affixed to Rhew’s saddle and secured it neatly. “We’ll speak again after your bout. I wish you the best of luck, Crowley.”

“Thanks. I won't let you down.” He watched Aziraphale climb atop Rhew, crown shining, and felt suddenly very distant from him. No matter how comfortable they might have been, Aziraphale was royalty and even after he was knighted his own position wouldn't change that much. It made something in his chest ache to think just how different their lives were and how, regardless of the mutual attraction, they were probably too different for anything more than that.

“There you are,” was the first thing Crowley heard when he entered the competitor’s tent, quickly followed by a scoff. “I was starting to think you were too afraid!”

“I’ve never been afraid of anything,” Crowley replied and headed straight for his trunk. This was why he'd stuck by Aziraphale's side, why he'd sought him out instead of coming straight here. “I was enjoying the parade.”

Two neatly trimmed brows arched. Sir Gabriel looked every inch the polished knight, not a hair out of place and precisely fitted leather armour already donned. “Parade?”

“Yeah. End of tournament thing. Aziraphale rode through the town with his horse all kitted out and everything. It was fun, did you not know about it?”

His nose wrinkled just a hair. “Why would I know about any of the pedestrian goings-on of Berwick?”

“Are you allergic to fun?”

The disgust faded into confusion. “I don't believe allergies work that way.”

Crowley sighed. He was like Aziraphale only worse. At least Aziraphale's cluelessness was cute. “That wasn't a serious question. I mean what do you have against them having some fun? Not everything has to be serious.”

“It’s a tournament to determine the best of the best,” he argued. “This is very serious.”

“Well, yeah, doesn't mean you can't have a little fun, too,” Crowley said, giving his sword a twirl with his fingers as if to make the point. “I’m having fun.”

“I don’t know how you expect to win with that attitude.” He shrugged lightly. “Though you won’t be winning anyway. Perhaps some… fun is just what you need to soften the loss.”

Crowley smirked as he finished putting his leather armour on. “We’ll see.”

“Yes, we will.” He had a broadsword attached to his hip, looking towards the tent opening when it opened. “Ah, Sir Raphael.”

“Sir Gabriel, Mr. Crowley. Are the pair of you ready to end the tournament?”

“I sure am,” Crowley said, turning to him. “Let's get this over with.”

“Excellent. The royal family is in their box, and the crowd is prepared.” He held open the tent flap with his uninjured arm. “After you, Sir Gabriel.”

“You see, Mr. Crowley? Sir Raphael is a man who knows the order of things.” Gabriel waved a finger as if giving a lecture as he made his way out. “You’d be smart to emulate him if you want to get anywhere in life.”

Crowley bit his tongue before he said something about doing things in the right order wouldn't get him in the king's trousers. Something like that would probably shock Sir Gabriel… on the other hand, shocking him might make the fight easier. “I think I've gotten as far as I have by doing things my own way, thanks.”

Gabriel shook his head. “You’re welcome.”

As he stepped out, Raphael rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt. “He’s strong, Crowley. Frankly, I don’t think he’ll be quite as difficult as Uriel. But he isn’t nearly as bad as his attitude.”

“I’ve got him, Raph,” Crowley said quietly. “He already underestimates me.”

“He does everyone, but he still won’t go easy on you. He didn’t on Sir Sandalphon, after all.”

Crowley clapped him on his good shoulder. “Just watch. Before today is over, I'll be the new tournament champion.”

“Alright. I appreciate what you’re doing for our king, Crowley. I truly do.”

“I’m not doing this for the king,” Crowley reminded him. “I’m doing it for Aziraphale.”

“I hate to remind you they’re one and the same.”

They were and they weren't but Crowley would have agreed with him a few weeks ago. The king, royalty, royal family; that was just some impersonal concept. Aziraphale wasn't. He was a person with thoughts and feelings. Crowley wasn't going to win for the king, he was doing it for Aziraphale who… who might have started to become something like a friend.

He didn't know how to explain it so just shook his head and stepped past the guard captain into the afternoon sun and shouting crowd.

Aziraphale was standing in the royal booth, his sister and uncle flanking him in their seats. When Crowley reached Gabriel’s side, he lifted his hand to garner the crowd’s attention. His voice projected easily, though his attention lingered on one particular opponent. “Citizens of Celestria, I am pleased to see you all here on the final day of this year’s Spring Tournament. Though spring is already underway…” His lips curved. “There was still frost on the grass this morning. There is still time yet to celebrate the season’s beginnings. Planting season will soon be upon us, and Berwick and its surrounding farms will grow busy shortly.

“It isn’t, however, a time of rest for our competitors. Many have fought valiantly this year, the board filled with more names than ever before, and it now comes to this. Sir Gabriel Archer of Hewin and Mr. Anthony Crowley of Celestria, are the two of you prepared for this final battle of the season?”

Crowley gave a sharp nod to him. He still wasn't entirely sure how he was going to beat Sir Gabriel but even he had to have a weakness to exploit. No one was a perfect swordsman. And if he didn't… well, Crowley was sure he could make one.

Sir Gabriel withdrew his sword. “I’m ready to win, Your… Majesty.”

Aziraphale struggled not to grimace. “How confident of you, Sir. Now as you both are well aware of the rules by now, I won’t repeat any but to remind you all these are not fights to the death. The first to lose their sword to the ground loses. Now begin at the count of one. Three… two…” He sent a quick prayer to the gods, waiting for Crowley to retrieve his own sword. “One!”

Sir Gabriel was faster than his boxy physique would lead most to believe but Crowley had watched him spar and fight and was ready for the heavy blow that came for him. He didn't hit as hard as Aziraphale, that much was certain. Crowley wagged his eyebrows and pushed him back with his sword. “Come on! Was that all you got!?”

Gabriel frowned at him. “Obviously not. We’ve just begun,” he reasoned, though didn’t let the confusing question stop him from attacking again. He wasn’t much for defence, preferring to use his strength to encourage his foes to submit.

And Crowley parried him again. He might not have been one for defence but one didn't become guard captain by being a slouch. He left no openings as they traded blows or, at least, no obvious ones. There wasn't much Crowley could do about but continue to evade, dodge, and block Gabriels heavy sword. He just needed to buy time, wear the big guy out with his superior speed, and pray to whichever God’s were watching that the knight didn't get a lucky hit on him.

He had stamina, though, to go along with his strength. Sir Gabriel dodged as easily as Crowley, but not quite as quickly. He countered Crowley’s swings as much as Crowley countered his, and it soon became clear that he wasn’t quite as skilled as Uriel with a sword. His preference for offence was as clear as his reliance on heavy plate to provide his defence. Crowley was able to land more blows than one would expect, though Gabriel’s leather armour was thick enough to keep the cuts shallow and largely unnoticed.

Crowley was lucky that he was generally fast enough to keep most of Gabriel's blows from damaging his own armour too badly but he could only keep it up for so long. Everyone had limits and Crowley didn't have the same stamina as someone who was more used to fighting while wearing heavy plate. Every swing he blocked or avoided or took only made Crowley realise he couldn't just wait for an opening, not if he wanted to win and ensure Aziraphale had someone who believed in him on his journey. He was going to have to take a chance and make an opening.

“You’re getting weaker,” Gabriel noted, as calmly as one might comment on the weather, as his sword slammed into Crowley’s yet again. He wasn’t even out of breath. “Your elbow’s wobbling.”

Crowley gritted his teeth and tried not to breathe as hard as he wanted to. He needed to show as little weakness as possible and focus. Giving himself a small advantage was going to be risky; too overt and he'd reveal himself as a mage but not enough and he'd lose. He just needed Gabriel to lose his balance for a second, even for half a second would be enough. Crowley ducked out of the way of Gabriel's next swing, keeping at least on foot planted on the ground at all times as he sidestepped. Earth was his element and all he needed was a pebble, a stone, something to trip the knight up while he was focused on following him around.

No one noticed the hard-packed dirt solidify before the knights boot but everyone saw the stumble, the moment the toe of his boot came into contact with something hard and unyielding. He'd been trained well enough that he didn't fall but the momentary distraction was all of an opening Crowley needed. He slapped the flat of his blade against Gabriels hand in a quick viper strike and sent his sword flying from his hand to bounce across the dirt.

“How?” Duke Met demanded, but Aziraphale’s smile burst across his features as the large blade fell. He’d truly won. He hadn’t really believed Crowley was willing to set his plans aside until that moment, so was both awed and simply charmed. He was a good person, it seemed, and Aziraphale vastly preferred good persons to less.

“The winner,” he announced as he rose, “of both today's match and this year's tournament, is Mr. Anthony Crowley.” And there was nothing anyone could say or do about that.

Least of all the gaping Sir Gabriel whom Crowley was grinning widely at. He was still panting hard and soaked with sweat but he'd done it. The crowd was cheering and clapping and it felt a little like flying. He walked over to where Sir Gabriel's sword was lying in the dirt, picked up, and brought it to him, offering the blade hilt first. “That was a good fight, Sir.”

Gabriel stared at the sword, then looked up at Crowley. “You weren’t supposed to win.”

“No,” Crowley said softly, glancing up towards the royal box. Aziraphale was clapping with the rest of the crowd and smiling down at the pair of them, which meant he couldn't see the way Duke Met and the princess had their heads together. “No, I imagine not.”

“Then why would you?” he demanded, taking his sword. “It’s an absolute waste of-”

“Now before we, ah…” Aziraphale had to stop clapping, clearing his throat and clutching his hands together behind his back. If he didn’t get through this, it would be more humiliating than the fact it was happening at all. “Before we begin our celebrations, this unusual year shall have another unusual component. Princess?”

He stepped aside as she rose, a small wave and a bit of concentration enough to project her voice as he did his own. “As everyone is aware, Her Royal Majesty, Queen Frances very recently changed her mind on who would be succeeding her on the throne.”

She’d announced it recently, Aziraphale thought, biting his tongue. The date on the document which named him the next monarch was years old. It was why they couldn’t contest it in any way but this one.

“We all know, however, that an untested king is a dangerous king.” She glanced briefly over her shoulder; Aziraphale’s nails bit into his palms. “And so King Aziraphale has agreed that before any coronation is able to take place, he must complete Aelfric’s Quest.”

There was an unusual hush that raced over the crowd, whispers dying in throats. It was well-known what had befallen the last hopeful monarch who had taken on the quest, his failure a stain on a tapestry hidden in the depths of the castle.

“As a sign of our deepest…” Her lip curled into something one might generously label a smile. “Respect for our winner, Mr. Crowley will be knighted and expected to accompany our untried king on his journey. Additionally, Sir Gabriel shall also be going along.”

Raphael shot to his feet, choking on protests he couldn’t utter, and Aziraphale stared at his sister in abject horror. “I beg your pardon,” he rasped.

On the field, Gabriel actually chuckled. “Well that’s weird. Only the winner was supposed to go. That was the whole point of winning.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Crowley snapped, scowling. That had been the point of winning but also to ensure Sir Gabriel wouldn't go. It wasn't fair that the princess and duke could change the rules whenever they wanted.

“Aelfric had two companions,” Michael was saying, “and my brother deserves a proper opportunity to succeed. He has one year.”

Aziraphale’s eyes rounded. He hadn’t been given a time limit before. His gaze darted to his uncle, the duke’s brows lifting as if asking Aziraphale whatever was the matter. Aziraphale couldn’t say a word. He couldn’t stop her from making changes and he couldn’t go back on them. It was, he realised, exactly what his mother had done at the masquerade. Yet instead of confused shock, this held a layer of hurt he didn’t know what to do with. There was no need to make things more difficult. Time constraints meant he wouldn’t have any ability to return home if all the pieces weren’t gathered. Time constraints meant his sister would take the throne, as she was gleefully announcing even now. Telling the people that she would be their leader in the interim and a coronation date would be announced that very evening. Whether it was a king or a queen who would be crowned remained unknown.

Aziraphale heard a buzzing between his ears, dull but consistent enough to drown out everything else. The murmurs of the crowd, whatever it was his uncle was saying when he rose - it was all white noise as he stared and waited for someone to tell him it was all a cruel joke.

Crowley watched his face become paler and paler and had the distinct desire to run up there and take Aziraphale into his arms, to comfort him. That want was tempered when he noticed Raphael approach Aziraphale from behind and murmur into his ear. Though he then just wished he'd been the one up there even if just to take one of his wringing hands. It was a silly, foolish want and yet he wanted it all the same.

Aziraphale would’ve taken the touch readily, the voice alone not quite enough to temper the panic he felt welling. “I-”

“I know,” Raphael murmured. “It isn’t fair, and it isn’t right. But you’re about to set the stage aflame.”

Aziraphale shifted his feet, a glance down showing burn marks where his shoes had been. He quickly covered them again, taking in a deep breath and drawing the scorching heat back into himself. He couldn’t focus well enough to remove the marks, however, so kept his feet still even after his uncle turned to look at him. Him and his sister looked at him expectantly, her with a smugness that made him angry almost as much as it simply hurt. He had no idea what it was his uncle had said, no idea what to say himself as he looked to the crowd. Whispers had begun during his uncle’s speech, it seemed, the dull roar adding a pounding to Aziraphale’s head.

“You have support,” Raphael whispered. “You have me and the whole guard. You have Crowley. He’s setting aside a lot for you.”

Yes, he was. Aziraphale swallowed, fretful gaze leaving the crowds to find who would become their newest knight that evening. The annoyance clearly visible on his face, despite the sunglasses which somehow hadn’t fallen off during his fight, drew a smile. “Thank you,” he said loudly, though more to Raphael and Crowley than anyone else. “Untested though I may be, I meant what I said at my mother’s funeral and what I said at the beginning of this tournament. I am proud to be your leader. Though this quest seems… improbable, I don’t believe my ancestors would have installed it were it impossible. Just as I don’t believe my mother would have installed me as her heir had she lacked faith in my abilities.”

Michael’s expression soured at that, but Met’s remained unchanged. Aziraphale straightened already straight shoulders, finally able to look away from Crowley and back to the gathered people. His people. “I will do everything within my power to return in time for my coronation as your king. May Aelfric guide me.”

His voice lowered. “I need to leave, but the marks...”

Raphael nodded. “Mr. Crowley,” he called to the field, “let’s get you acquainted with some duties for royal guardsmen. Come meet our king at the steps.”

Something was off but Crowley nodded and jogged over to the short steps up to the royal box. He bowed deeply only because the princess and duke were still present. “Your Majesty. It's been an honour to compete this year.”

“You’ve been a breath of fresh air,” Aziraphale replied, carefully stepping away so Raphael could cover the marks with his own boots.

Met eyed him up and down, clearly finding him lacking. “Another ruffian for the royal guard, I suppose.”

“He knows his manners, uncle.” Aziraphale wished his family would mind theirs. Wealth and social status wasn’t a measure of respect.

Crowley straightened, though if the ever so slightly deepening of the duke's frown was anything to go by it was far too soon. “You flatter me, Your Majesty.”

“I’m honest.” He may have known his manners, but Aziraphale had never and would never claim that the man minded them. “They’ll be breaking the competitors’ tent down shortly if you’ve anything you need in there. I’ll gladly follow.”

Everything he'd been keeping in there was currently on his person, but Crowley recognised an excuse to get away when he saw one. “Ah, yes, just a few things.” And he turned on his heel. Aziraphale had said he'd follow after all.

And he was quick to do so, not willing to listen to another word deriding his abilities or Crowley's. “I’m sorry,” he breathed when they felt far enough away. “I’m so sorry.”

“I really don't know what you're apologising for. You're not the one being an arsehole.”

“I-” Aziraphale didn't have a defence in him for either of them. Not just then. “Do you truly need anything from the tent?”

“Nope,” Crowley said with a little pop. “Figured you wanted a chance to get out of earshot.”

“I’d like to go home. Please. Unless that's too much trouble for you. I- We can... There are so many people.”

Crowley blinked. “Home? You mean the castle?”

“The stables. Rhew needs tended to.”

“Oh, sure.” That was easy enough to do. Crowley wasn't sure the duke and princess would be very happy if he actually went into the castle proper. “Stables it is.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale’s eyes weren't damp with distress; they were far too dry instead. “Really, Crowley, thank you. You should be celebrating your victory. Not... This.”

“This being…? What? Talking to someone I like talking to? It's not like I'm being hung by my ankles, angel.”

“Oh, Crowley...” Far, far too sweet. “I don't know if I'll be very good company for a bit.”

“That’s fine. I'll talk to Rhew about kicking Gabriel’s arse. I bet he's a good listener.”

His own small laugh surprised him. “He truly is.”

Chapter Text

The armour wasn't difficult to remove, but it was a little tedious. Tedium, blessedly, was exactly what Aziraphale’s spinning mind needed. The stables were quiet, most at the tournament grounds to enjoy the last of the wares on display or to collect previous orders. Some children, he knew, would spill onto the field and have play fights. Aziraphale usually adored this time, the end of the tournament heralding a new era. The seriousness would be gone from the air, replaced with the joy of celebration.

Aziraphale felt lead weights sinking into his shoulders. “Sir Gabriel wasn't supposed to come along,” he said. He'd been quiet through their walk to the castle while Crowley had filled the air with chatter about the fights the horse had missed out on, his own hands on Rhew’s reins and feet on the ground. Riding his shining steed hadn't felt right. Nor had his crown, the golden circle hanging from a nail on the wall with the horse bridle.

“I know.” Crowley crossed his long legs at the ankles, stretched out atop a series of hay bales as he watched Aziraphale methodically remove each and every piece of fancy horse armour. It was all shiny and undented and decorative. “I’m guessing the duke and princess changed things up when their favoured fighter lost.”

“Yes... And to give us a time limit.” Aziraphale rubbed Rhew’s nose, working up a smile when his horse nuzzled in. “It could take more than a year just to make it all the way around the kingdom. Let alone searching for something.”

“Well, we'll just have to prioritise the places your ancestors hadn't checked yet.”

“Yes, but will it be enough?”

Crowley shrugged. “I don't know, angel. It might be. I'd have a better idea if I knew more about where has already been searched. It's gonna be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, though.”

Four of them. “We at least have the hilt and the scabbard, so we aren't starting at nothing.”

“Wha-” Crowley's head shot up, mouth agape. “I’m sorry. Did you just say you have the hilt and scabbard?”

“Yes. We aren't really supposed to share that information, but you are thoroughly involved in this now. It's proof that the sword exists at all.” With Rhew cleared of gear, Aziraphale picked up two brushes and offered one to Crowley. “Help me finish with him, and I'll show you.”

Brain still processing this new information, Crowley ambled up and took the offered brush. “But- Then how- Why didn't they just ask a mage to use the pieces to find the rest?”

“Crowley… You know why, my dear.”

He sighed and began brushing out Rhews starburst coat. “I mean, yeah, sure okay but- Surely giving up your pride a bit and making it easier would be better.”

It wasn’t about pride, but safety. At least for Aziraphale. The last family member who’d needed to go on this quest, however, had indeed allowed pride to get in the way. “I think someone who isn’t willing to set aside pride would fail at this quest,” he answered carefully, wondering if being a mage himself would actually provide an advantage to this he hadn’t considered. He didn’t know if he knew enough about magic to recognise it. “However, I don’t think anyone trained in magicks would be willing to help me.” Not yet and certainly not openly.

He was on the other side of Rhew so Aziraphale couldn't see the way he bit his lip. “No… probably not.” However… if he could convince Aziraphale to bring at least one piece along… Location spells like that weren't difficult. They just didn't have a long range. “Unfortunately.”

Aziraphale untied Rhew’s mane, brushing it out to ensure he didn’t end up matted and uncomfortable. “May I… tell you a secret?”

“Sure. Not like I have anyone to go tell it to anyway.”

It was a genuine shame how often Crowley seemed to say that. That he believed it when he did have family he could tell. He’d made a few tentative friends in Berwick besides. Aziraphale shook his head, letting it go for the moment. What mattered was that Crowley wouldn’t share this. “I don’t believe Aelfric ever had a falling out with his mage friend.”

“Y-you don't?” It was practically common knowledge that they'd had a falling out. Sure, proper historians argued over exactly what had caused it (some saying the mage had tried sneaking into Aelfric’s wife’s bedchamber, others that the mage had tried to usurp him) but the consensus was clear. A falling out had happened and that falling out had caused the ban on magic that had swiftly followed. “Why not?”

“It’s the way things are recorded in my family. We have art or writings going back… Well, they go back even further than Aelfric. Not by much as the transportation of things in those days was seen as unnecessary, but we have enough. There’s such a lack of proof that they had any falling out. It’s-” Aziraphale frowned, forcing himself to break off. He may not have seen or heard anyone nearby, but that didn’t mean no one was. Even he could get in enormous trouble for suggesting the magic ban was anything less than correct. “Well. I-it’s only a theory.”

But then why, why had there been a magic ban? It didn't make any sense. Why execute so many people if there wasn't even a flimsy reason? “It’s a hell of a theory.”

“I know. There’s more evidence to suggest… something else.” And either his following ancestors hadn’t done enough research to know the same thing, or they simply hadn’t had a reason to challenge the ban. Aziraphale had spent years pouring over documents and tapestries and parchment so fragile, he’d been afraid to touch with his bare hands. He’d learned a lot about preservation - and ruined an awful lot of modern things in the process - in order to study everything he could get his hands on. “B-but that’s neither here nor there. I only… You always seemed shocked when our discussions veer this way, but never angry. So I feel as if you’re safe to share certain thoughts with.”

“‘Course I'm shocked. I mean- you're you.” It was still a little terrifying to even bring up magic to the literal bloody king. “But I just- I've known people, met people. As far as I'm concerned a mage is just someone who's been dealt a shit hand in life.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I-” Aziraphale had to swallow his objections, all of them far too personal and telling. Many in the royal guard knew because they needed to and because Aziraphale had been more reckless during his youthful training, but it wasn’t something spoken aloud. It wasn’t safe to speak it aloud. He finished with Rhew’s mane and stooped down to brush his feathered legs. At least Crowley had confirmed that he had indeed met mages before. It leant weight to the idea that he was hiding a presentation. “I… I hope that isn’t an opinion you have to hold forever,” he said quietly.

Crowley was not going to tell him that Aziraphale was the one and only person who could change that. He wasn't an idiot, Crowley knew that much. “I hope so too.”

It was a relief to hear, Aziraphale nodding. “I will warn you that Sir Gabriel does not, in any fashion, share these beliefs. We’ll have to temper our conversations a bit more while he’s about.”

“That’s fine. I expected as much and it's not like I'm not used to keeping my mouth shut.”

“Yes… I am a bit wary of why my uncle would be so insistent on his presence. He may send reports back to him regarding our progress, though…” Aziraphale smiled slightly. “I’m frankly not certain how well Sir Gabriel knows how to read or write.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and swiftly ducked down so he could actually look at Aziraphale from between Rhew’s legs. “Angel, you and I are gonna run circles around Sir Gabriel.”

A giggle bubbled up and out. “Thank the gods. I’m not sure how well I would be able to tolerate him without you.”

“He’d have drove you batty on your own, for sure.”

“Without any doubt.” Aziraphale reached out, twirling a finger around a lock of hair. “Thankfully, I’ll have your pretty face to distract.”

A hot flush raced right up Crowley's neck. He hadn't even realised a few locks of hair had escaped the loose ponytail he usually sported. “That much of a distraction, am I?”

“One I've been enjoying throughout the tournament,” Aziraphale purred. “I really am very proud of and pleased by you and your efforts this week. Considering how it ended, however, I believe I'll need to split the award money between the two of you to make it fair.”

Crowley sighed and felt very much like he was slowly being wrapped around Aziraphale's finger. “Yeah, alright. If you have to.”

“If the actual winner gets a bit more on the side, no one should object. You earned it, and I hope you're proud of yourself. Your grandmother will be. She must.”

“When she hears about it she will be.” He hadn't yet sent the letter, wanting to wait until he'd actually won before writing it down and sending it off. It was bad luck to do otherwise. His sigh had morphed into a cheeky grin, though. “You’re a bit of a bastard, aren't you?”

“Ah-” Aziraphale blinked at him. “Well. I haven't been called that in quite a few years, but it feels as if you're attempting a compliment.”

“Uh… Well, yeah. Not like I'd insult you right now.” It took a moment for his brain to catch up to the slightly bemused smile on Aziraphale's face. And when it did he flushed for an entirely different reason than before. “Oh! Shit! I didn't mean to imply-”

“No, no. It's alright. Until I finally grew into myself and looked undeniably like my father, people did far more than imply.” Adorable, silly creature. “How did you mean it?”

“Er… well, like- like someone who's a bit cheeky and does stuff they know will make someone mad and enjoys it.”

Gasping, Aziraphale gave his hair a light tug. “I would never.”

Crowley felt that little tug all the way up into his scalp as a slight tingle. His face hadn't yet returned to its natural shade. “You do!” He protested, unable to keep from grinning. “Never anything truly bad, that's why you're only a little bit of a bastard, but you definitely do.”

“Then I don't believe I mind when you call me that,” Aziraphale decided, letting him go when Rhew’s hooves shuffled. “Alright, alright. We'll finish up so you may eat.”

Crowley laughed and straightened up, running the brush over Rhew’s coat again. “It’s not like he'll starve.”

“He doesn't know that.” Not all of the upset was gone, but Aziraphale no longer felt as panicked or distraught as he had while up in the royal box. There was really only one person to thank for that, though Aziraphale was certain he'd brush it off if he tried.

Instead, he continued to listen to him and joke with him. He listened to another one of Crowley's stories about his life travelling. He also felt his heart slip a little closer to something he'd never felt for another person - not like this - and didn't try to stop it.

“Really, my dear, there isn't a reason to be nervous. Not only are you going to be here later to accept your knighthood, there's going to be a party. Additionally, it's my home and I can invite whomever I like into it.”

That did not soothe nearly as well as Aziraphale clearly thought it should. Hell, he'd been in the castle before but that had included a false identity and hundreds of other regular people. This time it was just him. And Aziraphale. It felt more nerve wracking than it had any right to be. “Yes, but that's different.”

“I want to show you what we have available to us, Crowley. Before anyone else,” specifically Sir Gabriel, “is able to interfere.”

“I know, I know.” That was why he was following and not trying to make a lame excuse to slink away. He was also, well, too curious for his own good. “You don't see me running for the hills, do you?”

Not yet. “Would it make you feel better if we used a servants’ entrance rather than the main one?”

Crowley had to think about it and felt supremely foolish when he said, “I- A bit. Yes.”

It was easy to change directions for him, heading around the large stone castle. “When I was a young pup, I would sneak through all the servants' corridors. The maids would tell mother I was underfoot nearly every day.”

“I bet you were!” Crowley said with a laugh. He could easily imagine a much smaller Aziraphale sneaking biscuits from the kitchen. “And I'd say they didn't mind so much if they let you keep doing it.”

“No, I think not.” They'd known he was lonely, some bringing their children about now and again for him to have someone to get underfoot with. If he'd been less shy, it may have been easier to make friends. “Particularly since they continue to allow it.”

“Still sneaking into the kitchens and grabbing snacks?”

“Someone needs to be a taste tester,” Aziraphale laughed, stopping by a modest wooden door and pushing it open. He gave Crowley a small bow. “After you.”

A taste tester. That was just silliness. Crowley shook his head as he stepped past him into a dimly lit, but clean, wooden corridor. It was barely two people wide but not nearly as cramped as Crowley expected it to be. “Aren’t you supposed to have some official taste tester? Make sure the foods not poisoned and all?”

“No one in the castle would poison our food. Quite a few of those who work here grew up here, and mother’s always made sure to pay our workers well. We also offer them access to some education, though you wouldn’t believe the reaction I received from a few nobles on my peace tour when I asked if they did such a thing.” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, his bafflement over the entire thing clear. “They all asked why we bothered. Of all the things.”

“Yeah, because educated people can generally tell when they're being screwed over.”

Aziraphale’s eyes rounded. “Do you… think that may also be why they all seemed uncomfortable with the idea I posed regarding, ah, all children having access to some education?”

“People in power like to stay in power,” Crowley said sagely, though he was just repeating something Agnes had said on one of her rants. It had been intermixed with something about capitalism that Crowley hadn't gotten as a kid and still didn't understand now.

“I suppose, but so long as people rule well and justly, they would stay in power.”

That was such a naive way of looking at it. “In theory, sure.”

“I know things aren’t always so simple, but… I would think fearing an educated populace shows fear and selfishness. It also suggests that, perhaps, they oughtn’t be ruling at all.”

“Now that could land you in some hot water, angel.”

“Oh, yes, I am unfortunately aware. Even my mother called the idea of mass education radical.” As she’d cautioned him to focus one thing at a time. “And she often assisted in the tutoring of our servants’ children.”

“It’s probably best to start small and local. Set the example, as it were. In my experience Lords don't usually like to be pressured or forced, not outright. But they can be covertly shamed into changing. They don't like that, either, but it causes less bloodshed.”

“Oh, that’s very clever.” Aziraphale smiled, reaching for Crowley’s hand. “You’re going to be very useful on my council.”

Warm fingers wrapped around his and Crowley barely kept himself from startling. “I- Angel, you don't really want someone like me in that kind of position.”

“I do.” Aziraphale nodded firmly. “I want people from outside of Berwick. I want people who’ve grown up in different parts of Celestria. I want people who are educated in letters, and people who aren’t. If my council is all wealthy nobles, how will I know what’s right for the majority?”

That was great but did he really want a mage on his council considering how everyone else thought that had gone the last time? “We’ll see if travelling with me changes your mind.”

“I hope travelling with me makes you want to be here,” Aziraphale countered, giving his hand a squeeze. “I believe you’ll have to help me decide what’s a reasonable amount of coin to bring, if you wouldn’t mind assisting me in packing to leave as well.”

“Yeah, sure, I don't mind helping out.” That was easy. “Honestly, you shouldn't need to bring a lot of money. Just enough for the occasional stabling and room. We'll travel faster if we travel lighter.”

“I assumed as much. I certainly have no intention of dragging along a cumbersome carriage. The quicker we can traverse, the better.”

Crowley nodded approvingly as they stepped out into a much grander hall, one that was all stone with a long carpet down the centre. “My thoughts exactly.”

Smiling, Aziraphale gave a cheerful wiggle and nodded to a maid as they passed by. She gave only the barest hint of a curtsy before scurrying off, very clearly not worried about any sort of reprimand for not being exactly correct in her propriety. “I’m glad we’re in agreement, then. It does make the prospect of travelling together even less daunting.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure. I'd hate to have to argue with you about ditching a carriage or sleeping in a bedroll.”

“I have no issue with sleeping in a bedroll.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “We’re going to have more trouble with Sir Gabriel, I’m sure.”

Crowley's eyes rolled and he bumped his shoulder against Aziraphale's. “Methinks the knight can shut up or sit out.”

“We’ll pray he’s as quiet as one can be, but I highly doubt he’ll be as willing to not come along. With it being announced to so many as it was…” Some of the cheer faded, slipping like water through his fingers. “It feels a bit like a punishment for the way mother announced my succession. As if I was involved in that in some way when I promise you I was as shocked as anyone.”

“Wait… really?” Crowley asked, incredulous. “She didn't tell you? Run it by you? Nothing?”

“Until mother told everyone at the masquerade, I fully believed Michael was going to rule after her. Anything else was never so much as hinted at.”

“What the fuuuuck,” Crowley whispered. “I just- That makes no sense. Why wouldn't you want the person succeeding you to know? Wouldn't it be better to be prepared?”

“I think so, but I’ve never claimed to fully understand my mother. I’m not sure anyone understood her besides my father.” Aziraphale’s smile faded, gaze falling to their joined hands. “And I’m not sure she ever forgave me for not being him.”

“Angel…” Crowley squeezed his hand gently. “Do you really think that? That she expected you to be exactly like your father and was upset that you weren't?”

“I believe she wanted me to be more like him, particularly as I grew to look so much like him. I also believe she was disappointed that I’m... Well. Not. I’m told I am in many ways, but I know I was never quite right. When I first presented, she took his things away from me so my scent wouldn't mar them.”

“Oh, Aziraphale…” He didn't know how to comfort him. His own issues with his parents was so different from Aziraphale’s. They'd lived such different lives. “You’re you. There's not anyone else you could have been.”

“I agree, though I never did get an opportunity to prove to her that was enough.” He lifted his gaze, smile returning. Small, quietly aching. “So I suppose I ought to prove to myself that I am.”

“Your own opinion is the one that matters most, honestly. And it always feels… good when you prove to yourself that you can do or be what other people think you can't.”

“That sounds as if it comes from experience.”

“It does.” Agnes had never told him he couldn't do anything but there had been others, people in the village who knew his presentation and had scoffed when he said he wanted to be a knight. They'd scoffed when he'd trained with the sword and scoffed at him going off on his own. And yet there he'd gone. “I think that's a common feeling for a lot of people.”

“A shame,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’d like to live in a world where that wasn't typical. I suppose the only thing I can do is support the family I hope to have one day. Start small and local, as you said.”

“Y-yeah.” It felt… odd to hear Aziraphale talk about a future family. He'll probably marry some lord's omega kid, someone with connections to a powerful family, and as sweet as he is they'll probably be very happy with him. Even the thought made Crowley's chest feel tight. That kind of happy, domestic life wasn't something he'd probably ever have. “Starting small is easiest.”

Aziraphale nodded, but didn't ask if Crowley wanted a family. It felt like too much pressure for what should've been a casual chat. He wasn't quite sure how casual, considering how clear he'd made his intentions, but surely too much so for talks of sharing a family.

And how exactly that might be accomplished.

“Are you comfortable coming to my chambers or shall I settle you in my study?”

His chambers… pink crawled up Crowley's neck and he very purposefully did not look at Aziraphale. “Uh, er… Study- Study’s fine.”

“Alright. It's just up the stairs. This way.”

He lead him up a winding set of stairs, the undecorated walls a sign that it was for servants. At one point - both to see Crowley's fetching blush and to keep him from damaging an already damaged stair - he cupped his waist and hefted him right over it as if he weighed nothing more than a book.

The blush seemed to stain his cheeks all the way up, delighting Aziraphale to no end. If he liked a display or two of strength, would he like being held down? Or held still? To still someone who always seemed to be moving was an enticing thought, Aziraphale’s hands itching to feel the shape of his hips again.

There wasn't an excuse to do so, however, so he opened a door near the end of a long hall instead. His own scent, rich and full, spilled out. “Here we are. My favourite room in the entire castle. If you’d like to find a seat, I'll go fetch what I’m able.”

“Oh, erm, sure.” He was still thinking about Aziraphale's strong hands on his waist, the firm grip, the way his thumbs had pressed in. The sudden wave of Aziraphale's smoky and sweet scent wasn't helping in the slightest. He just wanted that touch again, to be held by an alpha that smelled nice and wanted him. And Aziraphale was all of that and more: sweet, ernest in a way that was almost infuriating.

Aziraphale's footsteps had almost entirely faded away before he'd actually adjusted to breathing in his scent with every inhale. The room was lined in overfilled bookcases, shelves bulging with the weight of them. A small desk had been delegated to sit under the lone window and it too was full of papers and quills and inkwells. The stone fireplace, which seemed as if it was barely fitting its space, was clean, but the stack of wood nearby told him it was used often. A plush sofa and equally comfortable looking chair were set by the fireplace, the small table by the chair held an open book and a pair of the tiniest spectacles Crowley had ever seen.

His fingers roamed the spines as he made a slow circuit. Some were faded and worn, others shiny and new. The study just smelled so much like Aziraphale, he probably spent a great deal of time in here, though Crowley thought he might be getting used to it when he heard him coming back. “You know, I would have expected a king to have a more grand study.”

“I've only been a king a short while,” Aziraphale pointed out, “and I’m happy with this space. Do you not like it?”

“Didn’t say that,” Crowley said quickly, thumb rubbing the lettering of a newer looking book. “It’s… cosy.”

“Thank you.” Smiling, Aziraphale crossed the room to sink into the chair by the fireplace. “Here we are. The scabbard and hilt.”

The scabbard was surprisingly plain for its value, but the leather somehow looked as if it had been stitched that very day. There were no scuffs or scars, no drying out, no unravelling stitches. Aziraphale could always feel a faint humming when he held it, but he could never say exactly why. He very carefully undid a small clasp that freed the hilt. Golden pommel and cross-guard, the grip wrapped in the same smooth leather as the scabbard, it also looked brand new. But there was a smidge of jagged steel fixed to it, proof that a blade had once been attached.

“They may not look it, but they're centuries old.”

Crowley ambled over, eyebrows raising with every step. No, they didn't look it. Not at all. “And you're sure?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale carefully offered him the hilt. “The steel is still sharp, so be mindful.”

“I know to be careful, angel.” He picked it up by the leather grip and almost immediately felt the low thrum of power from within. He turned it over in his hand, discreetly probing at the magic he could feel in it, but the magic was broken yet somehow still there. It had held on all this time, though whether that was by design or accident he couldn't tell. “It looks well made for being as old as you say it is.”

“Oh, yes. I'm hopeful the rest is as well-preserved, wherever they've been hidden. I also have this, but keep in mind it's a work in progress.” He unfurled a scroll, revealing the beginnings of three sketches. Copies of tapestries which showed a battle. A knight, a mage, and a crowned man wielding a flaming sword facing against a dragon which was spread across all three. Beneath them was text. “These are the tapestries in my bedchamber, and these words come from one mother kept hidden. No one knows it exists but Raphael. And you now.”

From South to East, water flows

Yet High North, fire bubbles

Flames rip across Western air

While the breeze carries Southbound to safely harbour with Mother Earth

“This is... our clue.”

Water, fire, air, and earth. The four basic elements of magic. Every mage had one that they were more attuned to, one that came easier. Most spells used one or more as a base, especially spells cast by the untrained. It was easier to work magic using your personal element than it was the others. They were a foundation. “More like a riddle, if you ask me.”

“Well, yes. But this is what was ignored last time. I think, being that we're in Sūþwatir, the logical direction to start is towards Esteorþe. The things which baffle me are in regards to the elements. We have no waters which flow South to East. The waterways in Celestria all flow towards the sea.” Which laid along the southern and western borders. “Not to mention these don't quite match the names of the duchies either.”

Crowley hummed in thought. “Well, could it be the names were different back then?”

“They were, but it was Aelfric who named the duchies as they are today.”

“Well, maybe those were the old names then? Unless you know the old names and I'm just throwing mud at the wall.”

“There is debate about the old names,” Aziraphale admitted with a smile. “But the duchies were in war before Aelfric united them.”

Crowley grunted. “Regardless, it seems mostly like a riddle to me. Maybe it's less about the water actually flowing and more of a direction for the reader? The ending seems to imply moving south to be safe so maybe the beginning is moving south to east to start.”

“Yes, that's just what I thought.” Aziraphale reached for the tiny, circular spectacles and settled them on his nose as he stood. He returned with another scroll, unrolling it to show Crowley. “This is the latest map I’ve gotten from our cartographer. It was finished just last month, so I've been studying it thoroughly. There are two lakes in Esteorþe, so I believe it may be best to head towards the larger one first. My previous ancestor went towards Westanfyr first because he deliberately went against this tapestry. I don't want to work against Aelfric and his friends.”

“So what you're saying is the tapestries and this scroll are meant to… guide? Tell you how to find the pieces? That would imply the sword was broken for a purpose and a reason. Someone had to have made all this and did the breaking and hiding.”

“I realise that most of the kingdom is taught about Aelfric’s quest as if it's some sort of... false fable. But I was always taught that it was very real.” Aziraphale looked at him over the top of his glasses. “And, yes, very deliberate. Aelfric didn't want his sword to fall into the hands of just anyone. It was a very powerful gift, which he used to settle the dragon and to unite the warring duchies into one united kingdom. He moved away from his capital in the north to set Berwick on the waterfront, and scattered the pieces of the blade alongside his companions on their very first tour after Celestria was born. He named each duchie as he passed through, though his exact route was said to have never been recorded. I'm of the mind, however, that it was.” He gestured towards the riddle. “But uniquely.”

“Well, heading to the lakes first sounds like as good a plan as any, I suppose. Maybe even focus on whichever one your ancestors haven't searched yet.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes. I haven’t had as much as I’d like to fully cross reference everything he did, particularly since he started in the opposite direction of where we’ll be travelling. We’ll be leaving very soon, as well, so I’ll just have to bring his journal along and study it at night.”

It sounded like long nights to him. “No rest for the king.”

“A little rest as needed. I wouldn’t want to become a liability.”

“No, of course.” And because it seemed like they were going to be here for a little while yet, Crowley let himself plop down onto the plush sofa across from Aziraphale. “And I did promise Raphael to have you back here in one piece.”

“So you did. Although I hope you’d like me in one piece for your own purposes as well,” he purred, a teasing lilt to it.

Gods, travelling with him was going to be bloody torture. But they were somewhere that smelled so much like Aziraphale. “And what purposes would those be?”

“I’d say, but I don’t know how much more you’ll tolerate my making you blush.”

Crowley rubbed at his cheek with one hand. “At least you're aware of it.”

“It is very pretty, and I like seeing it. I like knowing I affect you,” Aziraphale admitted, “because you affect me.”

Damn it. That wasn't fair. “‘Course you affect me. I've got eyes, don't I?”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't yet seen them.”

Crowley barely tensed; he was used to people asking about the glasses and had his response ready. “They’re definitely there. I've got an eye issue, the glasses help.”

“It isn’t anything painful, is it?”

“No, no. Just makes seeing difficult when there's too much light.” It was an easy lie, as was the next. “They’ve been like this for as long as I can remember. I'm told it's a mild curse.”

“Gosh.” To be cursed and still have positive opinions of mages… He truly was something special. “May I ask one more question about them?”

Crowley waved a hand flippantly. “Sure. I don't mind satisfying harmless curiosity.”

“Oh, good.” Aziraphale’s own eyes crinkled at the corners, his smile brightening. “What colour are they?”

That was not anywhere near the questions he'd thought Aziraphale might ask. Crowley fidgeted for a moment, fingers restlessly tapping on his arm as every single colour under the sun danced across his mind. “They’re- They’re brown. Like- really really light brown. Almost gold. I guess.”

“That sounds so unique. Lovely,” Aziraphale purred. “I hope you feel comfortable showing me one day, but I won’t pester you about them further. Would you like to assist me in developing the best route to our first destination? I think it may be best if you and I are able to deal with Sir Gabriel united.”

“Pfft, yeah, that sounds like a good idea.” Crowley sat forward, elbows on his knees. “He can't say no to both of us, right?”

“With luck, he’ll be too confused to say no.” Aziraphale leaned forward, settling the map between them. “You’re familiar with this part of the kingdom, aren’t you? I’m not sure just how far east your grandmother is.”

“I’m pretty familiar with it, yeah.” He was not about to say that Agnes lived near the village just south of the largest lake. “I’ve been all over the Eastern side of the kingdom.”

“Oh, good. Then you would know the quickest route to take?”

“Hmm... yeah.” Crowley placed his finger on Berwick and traced along a particular road. “This should be the fastest way to the smaller lake. The bend here is the easiest crossing point in the river, there's a bridge the town there maintains.”

“Alright. Which bits of Celestria are you unfamiliar with?”

Crowley circled almost the entirety of the north. “Haven’t really been here much. Too far and too much hassle to go.”

“Yes…” Aziraphale recalled what he’d said about crossing the inlet through his uncle’s city. “High north would suggest, obviously, height. I wonder if we shouldn’t enter Noreir via the mountains?”

“I do know of a mountain pass around here-ish,” Crowley said, tapping the mountain range that separated the kingdom right down the middle. “This time of year most of the snow should be melted. Though didn't Raphael say there were some strange storms up that way?”

“Actually, they’re up here. The very top of Noreir’s borders.” It was a different mountain range, separating them from their nearest neighbouring kingdom. It was a high enough range that, even though magic was rumoured to be legal there, few dared any attempts to cross it. “The villages near the base of the range were the ones in peril. I’m hopeful Raphael will be able to take care of whatever it is they need as I won’t be here by the time the scouts return.”

“He’s capable, angel. He can handle it.”

“I know he can, but I still feel awful. But…” Aziraphale bit his lower lip, studying the map. “It would take months to reach there ourselves, but I’d like to. I want to see what happened for myself and, if they do still need assistance, I’d like to offer some. I should at least make an appearance as their ruler.”

Crowley reached out and laid a hand on Aziraphale's knee. “Yeah, sure. If we're in the area we'll go.”

“Thank you. I know it’s on the reckless side, considering our time constraints…”

“Maybe, a bit, but I understand why you want to.”

So few others would in Aziraphale’s experience. His hand rested over Crowley's. “Thank you. Have you not explored much of Westanfyr due to crossing issues?”

“Pretty much, yeah. The few times I've gone has been through the pass I mentioned and that takes longer than the ferry.”

“Oh, yes, I'm sure it does. All the more reason for me to begin preparations on a new port. Now what do you think about...”

They put their heads together, working out a route for the first third of their journey based on what Crowley knew about the area and what Aziraphale had parsed through with the riddle. It would take a few months, but the longest part of the journey would be crossing the northern duchie. It was the largest of the four, and they both knew the least about it.

He was going to have to scour the journal if they had any hope of navigating Noreir, but Aziraphale had always been a voracious reader.

Chapter Text

“I think I ought to put these away,” Aziraphale realised. The light had changed, Crowley leaning closer to the map and Aziraphale’s glasses not as effective as they ought to be. He rose, gathering the broken hilt and scabbard. His scroll, too. “I don't want anyone to come across them.”

Crowley rubbed at his eyes from under his glasses. “Yeah, no, that's probably a good idea. Never know who might get big ideas.” When had it gotten so late? “Seems we made good progress, though.”

“Without a shadow of a doubt. We have a very promising start ahead. So long as we travel light and quick, we’ll make excellent headway.” Aziraphale set his spectacles on the small table they'd been on when they'd entered the room. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

“Alright, I'll be here.” Crowley watched him bustle out and then rubbed his eyes again. He was so tired. The fight earlier today had been a hard one, Gabriel not giving an inch. Now that he'd had time to just sit, he could feel every ache and bruise. Crowley leaned back, head tipping to rest against the back of the sofa. His eyes closed and, surrounded by an alpha scent that insisted he was safe, Crowley never intended on drifting off but that's exactly what he did.

The alpha returned soon after, only able to tell that Crowley was asleep by the way his chest rose and fell. Otherwise, the slump and lack of response would've worried him like nothing else. He'd faced loss too freshly to be ready to face it again, so the sleep was much better. A flick of the wrist set the fire ablaze, brightening and warming the dimming room. It still grew chilly when the sun set, spring so fresh.

There was a temptation to find the amulet he suspected Crowley had to hide his scent - if any - but he could hold curiosity at bay. When he touched Crowley, it was only to help him lay in a more comfortable position. No need for the poor thing to awaken with a crick in his neck.

“Sweet,” he whispered at the soft, brief grumble of protest the move earned him. He was sure Crowley would despise it if he called him that aloud, but he was. Sweet and charming with it. Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his brow, encouraging the flame’s warmth to surround his new friend, and settled himself in the nearby chair with a book.

If he looked at Crowley as much as he did the pages, who could blame him?

The first thing Crowley heard was the crackling fire. He was warm and comfortable, wrapped in a cocoon of safety. The second thing he noticed was the soft susurrus of a turning page. The sound, as unfamiliar as it was, didn't worry him. He was safe here, that much he knew, the alpha scent told him he was… which was only slightly concerning.

Crowley's eyes cracked open. He was not in his room at the inn, that much was obvious. There were books everywhere and the furniture was nicer and Aziraphale was sitting right across from him casually turning the page of a book. He'd fallen asleep in Aziraphale's bloody study. A warm heat crept up his neck but… apparently Aziraphale hadn't minded.

A stretch made his ankles pop and back shift in a way that reminded him his spine was just as human as his eyes. The noise and movement drew Aziraphale's attention, and Crowley did his best to pretend he hadn't just fallen asleep while taking up the king's time. “Hi.”

“Hello.” Aziraphale didn't set the book aside, but he did remove his glasses. “Sleep well?”

Crowley frowned in thought, having to think about it though he didn't sit up. The sofa felt too nice, and he wanted to close his eyes again. “Think so. This sofa is surprisingly comfortable.”

“I’m glad. You deserve a comfortable rest. Those early mornings and difficult fights seem to have caught up with you.”

Crowley grunted, eyes beginning to close before they popped open wide and he sat up. “How- How long was I out?”

“Oh… Ah.” Aziraphale looked at his candle clock, blinking at it a few times. “Roughly an hour, I think. It’s nearly time to head down for the final ceremonies and celebration.”

“O-oh.” He'd worried that he'd somehow slept much much longer than that. Crowley leaned back again and rubbed his face. It was a little scratchy with late-day stubble. “Fuck. That's not so bad, then.”

“Mm-mm.” He was so sweet. So handsome. It didn’t take much to start purring as he’d been doing through most of Crowley’s nap. “How do you feel?”

“Like I want to go back to sleep,” Crowley complained and the sounds of his purr wasn't helping. “Didn’t mean to. Didn't realise I was so tired.”

“Clearly not, but I’m pleased you felt comfortable enough to take the rest you needed.”

Of course he'd felt comfortable. The whole room smelled like an alpha he couldn't help but be attracted to; that coupled with the heat he knew was coming made it impossible to not feel safe enough to fall right asleep. “Smells nice. And the sofa really is comfortable. Probably more so than my bed right now.”

It smelled nice. Aziraphale beamed, purrs rumbling delightedly. “I’ve never found the inn beds to be particularly comfortable, but they do in a pinch. And they are better than bedrolls.”

Crowley very deliberately did not ask Aziraphale why he had an opinion on the inn beds. He knew and he didn't like the way that knowing made his stomach sour. “Yeah, well, bedrolls are gonna be what we have to work with for the most part for the next year.”

“Oh, yes. I’m unfortunately aware, but it’ll be alright. I am looking forward to being able to see the stars at night.”

“They are pretty nice,” Crowley agreed. “I was kinda sad how few I could see here my first night.”

“We do have a few nights a year where we keep lights off, and the sky glows. Usually on the solstices and the equinoxes.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet. I'm sure the whole town loves it. You know, sometimes - but especially in the winter - up north, the night sky turns into a whole array of greens and pinks and blues and purples.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, eyes rounding. “Does it?”

Crowley nodded. “Oh, yeah, it's gorgeous. Whole sky lit up almost like a multicoloured daylight.”

“Oh, I do hope we’re able to see it. I would love to,” he purred with a giddy wiggle.

It might be a little too late in the year by the time they got that far but Crowley didn't want to squash his hopes. “I do think you'll like it. Makes it a little hard to sleep those nights, though.”

“That’s alright. I don’t sleep well as it is. I may have to smother you with a blanket so you can rest, however,” he teased.

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “Nah. Under normal circumstances I sleep like the dead and am just as difficult to rouse.”

“Even when you’re sleeping out in the elements? Crowley, that’s so dangerous!”

“I’m fine, angel, don't worry about it.” Crowley waved a hand at Aziraphale's stricken look. “I’m still here, aren't I?”

“Well, yes, obviously. Bentley must keep you safe.”

Well, he also set up an alarm system and very basic wards when he bedded down. Although… Crowley realised he wouldn't be able to do that while he travelled with Aziraphale and Sir Gabriel. “She definitely does.”

“Hopefully, travelling with more than yourself and her will be a bit safer. We’ll likely have to take turns keeping watch, won’t we?”

“Yeah, that would be the safest option.”

“Alright.” Aziraphale rose and stepped closer to him, hands offered. “Now I believe it’s about time you get knighted. Would you prefer Sir Anthony or Sir Crowley?”

“Crowley,” he said without hesitation. “It’s the name I chose for myself when I needed one and the one I'd prefer people know.”

“You… chose it for yourself? You didn’t want to take your grandmother’s name?”

“Nah, I wanted something that sounded cool.” Crowley took an offered hand, never failing to notice how warm they were, and let Aziraphale pull him up. “And something that was mine and no one else's.”

“You continue to be endlessly fascinating.” Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “Sir Crowley, then. Would you prefer a specific town or duchie or shall I say you're of Celestria?”

“Of Celestria is fine.” He'd been too young to remember the name of the town he'd been born in and he didn't think Agnes would appreciate her home getting the publicity. “I’ve been all over, after all.”

“And you will be again soon.” Aziraphale kept hold of Crowley as he turned, guiding him out of the study. “Those are really the only things I need to know before knighting you. You’ll have to make a few promises about upholding Celestria’s ideals and protecting both the monarchy and the citizenry. But I do most of it.”

Aziraphale was still holding his hand. Crowley couldn't help but stare at how different they looked. One long and thin and calloused, the other shorter, thicker, soft. “Sounds easy enough.”

“It is. I've heard the most difficult part is being told ‘congratulations’ a few dozen times. Will you be able to handle it?”

Crowley's eyes rolled even though Aziraphale couldn't see them. “Yes, yes, I'll be just fine.”

“If you aren't, I'll rescue you.” They stopped in front of a door, Aziraphale giving his hand another squeeze. “Would you like to freshen up? I had one of the rooms prepared while you slept.”

“Gods, yes.” His mouth still felt too dry and Crowley was sure his hair didn't look nice enough to be seen in front of anyone official. Aziraphale didn't count, they were going to be travelling long distance together which meant they would inevitably see one another in even worse circumstances. “I probably look a mess.”

“I think you're lovely, but I want you to be comfortable.” He was going to have quite a few eyes on him, after all. “I need to change as well. Would you like me to send someone for you or are you alright finding your way downstairs on your own?”

“I can find it on my own. Throne room, right? Can't be easy to miss.”

“It isn't. Any of the servants will be able to guide you if you find yourself turned around, however.” Aziraphale leaned in to kiss his cheek. “Don't dawdle overmuch. I wouldn't want you to miss your own knighting.”

“N-no. ‘Course not.” Heat travelled right up Crowley's neck and he fled into the room before Aziraphale could potentially offer to ‘help’ him ‘freshen up’. He really really wasn't going to survive the next year, was he?

Aziraphale smiled at the shut door, more hopeful than wary of the year ahead. Having Sir Gabriel around certainly dampened the opportunities to woo Crowley, but he'd said he wanted time and that seemed as good a reason as any to give him that time. So Aziraphale hummed cheerfully as he turned to head towards his own room to get ready for the festivities.

The room Aziraphale had led him to was larger than his room at the inn and was even larger than both his little hut and Agnes' small house put together. Aziraphale's study had been even bigger, but at least the space had been full of things. It hadn't felt as large as it was. This room, however, was bare but for the four poster bed, a tall armoire, a sitting chair and a fireplace.

It was probably a very nice place for guests to stay but Crowley barely acknowledged it beyond ‘big’ and ‘fancy’ and beelined for the only other door. Behind it was a small washroom that contained a tub, but the basin was what Crowley was after.

Unfortunately that was where he drew up short. He'd expected the basin but usually there was a bucket of water nearby or it was already full. There were no buckets, only three strange… protrusions coming out of the top. Crowley stared, fingers tapping the sides of the basin. There had to be a way to get water, right? That was just basic amenities.

Well, Agnes had always said he was too curious for his own good. He felt around the odd protrusions until one of the them turned and the middle one began a trickle of water. It was as cold as a winter stream when he ran his fingers under it and Crowley swiftly turned it the other way. The one on the other side spewed water hot enough to burn.

Aziraphale's ‘don’t dawdle’ with that kiss was still ringing in his ears but was he supposed to not dawdle when the castle apparently had hot water whenever they wanted?

It took a little fiddling but he soon figured out that both twisty things used together could produce water at a much more tolerable temperature, which he used along with the nearby soap and straight razor to clean his face and remove a day's worth of facial hair. Crowley also untied his hair, gathered the loose strands that had escaped, and tied it all together again. He would have liked to put some khol around his eyes, maybe weave a braid into his hair, but he didn't think he had the time for that, not after fiddling around in here for so long.

Crowley looked at himself in the mirror above the little basin and figured he probably looked as good as he was going to get. Ah well, they couldn't really expect a sellsword to look fancy, could they?

He hoped not.

Finding his way downstairs proved easier than figuring out how to get water, and the sounds of people milling about rose as he entered the main hall. At one end stood massive wooden doors that had been propped open, which was where the majority of the murmuring was coming from. It sounded like a lot of people, and Crowley rubbed his palms against his trouser legs, not entirely sure if he was early or terribly late.

At least, he wondered about it briefly until he heard Aziraphale's familiar voice coming from a room just before the main one. He inched over towards it and froze when he realised it wasn't just Aziraphale's voice.

“If you aren't going to take your own position seriously, how might others?”

“I understand, uncle. I apologise. It certainly can't be far.”

“It certainly can be, you irresponsible pup. There are thieves everywhere.”

“No one’s stolen my crown,” Aziraphale replied, exasperated.

Crowley blinked. He hadn't really noticed it but he supposed Aziraphale hadn't been wearing it for some time now… maybe since the stables?

“You can't know that for sure. What are you going to do if it isn't found?”

“I can perform my duties without a crown as well as I'm able to with one.”

There was a scoff. “Perhaps your sister ought to knight this man. You have developed an... unhealthy attachment to him.”

“It is not unhealthy. He's been a very good friend, and I’m very glad to have him along on my quest.”

“Oh, I’m very sure you are. You should be grateful we arranged for Sir Gabriel to come along else you’d be spending the next year wasting time with him in some inn on the side of the road.”

“That isn't fair, uncle. I’m-”

“No better than a common whore,” Met snapped. “I don't know who you expect to wed you after the reputation you've developed. It isn't going to be easy to arrange something at this point.”

Crowley winced, though if what he'd heard was accurate… there were plenty of Berwick citizens who would be quite happy to wed Aziraphale, reputation or no. Of course those weren't the people Duke Met was talking about. He meant other nobles; they probably wouldn't look very kindly on Aziraphale's… promiscuity.

“You have no right to arrange any sort of marriage for me,” Aziraphale argued. “I’m entitled to marry whomever I please as king.”

“King for now.” The silence of that stretched, its implications clear.

“I won't fail,” Aziraphale said quietly.

No, no he wouldn't. Crowley would make sure of that even if just to prove this arsehole wrong. And then Crowley would probably have to find a really good excuse to be very far away when Aziraphale wed because he could recognise the way his chest felt too tight every time either one of them said anything about it.

“Of course you will. You're too much like your father.” Met left the room, stopping when he noticed Crowley. He scanned him from head to toe, his disapproval clear. “Excuse me.”

Crowley nodded to him only so far as he absolutely had to and felt a little thrill of glee when the duke sneered and turned on his heel. Crowley only waited long enough for him to be out of earshot before he peeked his head into the little side room. It had a small desk and some chairs and that was about it. Aziraphale was sat at one of them, and Crowley actually felt bad for him. “You know, I think you left the crown in the stables earlier.”

“I suspected as much,” Aziraphale sighed. “I was going to fetch it before I was...” Cornered. “Stopped.” He looked up at Crowley, scanning him much like Met had but his smile was so far removed from the duke’s scowl. “You look nice.”

“Thanks. I'd look nicer if I hadn't taken an impromptu nap on that sofa, though.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Aziraphale rose. “Was anyone else in the hall while you were eavesdropping?”

“Nope,” Crowley said, rocking on his heels. “Just me being nosey.”

“At least you're honest about it. Please wait,” he requested and stepped out of the room. It took only seconds to find a servant to send along for his crown. In Rhew’s stall, hanging with the bridles. When he returned to Crowley, he found himself sinking into the chair again. “How much, ah, did you hear?”

Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth and leaned against the little desk. “Would you like a lie here or more honesty?”

“I always prefer honesty, but that alone is answer enough. I'm...” He sighed again. “I’m not a... At least I don't consider myself to be a whore.” The word alone had him grimacing. “I’m sure you've heard things about me.”

“A bit,” Crowley admitted with a shrug. “More so heard people wondering how good of a lay I must be to keep your attention so fully.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked. That was not at all what he would’ve expected. “Goodness. That’s rather rude.”

Crowley shrugged again. “I’ve heard worse.” Especially before he started hiding his presentation full time. He could only imagine how much worse things would be if everyone knew he was an omega.

“It’s still rude,” Aziraphale huffed. “I don’t need to know how… well, how compatible we are in such activities for me to be interested in you. And even if our relationship doesn’t progress to such a place, I still consider you to be a friend.”

“You’re sweet, angel. And really, it's fine. It doesn't bother me.” Not as much anymore and the only part that did, he was working on getting over. “I can't fault them. I'm new and odd and you've been attached to my hip like a barnacle.”

“I’ve been equally as attached to Raphael, but I don’t believe anyone’s ever made such accusations about us.” He shook his head. “In any case, the rumours about me… Well. My uncle finds them ghastly, but I don’t have any shame in how I’ve led my life. And whatever he says, I… I will not be marrying anyone he chooses for me. I won’t be a pawn.”

Crowley could understand that. He'd never willingly done anything he hadn't wanted to do, even as a child, and marrying someone you didn't want to marry sounded like absolute hell. “I mean, you are the king. Your uncle can feel how wants about it but you can do as you please.”

“To a point. There are rules.” Aziraphale ran a hand through his curls, mussing them. “We will succeed. Not having Sir Gabriel wouldn't have been a hindrance, I’m sure of it. We know what's at stake.”

“Honestly, angel, being forced to take him along is going to be the hindrance.”

“Not if you and I continue to agree on pathways and our timeframe.” They surely would. Particularly for the first half of their journey. Between Crowley's experience and Aziraphale’s determination, they could surely overcome their extra travelling companion. “We don't need him to make decisions, and I'll even pull rank if I must do.”

The mental image of Aziraphale ‘pulling rank’ on Sir Gabriel made Crowley snicker. “Might have to if he keeps having rocks for brains.”

Aziraphale sighed gustily. “Yes. Although he's the one who unfortunately realised my crown was amiss. So he does have a smidge of observational gifts.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled. “A smidge, maybe.”

“A smidge is enough to get me a thorough scolding.”

“Angel, you're the king. Tell him to piss off. No one’s going to take you seriously if you let your uncle tell you off for every little thing.”

Aziraphale winced. “I...” He was used to listening to his uncle, to being careful of him. To listening to what he had to say and continuing along doing exactly what it was he wanted to do in the first place. “It's... complicated. He and Michael are all the family I have left.”

Crowley might have understood but he still felt like the two of them were being arseholes. “Sounds complicated.”

Aziraphale was saved from having to respond courtesy of a knock at the door. “Come in,” he called, relieved when it was Raphael who opened it.

“Majesty, Crowley. Sir Crowley soon, I presume?”

“Very soon,” Crowley answered. “Just giving His Majesty here a little peptalk.”

“It is his first knighting ceremony as king,” he mused, closing the door behind him as he entered. It was then that Aziraphale noticed the crown in his hand, gasping as he took it.

“Oh, thank you.”

“A servant had it. Said you’d left it in the stables.”

“Yes. And uncle was convinced someone was going to steal it.”

Raphael exchanged looks with Crowley. “One of his own people, perhaps.”

“Well I wouldn't put it past him.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale huffed, settling his crown in place. “As knights, he's part of who you're sworn to protect.”

“I’m not sworn to protect anyone yet,” Crowley reminded him. “And besides, protecting and gossiping about are two completely different things.”

“In the eyes of some.” Aziraphale understood and was willing to gossip some himself, but he knew how against that idea his remaining family would be.

“Additionally, I’m sworn to protect you above anyone else,” Raphael pointed out. “Crowley will be in my stead as I can't imagine Sir Gabriel understanding an additional, alternative oath.”

“No, I suppose he wouldn't.” Aziraphale could give in to that easily enough. “In any case, I believe we ought to be out of here. I wouldn't want to prevent the festivities from beginning.”

“No, of course not.” Crowley pushed himself to a more straight position. “Let's get this over with so I can go back to bed.”

Aziraphale laughed, but Raphael tipped his side a bit as they exited. “Back to bed, hm?”

He hadn't realised just how that had sounded until the other knight was looking at him all knowingly. Crowley flushed and crossed his arms. “I’ve had a very exhausting week, thank you very much,” he grumbled. “Not my fault I fell asleep in Aziraphale's study.”

“You spent your vigil in his study?”

Aziraphale smiled, cheeks a pleased pink and hands linked behind his back. “I, ah, I'm afraid he didn't have a very traditional vigil.”

“You haven't told the duke or the princess, have you?”

“Certainly not. They already consider our knighting ceremonies to be unorthodox.”

Crowley blinked. “Vigil? What vigil?”

“Traditionally, knights-to-be spend the night - or hours - before keeping watch over their weaponry,” Raphael explained. “They then bathe and dress in new clothes or new armour before they’re knighted in a grand ceremony. Some places have marches through the city. We occasionally do that.”

“We did for you,” Aziraphale recalled, “but you requested the full ceremony. Most knights of the royal guard prefer something simpler, and I’m pleased to accommodate. For the tournament, many spend the time after the last fight alone. They rest or walk, just having peace to themselves.” The smile he turned on Crowley was apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I didn't even offer-”

“Don’t,” Crowley interrupted with a flippant wave of his hand. “I didn't need anything like that.” Getting to spend the time with Aziraphale, talking and enjoying his company, had been good enough. “I’m glad I got to spend the time with you.”

“So am I,” Aziraphale purred.

“This has been unconventional from the start, so I’m not surprised it's continued.”

“A bit of newness is hardly a negative thing, Raphael.”

“Keeps you on your toes, too.”

Aziraphale beamed, reaching for Crowley's hand, but the bleat of a trumpet stopped him. Heads turned as their names were called, Aziraphale swallowing as he was announced as His Royal Majesty, King. His own eyes searched for one person in particular, even knowing she would never be there.

“Carry on,” he urged to the crowd, shoulders remaining straight and hands clasping behind his back.

“You’re doing fine, Majesty.”

“I know, Raphael. I... There hasn't been a party without her.”

“She’d probably be proud to see you like this,” Crowley murmured quietly. “Being the king she wanted you to be.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied just as softly, grateful to have them both as he entered the room properly. As he made his way towards the thrones at the head of the room, his jaw tightened. There had been three thrones in there as long as he could remember. The middle seat for his mother, the left for him, the right for an absent Michael. She was in her proper seat, but his own usual spot was taken by his uncle. It wasn't right, for someone who always insisted on propriety, to take up a royal place when his connection to the royal bloodline was as an in-law only.

“That's audacious,” Raphael murmured. “A scene could be caused if you like.”

“No, no. But do ensure that both seats are removed when I’m gone.”

Raphael bowed his head, but stopped and encouraged Crowley to do so as well. “Come. We’ll mingle a bit. You’ll be called when it's time.”

“O-oh. Sure.” Not that he'd expected to just stay by Aziraphale the whole time but it still felt strange to separate from him. A sign he was getting too comfortable.

Smiling, Raphael guided him off. He was far too aware of the princess and the duke’s gaze. “Don’t worry. In a few days, you’ll have full access to him.”

“You know, you could just choose not to say things like that.”

“I could, but where would the fun in that be?”

Crowley sighed and shook his head. “You must be terribly bored to want to torture me so.”

He patted his own arm, still bound by its sling even though it was nearly healed already. “You could say I am.”

“Still bad, eh?” Crowley winced a bit. “It can't be easy being out of commission like that.”

It could be a good thing, considering that certain people didn’t know just how close to being healed he was. “It’s alright. I’ll be back to full strength soon enough and with a new sword to learn. And it isn’t a bad thing for our king to have someone here. Are you prepared for the journey ahead?”

“As prepared as I can be, I think.” If they had more time or if there wasn't a time limit he might feel more confident. “That’s what we were doing earlier, working out where to go first and our route.”

“The good thing is that Aziraphale’s been studying Aelfric most of his life. If anyone’s going to be able to find the sword pieces, it’s him. I appreciate you being willing to go along.”

“Well someone's gotta keep him out of trouble and I know Sir Gabriel wouldn't be able to manage that.”

“He most certainly won’t.” Raphael was worried he’d be the cause of trouble. “Word of warning, though. Misters La Vista and Melion are here somewhere, so I think it’s best that they be avoided.”

Crowley grimaced. “Yeah, no, agreed. La Vista seems to have gotten it in his head that I cheated, somehow, so I'd definitely rather avoid them.”

“Rich, coming from the pair of them,” Raphael muttered.

“You’re telling me.”

“I’m sure you and those who’ve faced them know it better than anyone.” Raphael scanned the crowd, checking for the obvious threats as well as the more subtle ones. “If this had been a normal year, it’s doubtful they would’ve made it into the ring properly.”

Maybe they wouldn't have, or maybe they would've. It was impossible to say, especially with their enchanted items. Crowley still hadn't had a chance to examine the amulet he'd gotten off La Vista, too tired every evening since. “I hope you're right. I'd hate to think they set a precedent for anything.”

“Blessedly, this year ought to be one of a kind. It isn’t every spring we get a new monarch.”

“I’d bloody well hope so.” Crowley looked to the dias where Aziraphale sat. He looked uncomfortable but not concerningly so. “And next spring there'll be a coronation.”

“Of a king, gods willing.”

“He will be,” Crowley assured him. “Just let me ditch the tag-along somewhere unfortunate and we'll come back successful.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Plausible deniability is important in this line of work.”

Crowley gave him his best innocent look. “Wha-? I don't know what you're talking about.”

Raphael chuckled low. “Exactly like that.”

“But really, don't worry so much. With both my and his heads together we'll find it.” Crowley glanced back to the throne again and wasn't even surprised to find Aziraphale watching them. “I’ve got faith in that.”

“As do I.” Raphael looked back as well, giving Aziraphale a faint nod. “You both have respect for things others in the past haven’t.”

“Excuse you, no one has ever mistaken me for having respect for anything.”

He laughed, clapping a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “My apologies, then. You’re clearly a disrespectful wretch. Let me introduce you to some of the knights you haven’t yet met. The actual knighting is a very short affair, so we’re waiting for word from the kitchens that all’s ready.”

“Yeah, sure, alright.” He didn't have much else to do and let Raphael lead him around to meet the knights that either had been too busy or had just returned from somewhere else. The knights of Berwick were of various ages and backgrounds. Young and old, men and women, some were the extra children of nobles and others commoners who had proven their worth much like Crowley had. And, though he understood why, it was still something of a sour spot that there were betas and alphas but no omegas. It felt unbalanced to him and no matter how reassuring Aziraphale and Raphael had been last night… it just made him more convinced he needed to keep his presentation a secret.

It wasn’t long before they were approached by a sneering Hastur, Ligur’s scowl just as nasty. “So if it ain’t the so-called winner and our so-called king’s special guard to boot.”

Raphael’s eyes narrowed. “I would be very careful who you insult within castle walls.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow above his glasses, unimpressed with how they both still smelled like sweat and unwashed clothes. “If you have complaints about my winning, you're too late for that.”

“Dunno ‘bout that. Seems like just the right time to tell ever’body here that their big winner cheated with magic. Wonder how quick the king kills a mage.”

“That’s more than enough,” Raphael warned lowly.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” Ligur growled. “Lefty.”

A pang of ice cold fear lodged itself in Crowley's gut. Thus far he'd been able to avoid any such accusations, it wasn't fair that they would happen now. “Accusing someone of something like that without any proof…”

“And if you do, I can assure you you'll regret it. After all, I have it on good authority that it's the pair of you who were using magic tricks.” Raphael smiled without humour. “Unless betas can growl now, Mr. Melion.”

“You dunno what you're talkin’ about.”

“I very much think I do.”

“Oh? Someone other than me noticed that?”

“He isn't exactly subtle about it, is he?”

“Shut it,” Ligur growled.

Crowley's eyebrows lifted again. “Yeah, that, exactly.”

“You tossers think you’re so bloody clever. Just wait an’ see how powerful you are when your king goes back to bein’ nothing more than the neighbourhood whore.”

“Well.” Raphael’s fist landed square across Hastur’s jaw, sending him staggering back.

The thing Crowley was surprised about was that he hadn't done it himself. Everyone else around them seemed surprised though; however, that didn't stop Ligur from lunging at Raphael with a snarl. Crowley barely managed to catch him and shove him back. “Fuck off!”

Aziraphale rose from his throne, but didn’t get so much as a step away from it before his uncle was muttering about the problem with having ruffians in the castle. His jaw tightened. “Sir Raphael, have them removed!” he shouted over the din, more so others could hear the order.

Several knights converged on the scene immediately, Ligur’s sword only halfway drawn before he was grabbed. “You’ll regret botherin’ us, Crawley,” Ligur snarled. “All o’ you will.”

Crowley put his hands up and stepped back, out of the knights’ ways. He wasn't yet one and was enjoying watching the two idiots struggle. “It’s Crow-ley. At least get my name right.”

“You won’t be so brave when you’re all alone on the road,” Hastur warned. “You won’t have all these people ‘round then.”

Raphael adjusted his sling, free hand resting on his sword hilt. “Take them downstairs. Now. We’ll let our king decide what to do with them after the party.”

If it was any other monarch, Crowley might have worried they'd be executed, but he couldn't imagine Aziraphale doing anything like that. “I’m guessing you have holding cells somewhere?”

“We have a prison beneath the castle, yes. It’s the only one in Berwick, though there’s one near the docks outside of the city for sailors to utilise.”

“Ooooh,” Crowley said, intrigued and curious in a morbid sort of way. “Never seen an actual prison before.”

“Would you like to? I don’t mind escorting our prisoners.”

“Nah, not tonight. Let dumb and dumber stew in their cell.”

“Another time, then.” Aziraphale was still watching them, so Raphael lifted a hand and gestured so he would step back and sit. It also signalled the others to start hauling Hastur and Ligur away, struggling and shouting all the while. “Our king’s being as overprotective as usual.”

“He cares about you,” Crowley reasoned. “And you did start a fight.”

“Not much of one, considering just how many people were about. I appreciate how quick you were to stop him.”

“Two on one wouldn't have been fair.” And Raphael was still in the sling. “Couldn’t let ‘em gang up on you.”

“And you didn’t. So thank you, Crowley. You’re going to make an excellent knight.”

“Are you sure your standards aren’t simply low, Sir Raphael?”

The unexpected voice had Raphael tensing in a way he did for no one else. “Very sure, Sir Lucian. You’ve seen him fight. You shouldn’t doubt his skills.”

The former captain circled Crowley and Raphael once, eyeing the ginger carefully. “Capable enough in a one-on-one battle, but what about the throes of war? What if a band of thieves happens upon you in the night? Do you really believe you’ll be able to keep our king safe?”

“Yes.” Crowley said without hesitation, standing straight and looking Sir Lucian right in his dark eyes. The older knight held an air of superiority about him, face all angles and dark hair slicked back. “I may not have been in any wars, but I've assisted plenty of villages against bandits before.”

“Villages,” he scoffed. “This is our monarch. The leader of all the lands. People are going to follow you, chase you. They’ll target you specifically.”

“Let them come. None of that frightens me.”

Lucian arched a brow. “Then you’re an arrogant fool. You won’t make it out of Sūþwatir.”

He said the word with a particular roll of the tongue Crowley had only ever heard the aristocracy use and shrugged. “Take that up with the conceited bastards that decided the winner of the tournament would be going instead of someone hand-picked.”

“I think it’s rather clear that Aziraphale got exactly who he hand-picked. I’m going to find out how you managed this improbable victory, and you had best hope it didn’t involve anything illegal.”

“Hard work isn’t illegal, Sir Lucian,” Raphael defended. “If you wagered against Mr. Crowley’s win, you should accept the loss like a man. King Aziraphale is glad to have someone strong, capable, and familiar with the landscape on his side. I don’t think even I would be as useful on this sort of journey.”

“Thank you, Captain. I would have hoped my skills and abilities spoke for themselves in the arena.”

“That they did. Additional conversation with you has only confirmed what’s already obvious about you.” Raphael met Lucian’s gaze levelly. “Besides, I would never doubt the queen. If she trusted her son’s opinions, I shall without reservation. What about you, Sir Lucian?”

“The queen’s memorial of her husband shouldn’t be taken lightly. I’ll await the proof of his competency for myself and not rely on the beliefs of the dead.” With that, he pushed by and Raphael did wince at the deliberate knock to his shoulder.

Crowley scowled after him, waiting until he was out of earshot to say, “Knew I wouldn't like that wanker.”

“No. I wouldn’t say I’m particularly fond of him either. You’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone who appreciates his brand of discipline and…” He shook his head. “He is right about one thing, however. You are going to have a king-shaped target on your back. In ways you may not even expect right now.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. We'll stick to less travelled roads and camp further off to the sides than I would have otherwise. In fact, I'd prefer not to announce who Aziraphale is at all, no matter where we go. Most regular citizens won't really recognise him without the crown and regalia.”

“I know his uncle wants him to take his crown along, but he surely won’t be. He isn’t that foolish and he isn’t the sort to throw his rank about, as you’ve seen. Sir Gabriel may give you trouble where that’s concerned, but you should be alright. Just keep an eye on him. Please.”

“I won't let Aziraphale out of my sight, Raph, really. Honestly he probably won't let me out of his either.”

“He is protective, so that wouldn’t surprise me.” He looked up when he saw movement, alert for anyone going near the thrones. A scullery maid weaved her way through the crowd, many of whom were whispering about the brief fight, and curtsied in front of Aziraphale. “Get ready for some attention, Sir Crowley.”

“Oh?” Crowley straightened, a slight smirk on his lips. “Calling me ‘Sir’ already?”

“You've earned it.”

“Ladies, gentlemen, and all gathered today, kindly make room for our newest knight-to-be, Mr. Anthony Crowley,” Aziraphale announced and the room separated to either side of the throne stage. A servant threw out a long roll of bright blue carpet, another catching the end to extend and smooth the edge.

Raphael gave Crowley a light nudge. “Off you go.”

It was too much pomp and circumstance, in Crowley's opinion. He could feel the weight of every eye in the room on him as he stepped up. The blue carpet was much too pretty to he stepped on by his dirty boots and he kind of wished he’d taken the time to go collect his new ones instead of falling alseep, but he swallowed past the anxiety of not deserving all of this and approached. He kept his eyes on Aziraphale, warm and familiar, and only took them off of him when he knelt before him on one knee, head bowed and ears ringing a little. “Your Majesty.”

Aziraphale’s purrs rumbled, soft and only for Crowley. He liked the dirt on the carpet. He liked the display of hard work and effort. For him, the bootprints were the entire point. “You come before me, a champion. The annual Spring Tournament has welcomed many over the years. Some who have stayed, many who have gone off to spread the glory of my mother’s name, my father's name, and that of my family before.

“Your journey will be a unique one, not seen in nearly a century. But I know you will uphold the ideals of this kingdom using each one of the virtues you would prefer remain unsaid.” Aziraphale took hold of a robe that had been laying on his throne, dyed a midnight black with reddened trim, to sprawl over Crowley's back. “I am proud to have you be the first knight of my kingship, and I pray others will be as willing to show their skill and lend an aiding hand so readily as you in future.”

His sword slid audibly from its scabbard, the wide edge tapping Crowley's left shoulder, then laying on his right. “I now dub thee Sir Crowley of Celestria. Long may you serve this crown.”

“Hear, hear!” Raphael called, signalling the remaining knights - barring one scowling nearby - to carry on the cheer.

It felt strange to stand once Aziraphale's sword had lifted from his shoulder, the robe fluttering to ground around his feet. The one thing he'd wanted ever since he was a child was now his. The cheers barely reached his ears, everything seeming muffled, deafened. He was a knight and Aziraphale was smiling at him like he understood what it meant to him.

Crowley bobbed his head, a sharp jerk of a nod before he turned and let himself be welcomed into the shouting and back-slapping of the assembled knights that were now his peers.

Seconds later, the robe was returned to his shoulders. This time by a grinning Raphael, who deftly clasped it. “This is yours,” he explained. “Knights of Berwick are given our own colours and it's been obvious what yours would be.”

A warm heat spread up his neck, especially at the quiet snickering around them. “Well someone could have told me that.”

“I’m telling you now.” Raphael smiled. “You’re not the first to not realise, and if you’d like to know who, I'll gladly share.” Snickers stopped. “Beyond being a status symbol, they're very good for travelling in colder months. It'll keep your bedroll softer and warmer.”

“Thanks, Raph.” Crowley discreetly felt the inside with his fingertips, the fabric thick and softer than anything he'd ever owned. “I think this will definitely come in handy.”

“I’m sure it will. Our very own black knight,” he chuckled. “You’ll have to be fitted for your armour before you go. It'll be ready for your return.”

“Oohh, new armour. Keep this up and I'll start having expectations.”

“You’re a knight, Sir Crowley. Have all the high expectations you can.”

Aziraphale’s voice carried over the din. “If you'll all follow me. We may be seated for our meal.”

He hadn't been thinking about it but Crowley realised quite suddenly just how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten since before his match with Gabriel. “Oh, good. We won't starve.”

Raphael laughed. “No. You'll be beside the king, by the way. As the newest knight, it's symbolic of your willingness to protect him.”

“I can already see the duke and princess not liking that.”

“They’ll be at the opposite end of the table, and it's tradition. So bugger whatever it is they'd like.” Raphael patted his shoulder. “Hang your cloak from the back of your chair. You’ll see King Aziraphale do the same with his. We'll all have to wait for him and the princess to be seated before we can, so keep an eye on him.”

As if he'd be able to do anything else. When Aziraphale was near it was almost impossible to look anywhere else. “Thanks. I'd rather not embarrass myself twice in one day.”

“It’s alright. It's my fault and His Majesty's for not explaining things to you properly.”

Crowley shrugged and followed the crowd that was following Aziraphale. “It’s fine. I don't mind being the butt of the joke occasionally. Everyone gets their turn.” And he knew not making a big deal about it would go a long way to endearing himself to the rest of the knights.

“Everyone undeniably does,” Raphael agreed with a grin. “I’ll be on the king’s other side. Anyone in particular you’d like to sit next to? I can arrange it.”

He couldn't think of anyone at first until he very much did. “Oh! That one knight I beat… er… I don't remember her name. Lent me her vambraces. Is she even here? I haven't seen her.”

“Sir Nina. She's likely been in the kitchens.” Raphael barely had to lift himself up to see above the crowds, scanning them before stopping a different knight. “Fetch Sir Nina from the kitchens. Tell her she'll be beside Sir Crowley.”

“Aye, sir.” They saluted and disappeared.

Raphael turned back to Crowley, lips quirked. “Her wife is one of our chefs here.”

Crowley's eyebrows popped up but he smiled. “That’s cute. It really feels like… the people here are close. Care about each other.”

“Berwick may be a large city, but the castle is like a ship bobbing on its own. There are some... odd ducks here and there, but we learn quirks and we adapt to them.” He nodded in Aziraphale’s direction. “He learned how to navigate a lot from his mother, but his kindness is inherited and inspiring. He's eager to learn everything he can about us. He remembers what he learns. If he could meet every single person in Celestria, he would call each one his friend even if they hated him. Even if he hated them. And there are people he doesn't like, as I’m sure you've noticed. He just... prefers they not know that. Somehow our stable master has no idea that his replacement is selected and any opportunity to remove him will be taken immediately. That sort of goodness started with his father, and those who remember what it was like before are desperate for it to never return. Those who never knew anything before his father have never wanted for better. The rest of us have grown up alongside our new king and, well... It's difficult to not care when he does. Anything less feels disrespectful.”

That sounded nice. It sounded like… like they were one large family and Crowley felt a distant pang in his chest. He didn't really have anything like that. Sure, Agnes and Anathema were sort of his family but it wasn't quite like what Raphael described. He'd always felt a little bit like an outsider, a cuckoo in the nest, one who didn't belong. He wanted so desperately to belong. “Yeah, I- I get that. Feel that. He makes you want to be better, a better person.”

“They say Aelfric had that quality as well. Another reason I believe he’ll find the sword pieces. I have more faith in the two of you than in anyone else right now.”

Crowley chuckled lightly. “I don't have faith in much of anything, never have, but… Gods help me, I believe in Aziraphale.”

“I pray others follow him as swiftly.”

“Sir Raphael, I was told you were looking for me?”

He looked over, giving Nina a nod. “That wasn't exactly the correct message.”

“Not entirely sure I believed the actual message. Thought I’d hear it direct.”

“Wot? Don't believe I’d want to sit next to you?” Crowley pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt.”

“Isn’t Sir Gabriel supposed to sit next to you?”

“As Captain of the Guard in Hewin, I think he’d much rather sit with his own subordinates at the other end of the table.” At the look Crowley slanted him, Raphael winked.

As they filtered into the hall where the masquerade had been held, it had clearly been transformed from the night of the party. Several long tables filled the room, each filled with their first course. Servants waited along the walls, blending in as much as they could while also ready to spring into action. Aziraphale headed to the table in the centre, the safest place if anyone was foolish enough to attack, sandwiched between multiple tables filled with knights and fighters. Though he needed to take a deep breath before sweeping off his cloak to drape and hook it to the back of his chair, noting Crowley’s gaze. As difficult as it was to tell where the man looked from behind those glasses - and goodness had his uncle muttered at length about the inappropriateness of dark glasses - Aziraphale just knew it was him being watched. He was then quick to take his seat so no one else would have to wait. He was hyper aware of the steps he’d observed his mother undergo throughout his life, but they felt awkward to do himself.

It also just felt a little lonely. Raphael had always been by his side, but it was always direct and not at an angle. Everyone could see him here. Everyone would be looking at him, particularly the woman at the opposite end of the table. She could’ve sat beside him had she wanted as he’d always sat beside his mother, but he hadn’t been surprised when the offer had been refused. She wanted to sit with their uncle. She always did.

He smiled when Crowley sat at his other side, then lifted his brows and bit back a laugh when Nina sat next. Sir Gabriel wasn’t far off, seeming very perplexed by that turn of events. “Hello, Sir Nina. How’s your wife?”

“Bubbly as ever, Your Majesty. She smacked my hand when I reached for a biscuit, then felt guilty enough to give me three.”

Crowley snickered and put his chin in his hand. “That doesn't seem very effective in keeping you out of the biscuits.”

“It isn’t,” she agreed with a grin.

Aziraphale didn’t bother to tell Crowley to keep his elbows off the table, looking around the table instead. No one could eat until he began, so he quietly bowed his head. The prayer was quiet and private, grateful and hopeful, and the moment he’d had his first bite, the cacophony of others began around him. He didn’t pray before every meal, but he tried. “Maggie’s been in the kitchens since she was a girl. She’s a bit younger than I am, actually, so we were able to play together now and again.”

“Until you started wanting to play with swords. Maggie’s more delicate than that.”

Aziraphale scoffed, but smiled innocently at Nina’s glare.

“Careful, angel. There's daggers in her eyes,” Crowley teased. He was glad he'd chosen Nina, she didn't shy away from looking Aziraphale right in the eye or meekly let him have his way.

“More proof that Maggie isn’t too delicate to be near swords,” Aziraphale replied lightly.

Nina poked Crowley’s side with her elbow. “Angel, is it?”

Crowley elbowed her back. “He looks and acts like a bloody angel so, yeah. It is.”

“And I’m sure that’s the only reason why.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I don’t mind a handsome knight referring to me as an angel.”

“Saying things like that is only going to make people talk more, angel.”

“And?”

“I’m just making sure you know.”

“I don’t mind what others may think of us so long as we’re comfortable.”

That was all well and good but they were surrounded by people. Even though those nearest to them didn't seem to mind the flirting - Nina and Raphael both seeming more amused than anything - Crowley still felt self conscious about it. He'd probably be uncomfortable if the princess and duke were near enough to hear but they weren't. “Yes, I can tell.”

“I think that means he’s not comfortable,” Nina mused.

“Ah.” Cheeks pink, Aziraphale lowered his gaze and spooned up some soup. Whatever his reputation, he did not, in fact, make it a habit to flirt at the table. He didn’t actually recall ever being involved with anyone in the castle proper. Besides that, the boundaries did seem to change with Crowley depending on where they were or how many people were around. It was difficult to tell what those were without being told directly.

“So how’d my vambraces work for you? There’s been a rush put on your replacements so you’re not leaving here without fresh armour. It’s probably going to be a bear convincing Sir Gabriel to go in leathers and not drag around his full suit.”

“I appreciated your armour, truly, though I'll be glad to have my own back.” He might have been seriously injured without Nina’s help. “But I swear to any Gods listening, if that idiot wants to clang all over the countryside he can do it on his own. Plate will just slow us down and be too damn noisy.”

“You’ve seen him. If plate was allowed in the tournament, he would wear it.”

“He did complain about that, actually. It’s too unfair an advantage,” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley grimaced. “Yeah, gotta agree there. Plate is expensive and heavy. Most people can't afford it and having to fight against that would definitely be a major hurdle for anyone without the means to have a set made.”

“Precisely. It isn’t a true measure of a good fighter. And if anything were to happen, it would more likely be done unexpectedly. Knights are far more likely to be in leathers than metal armour.”

“Sometimes, Sir Raphael will smack us with a training sword just to make sure we’re alert,” Nina said.

Raphael lifted his mug with a grin. “It’s effective.”

Crowley laughed with his head thrown back at the way Nina sighed gustily at Raphael. “Yeah, gotta agree there. Need to make sure you're ready for anything.”

“We shouldn’t have to be ready for our captain to betray us.”

“It isn’t a betrayal. It’s training,” he defended.

Crowley nodded in agreement. “Mmhmm. You never know what might happen. If you're attacked unexpectedly, you need to know how to respond.”

“The older ones tend to grab it and throw it somewhere, which isn’t likely to work for a sharpened sword. Though that’s only if they do actually get hit. It’s largely the newest ones who get whacked.”

“I would love to see how well Sir Crowley here reacts. Newest knight and all.”

“Try and hit me unexpectedly and find out,” Crowley said with a feral grin. “Just don't be wet when I hit back.”

“I think the only one who’s ever thought to hit back was King Aziraphale.”

He smiled innocently. “If anyone abruptly attacked me, I would think the wisest course of action is to defend myself.”

Crowley snapped his fingers into pointing at Aziraphale. “Exactly how I see it. You have to be prepared to defend yourself, even if you think you're somewhere perfectly safe.”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “Yes. It’s one of the first things I was taught when I began my training.”

Raphael lifted his mug again. “Cheers to the pair of you, then, and the safely paranoid journey ahead.”

Nina’s mug lifted immediately. “Hopefully it’s successful.”

Crowley lifted his mug along with them. “It will be,” he promised. And he hoped he was right, for his and Aziraphale's sakes.

Aziraphale hoped the same, smiling as he lifted his mug with them. He didn’t manage to get it to his lips, however, before the door slammed open. One of the knights who’d been carting Hastur and Ligur towards the dungeon slumped against the door, blood matting his hair and dribbling from his lip. He also clutched at his clearly wounded side. “Captain! They’ve escaped!”

Chapter Text

“Sirs Crowley, Nina, with me,” Raphael ordered, pushing himself to his feet. He bellowed a few more names, two people rushing over with swords in hand to flank Aziraphale. Others ran to the doorway to help their wounded fellow. “Stay here, Majesty.”

“I would rather-”

“I know. Stay anyway. With me,” he repeated with a gesture to Nina and Crowley.

It was much sooner than he'd expected to be called into service but Crowley didn't hesitate to stand. It was, in a way, a chance to prove he was more than just someone who knew how to fight. He quickly followed Raphael out, Nina barely a step behind. “Can they easily leave the castle grounds?”

“I think it depends. We’ve all heard they were cheating,” Nina answered.

“Not the time, Nina. Daniel,” Raphael said as they reached the bloodied knight, “quickly say what happened.”

“I don’t know, Captain. We had them under control and were taking them down the stairs when part of the wall burst open.”

“The wall?” one of the other knights wondered.

“Some of the stones hit us, and the prisoners were able to free themselves. I- They took our blades. I don’t know if the others survived.”

Raphael nodded, lips pressing together. “We’ll start there. You two, take him to the infirmary. You, Malak, get this to the gate guards. Put everyone on high alert,” he instructed and left the room. As soon as they rounded a corner, he shrugged his arm free of the sling and unclasped his sword. It stayed in his scabbard, however, but he was ready to pull it. “If we come across them, you both need to be careful.”

“Sounds to me like their mage friend came out of hiding,” Nina grumbled. “Why anyone would help those two grimy gits is well beyond me.”

“Not everyone uses their tools well, Nina.”

Despite the tense circumstances Crowley still snorted. “Stupid as hell if a mage is here, especially stupid to blow up a bloody wall.” It also gave other mages a bad name. “What the hell are they thinking?”

“Nothing good, I’m sure. I’m wondering if word of Aziraphale’s impending quest spread a little further than thought. There are always going to be some people not happy with a regime, no matter how benevolent.”

Not that anyone outside would know how benevolent (or not) Aziraphale was. “But to do something this bold in the castle? In the capital? It's idiocy.”

Less so, perhaps, than one might think. Raphael shrugged, but smirked when Nina poked him. “Thought you were still hurt. What gives?”

“The element of surprise never hurts.”

Crowley was, honestly, not as surprised as Nina. Surely the royal family had access to either someone or something that could increase the rate of healing. “Raphael does seem to like his surprises.”

“I’d rather keep people guessing than be easily contained. I don’t take guarding Aziraphale lightly.”

“I see I have much to live up to on our journey.”

“As quickly as you jumped up this time, I have a good feeling that you will.”

Nina nodded. “Some new knights just freeze at their first job. Even ones who started as sellswords.”

“Most sellswords travel in groups and don't have to constantly be on alert.” Travelling alone, though… “Glad I'm meeting expectations.”

“That answers that.”

Raphael nodded, guiding them towards a set of stairs that spiralled downwards. What was normally a dark tunnel had obvious signs of light, so he held up a hand. “They’re probably long gone,” he said quietly, “but we’ll be quiet nonetheless.”

Crowley nodded sharply and, considering how tight the spiral stairs looked, unsheathed his blade. He didn't want to be struggling with it in such tight quarters when every second might count. He heard Nina follow his lead and Raphael seemed pleased with them as he led them down, their footsteps on hard stone the only sound. They didn't have to go far, only about a dozen stairs down before they found the hole. A torch flickered nearby, illuminating stone rubble and dirt and a dark tunnel. Crowley sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Earth mage,” he said in a whisper.

Raphael nodded. “Makes sense.”

Nina crouched by the two knights who’d been helping escort Hastur and Ligur, shoes damp in the pools of blood. She didn’t have to check pulses to know, but did anyway and grimaced. “Gone. What do we do, Captain?”

“Wait here. Crowley, a word.” He grabbed the torch and stepped into the tunnel.

Crowley swallowed but nodded and followed him in. The torch was the only light, the tunnel stretching on past its glow; it wasn't tall, however, and he had to slouch to keep from hitting his head on raw earth. “Fucking hell. How'd they even know where to find them?”

“Tracking spells?” Raphael shrugged lightly, then lowered his voice. “Don’t panic on me, please. You are not the only person with your skills in this castle, and I have no interest in hurting you or risking your life. Can you tell if we can reach them easily?”

Fear, white and hot, raced down Crowley’s spine. His jaw clenched and loosened, the hold on his sword flexing. How? How had Raphael found out? He'd been so careful. “I’d certainly hope I'm not the only talented swordsman, but I don't know what that has to do-”

“Nina’s a water mage. The magic ban needs to be abolished as quickly as possible.” He rolled his shoulder. “This was accomplished by a fire mage. Just tell me if you can track them or if it’s too late. I don’t want to waste time.”

Crowley's eyes flicked to the tunnel's opening, to where Nina likely was. Water and fire. It was so dangerous how hope sparked in his chest, how much he wanted to believe there were people here who wouldn't want him dead on the spot. Crowley let out a shuddering breath and placed a trembling hand on the dirt wall of the tunnel. He closed his eyes only briefly, not needing more than that. “Whatever magic was used to make this didn't linger. It was done crudely, but efficiently. If you send someone down there they'll find the exit but… if whoever made this is smart, they'll be long gone.”

“Alright. Thank you.” He laid his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “And thank you for trusting me. Would you feel a bit better with proof from Nina?”

“N-no.” Crowley shook his head and felt like he was going to be sick. “I’d rather her keep her secrets instead of having them aired out to me.”

“Alright. The majority of the guard - of Berwick - knows. Obviously, her wife does as well. I will not tell anyone about you, and I have not. I know what’s at risk, Crowley.” A corner of his lips twitched up. “I wouldn’t have punched Hastur in the face for threatening you otherwise. It was for Aziraphale too, obviously, but the threat against you was alarming enough on its own.”

Crowley looked away from him. “How did you know?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“I’ve been around someone like you my entire life.” Or, rather, Aziraphale’s entire life. But Raphael knew better than to make that revelation. Nina was one thing; their king, another. “I look for it in people, and I know what unnatural balance looks like when I’m fighting it. It’s as if the ground shifts for you, but it’s impossible to tell unless you do know how to look. I only do, so I know who needs extra protection, and I wouldn’t have confronted you if it wasn’t important.”

“Yeah.” Crowley nodded, unable to shake the uneasy queasiness in his gut. He hadn't been careful enough, if he had then no one would have known. “Better you than someone else, I guess.”

“You aren’t going to give up on me, are you? I still need you, as does Aziraphale.”

“No- No. I'm not. You just gave me the bloody fright of my life, is all.”

“I understand. You may not think I do, but I do. There’s a reason why I’m not telling you who the fire mage is.”

Crowley shook his head. “I don't want you to tell me for the same reason I don't want proof. The less people who know, the safer.”

Raphael nodded. “When you’re ready to go back up, we will. I’ll give you a minute.” He gave his shoulder a squeeze before heading back out of the tunnel, returning the torch to its spot on the wall.

He needed that minute to breathe through his nose and try not to sick up all over himself. It felt like everything he'd ever been taught to keep himself safe had just been thrown in the trash. He could almost hear Agnes berating him for admitting it to the captain of the guard. He breathed in and out until he felt like he could move without his stomach betraying him and climbed back into the stairwell. The bodies were still there sprawled over the steps. “Sorry ‘bout your guys. Kinda feel like we should've came with afterall.”

“Agreed. We’ll give them a proper burial.” Raphael sighed wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’ll have to tell their families.”

“Not to mention Aziraphale,” Nina reminded him.

That was almost worse. “Gods help me there.”

“I can tell Aziraphale if you'd rather not.”

“I may take you up on that. It’ll depend.” He angled his head towards the steps. “Let’s go. I don’t want anyone to be here alone. Nina, you’ll be in charge of the team that gets that wall put back together.”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

Crowley looked back at the broken wall and knew he could probably fix it up in minutes. He didn't offer to do so. “Are you going to fill the tunnel in as well?”

“Yes. We need to minimise any risks to castle integrity. If anyone can use it, it puts Aziraphale’s life at risk first and foremost.”

“Well, good thing he's only going to be here a day or two longer. You'll have plenty of time to fix it up while he's gone.”

Raphael nodded. “Yes. We’ll have constant surveillance until then. I don't expect them to return quickly or easily. I don't think even Aziraphale would be able to prevent a death penalty when we've lost two of our own.”

Crowley couldn't help his wince. “Yeah, no, that makes sense.” He glanced down at the two guards and shook his head. “Needless deaths. It didn't have to be like this.”

“It didn't. If anything, Aziraphale would've given them reprimands and a job or two to keep them busy. Instead...” He shook his head.

“I think you'll have to keep an eye out for them whilst travelling,” Nina warned.

“Yeah, figured as much. As if we need more complications.”

“Do you think it'll take a full year to find the pieces?”

Crowley's head tilted back and forth at her question. “Hard to say. It's really going to depend on how quickly we can find the first piece.”

“Can't even imagine. Like finding four needles in kingdom-sized haystacks. Do we even know the sword actually existed?”

“Aziraphale does,” Raphael assured her. “And that's all that matters. That and the company he's keeping.”

“The one he's keeping by choice, maybe. We all know how well things’ll go if that Hewin lunkhead has his way.”

“I will literally hogtie him and throw him in a lake if I have to. Aziraphale and I have already planned our initial course so he can take it or lump it.”

“As long as it's with you, Aziraphale’s eager to go. I mean it when I say I have faith in the two of you.”

“Someone’s got to. All of us in the guard do,” Nina assured Crowley, “and we've got a few scouts spreading the word to a few travelling knights. It's the other royals I’m worried about.”

“You mean the princess and duke.”

“Unfortunately there aren't any other royals right now.”

Aziraphale could still have children. Even adopted ones would be royal. The real worry for the future was if Michael and Uriel had them and he didn't. Raphael sighed. “We still have to protect them.”

“Until they commit high treason.”

Crowley snorted at the pointed look Raphael turned on Nina. “King first and all that.”

“Yep. Of course he comes first.”

“Yes, yes. But if he isn't around to defend the pair of them, I have to. How dare you both put me in that position?”

“Sucks to be you, Raph,” Crowley said with an unapologetic grin. “Meanwhile I'll be enjoying traipsing all over the countryside with His Royal Majesty.”

“Oh, I think we all know just how enjoyable your traipsing will be,” Raphael retorted dryly. Nina snorted.

Crowley gave his shoulder a shove. “Just because Aziraphale will fuck anything that moves doesn't mean I'm so easily led into a bed.”

Nina's eyes popped wide, but Raphael's brows simply lifted. “He won't, actually, which is lucky for you considering the year ahead.”

“Considering the amount of people I've run into who demand to know what I'm doing to keep his attention, you could have fooled me.”

“He’s definitely a slut,” Nina mused, Raphael sighing at her. “But I still wouldn't say he'd get with just any and everybody. Lots of people hear rumours and just lie about having been with him too. Like they want to be part of some weird club.”

“They can keep the weird club,” Crowley said with a shrug. “I expect more from someone than flirting and batting pretty eyelashes.”

Nina grinned. “So you think he’s pretty.”

“I think he's very pretty.” There was no use in denying it. “Doesn’t mean we're fucking.”

“Well, who cares if you are or not? He may be a public figure and a slut, but who he actually sleeps with is his business. And whoever you’re with is yours. Why should what other people think matters?”

“Yeah, well, everyone else seems to think it's their bloody business.”

Nina spread her hands, nearly smacking Raphael as he shifted his arm back into the sling. “Who bloody cares? He’s a public figure, and if you can’t handle the scrutiny that comes with that, you can’t handle it. Personally, I’d be having fun with it. What do I need protected virtue for?”

“Says the woman who’s gotten in six separate fights on Maggie’s behalf when people say she’s slept with him,” Raphael pointed out.

“That’s different. Maggie gets sad, and I’m not tolerating that.”

There was a slight pang in Crowley's chest, the one he always had when he experienced happy couples, the longing for someone to care about him like that. “It doesn't have anything to do with virtue. Don't give a sod about that. It's the assumption that someone like me couldn't get where I am without falling into someone's bed. Doesn't matter who it is, could’a been anyone and it'd still piss me off.”

“Oh, that’s the problem?” Nina considered that a moment before nodding. “Yeah, alright. That’d piss me right off too.”

“See? Exactly. And I know they're just jealous, but it's still annoying.”

“Hopefully it doesn’t keep you from taking what you want if the time comes,” Raphael reasoned as they reached the top of the stairs. “Nina, start making people aware that they escaped.”

“Do I mention that they were helped by a mage?”

“I don’t recall seeing a mage, and we don’t make assumptions here.” Even though all three of them knew only a mage could’ve created a tunnel and taken out part of the dungeon wall. “Keep everyone on high alert.”

“Alright, Captain. Good luck, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley nodded at her. “Don’t do anything dangerous. You're worth more here alive and whole.”

“‘Bout time someone recognises my worth.”

“Go, Nina.” She bowed her head respectfully before turning on her heel and Raphael sighed again. “Are you still willing to tell Aziraphale?”

“Yeah, I'll break the news to him. You go be the Captain you need to be.”

“Thank you. And, just so you know, I would’ve brought you along even if you weren’t attracted to Aziraphale. You’re talented, you don’t argue about doing things that need done, and you’re smart. He’ll be lucky to have you.”

“No, I know,” Crowley said with a quiet sigh. “You’re one of the few people I know who cares more about what someone is actually capable of.”

Raphael gave him a nod. “Good. I’ll see you shortly. Try to eat and absolutely try to ensure Aziraphale does. Too much of this year’s tournament has been marred by tragedy.”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Crowley promised as he mounted the stairs back up. His own appetite was more of a distant memory.

The nobles in attendance were on their second course, the idea of escaped prisoners a sort of distant thought. More suitable to play at being scandalised over than at actually being frightened of. Aziraphale wasn’t frightened, but he was upset. He was worried. With Sir Daniel being so brutally wounded, he already had a terrible feeling that the others who’d gone downstairs were far worse off.

He knew for sure when he saw Crowley approaching, expression far too unreadable to be any sort of good news. “Is Raphael telling the families?” he asked quietly, waiting for him to be close enough only to disturb as few people as possible.

Crowley sat back in his previously vacated seat and nodded gravely. “Yeah, I told him I'd… well, come and tell you what we found.”

“Nothing good, it seems.” It broke his heart, pain radiating from him. “They escaped?”

“Unfortunately. They-” Crowley glanced around and lowered his voice. “They had a mage friend. Probably earth. Tunnelled in and busted up the wall. The guards didn't have a chance.”

“Oh… We’ll keep that part quiet. Raphael will let the guards know.” He sat back in his chair, working up a weak smile. “I didn’t think you would have better news, but I did hope. Raphael and Sir Nina have everything under control?”

“Yeah, they're handling everything. Nina’s putting everyone on high alert while Raphael handles telling the families. I offered to come tell you.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, gaze falling. “I… I’ll have to do something for them - their families, rather - before we leave.”

“‘Course.” Crowley hesitated a moment, fingers flexing, before he cautiously laid a hand on Aziraphale's forearm. “That’s the least that they deserve.”

“We’ve lost knights in the past. The ones who travel or the occasional scout. We’ll receive word long after the fact. To lose one - two - in the castle itself is...” Aziraphale covered Crowley's hand with his own. “Other losses have usually been accidents besides. Rarely do we lose anyone to- to violence.” He wanted to weep, but his eyes were almost painfully dry. “They never should've been part of this tournament.”

“No.” He definitely agreed with that. “But don't you start beating yourself up over it. Things happen.”

“They do. This year more than most. I only hope these aren't bad omens for the journey ahead.”

“Well, good for you I don't believe in things like that.”

A laugh escaped, Aziraphale too surprised to stop it. “Good for me?”

“Yeah. ‘S not gonna affect my motivation or morale. We’ve got this, angel.”

“We do,” Aziraphale agreed, giving his hand a squeeze. “If nothing else, we must now in order to ensure punishment for those involved in the escape.” And in the deaths.

Crowley smiled just a little and turned his hand over to squeeze back. “Never know, we may run across them while we're out.”

Aziraphale’s eyes chilled. “They had best pray we don’t.”

Yikes. He actually looked a little scary like that. Scary and attractive. “They know about the quest and have beef with me. I'm not ruling it out.”

“No, I won’t either. It’ll be a mistake on their part, however, should they come near us.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. We'll kick their arses even harder than I did on my own.”

“Obviously,” Aziraphale echoed, some of the frost melting into a warm fondness. “Even with a mage on their side, we’ll be perfectly alright.”

A mage that, if Crowley's assessment was correct, had power and skill but little proper training. Which was typical. Finding an elder who knew what they were doing was difficult. Crowley was sure he could probably take them. “Considering the enchantments I'm sure was on them, it might be harder than you think.”

Or easier than Crowley thought. “I suppose it all depends.”

“Yeah, we'll just have to keep our guards up.”

Another thing to worry about, unfortunately. Aziraphale leaned back in his seat, noticing the way his uncle was watching them from his own spot well at the other end of the long table, and quickly turned his gaze back to Crowley. “We will. I am sorry this has taken focus away from you. You’ve earned a celebration.”

Crowley shrugged and though he saw Aziraphale's eyes flick back and forth, he refused to look down that way himself. He already knew who was there and didn't give one sodding shit about them. “It’s fine. I'd rather be useful than sitting here doing nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say you’ve been doing nothing. Conversation is always very welcome.”

“You only say that ‘cause you think I'm pretty.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I think you’re beautiful, but that’s hardly a basis for your being a good conversationalist.”

“Of course not. Being able to carry on a conversation is just a bonus.”

“A very valuable one.” Aziraphale’s hold shifted on Crowley’s hand, fingers lacing. “I appreciate you volunteering to tell me. You’ve proven very good at cheering me up.”

That he'd needed cheering up at all was the novel thing, that he cared so much. “Raphael also wanted me to make sure you ate. Apparently you tend to not when you're upset.”

“No.” Where others were well into their second course, Aziraphale’s first still sat on the table. “He knows me far too well, I think.”

“I’d hope he does and I might by the end of this next year.” Crowley squeezed his hand. “How ‘bout this; every bite I take you have to too. That way we both eat.”

“Alright. I suppose I’m amenable to those terms.” Aziraphale lifted a hand. “But I’ll get us the next course so we’re not eating cold soup.”

“I’ve had worse,” Crowley said but he also didn't try to stop him. He might not have been very hungry, but he knew better than to turn down a hot meal. “Honestly I've eaten better the last few weeks than I have in months.”

“Good. It’s a benefit to being the main trading hub. Not to mention the nearness of the water. Even if our farms struggle in the winter, the sea is plentiful.”

“Gods, yeah, I've never had so much fish in my life.”

“It’s going to be unusual for me to not have much of it whilst on the road. It was for the peace tour.”

“Yeah, I bet. I'm not sure what Gabe expects, but I'd say we probably shouldn't bring much food with us; maybe a week's worth at most and save that for emergencies. We can find pretty much everything we need in nature. Wild game, mushrooms, berries, wild onions, and the like.”

“There’s smoked and dried beef available for us to take. It’ll keep well.”

“That should work well enough. Like I said, only for emergencies. Those sword pieces aren't going to be found in the middle of a town.”

“Certainly not. We’ll be travelling off the beaten path, I imagine.” And was very clearly eager to do so.

“You sound way too excited about this, angel.”

“Oh, I suppose I am. It makes me wildly nervous in some ways, but I’m admittedly excited to see more of the country. I realise some find this quest wildly unfair, but it's also an opportunity. I shouldn't rule these lands without seeing them.”

He was too bloody sweet, too unique of a person for Crowley to not want to kiss him. “Angel, you continually amaze me.”

“Thank you, but it only feels like common sense to me.”

“Believe me, it isn't. You're a novelty.”

Their bowls were swapped out for the second course, Aziraphale’s smile easier than he would've expected it to be. The bites were, too, the meal quickly becoming something of a game until his eyes were bright and they were both far more at ease again.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last forever. The rest of the world had to press in eventually. Raphael's sombre expression when he returned, Nina's tight jaw when she did. The bloody, dirty footprints she especially traipsed across the floor.

There had been a lot of loss in this castle as of late. More than they were used to seeing, and worry was as high as the tension.

His uncle stood, calling the attention of the room when dessert had been eaten - or poked at, as the game didn't seem quite as fun anymore. “Now that there's been time enough for everyone to become accustomed to the knowledge that King Aziraphale will be proving his worth to our kingdom, it is time to announce the dates.”

Aziraphale very carefully bit back his frown.

Crowley's eyebrows lifted, his fork slowly chasing a piece of cake around his tiny plate. Dates for what?

“If it's anything less than a week,” Raphael muttered.

That earned a smile, though it froze on Aziraphale’s face when his uncle said, “They will leave the day after tomorrow. At dawn.”

The fireplace across the room roared.

Oh. Fucking hell that gave them almost no time to prepare at all. They were lucky he and Aziraphale had already started. Of course, Crowley was unable to keep his mouth shut. “‘S a bit soon, innit?”

“Is there an issue, Sir Crowley?” Met demanded loftily.

Crowley's lips pursed. “Nope.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He couldn't douse the fire without it being exceptionally obvious, but did at least make it less dangerous for those attempting to get it back under control. “We’ll check in on the cobbler tomorrow.”

It would be nice to at least have his new boots, his foot tapping in the old one. “Alright.” Though it wasn't his shoes he'd been thinking about. “Tomorrow’s gonna be busy.”

“Exceptionally,” Aziraphale agreed quietly, listening to his uncle espouse the benefits of a quick leave. A quicker leave meant a quicker coronation, which would lead to stability in Celestria.

It was a shame such true words sounded so hollow.

“Majesty, tell him he's speaking out of turn,” Raphael urged.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley and I have our path laid.” For the first leg, anyway. “And he knows what he's doing. I have full faith in his ability - and all of my guard - to help me get everything I need in a day. We’ll be travelling light and quick. A day will be enough.”

It was still putting them in a tight position. “We'll do our best, angel.”

“Yes, we will.” They had to. And he had to squeeze in a visit with two widows. “I’ll get started tonight.”

“You need to get rest, too.”

Sweet. “I will, my dear. You ought to as well. I think it may be your last opportunity to sleep in for a while.”

Crowley groaned and set his chin in his hand. “As if I've been able to at all recently.”

“Precisely.” Aziraphale reached out and patted his arm. “Enjoy your morning. Come to the castle when you're ready.”

“You don't need me to help with anything?”

“You've helped with quite a bit today.” Aziraphale smiled. “Really, Crowley. Take your morning and relax.”

It didn't feel like he'd done much of anything. “Alright… if you're sure.”

“Very much so. You've had a long week and are about to embark on a long journey. Take the opportunity to rest.”

“I… Alright. I guess I will. Still, you and Raphael know where I'm staying so send someone to grab me if you need me sooner.” Maybe he'd have time to examine that amulet…

“We will,” Aziraphale promised. “Come when ready. I'd like you to inspect what we do have.”

“That I can do. Easy.”

“Good. I'm relying on you, darling.”

Crowley flushed and glanced away from him. The endearment shouldn't have made him feel so warm or want to smile and lean into him. It wasn't fair. If things were different… if he didn't have to hide so much of himself… “Gonna be relying on me a lot, I think.”

“Without any doubt.”

By the time Crowley returned to the inn, night had well and truly fallen. He'd received more pats on the back and congratulations than he'd ever thought anyone could get. The food had been better than anything else he'd ever had, even if he hadn't really wanted to eat it and, to his massive embarrassment, Aziraphale had bobbed up and kissed his cheek before he left. There hadn't been anyone around and it had been such a brief thing but Crowley had still been a little stunned by it, at the strong whiff of Aziraphale's scent he'd gotten.

He still smelled like a warm and cosy fire, like someone who'd be good to curl up with on a cold night, someone gentle and caring.

Which was a thought he needed to shake away. He didn't need to be having thoughts like that when he was an omega mage soon to be travelling with the alpha king. It was bad enough that someone in royal confidence knew about his magic; even if it was someone like Raphael, he was in more danger now than ever.

Crowley stared up at the little ceiling of his even littler room. It was barely larger than the bathroom his cleaned up in earlier in the day - a simple bed, a little bedside table, and just enough room for his bags. It wasn't much, but it was also exactly what he'd wanted: a clean room, somewhere safe to rest, and it hadn't entirely drained the money he'd earned dealing with those wolves.

A small - small enough to easily hide in his palm - blackened disk of metal flipped between his long fingers while he stared upwards and Thought. Though it was less thinking and more feeling out the shape of the enchantment that had previously been on the amulet. It was hard to get a good grasp of the magic, as whatever had burned it had singed away the careful weaving. It was always possible that the basis for the enchantment had been fire but… that would mean the mage who'd made it and, presumably, busted in the castle was either a fire mage who'd used some kind of foci to burrow like they had or they were an earth mage who'd used a similar foci to enchant the amulet. There was a third option, of course, but that one made Crowley highly uncomfortable because it would mean the fire was from someone else, possibly even the fire mage Raphael had mentioned.

The thought that an unknown mage had assisted him somehow made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. It would mean someone had noticed Hastur's uncanny ability to not be hit and had enough training, or enough desire, to help.

Crowley rubbed the amulet between his fingers, feeling each etching and not liking how the carved runes invoked earth and swaying grasses. It was almost like wind but not quite, just enough earth in it to make his suspicions more solid. It was still crude, just as crude as the tunnel and blast had been. Someone with raw strength but little finesse. Whoever had burned this out had either known exactly what to do or the brute force of an angry ox. He didn't like either option. Not that he'd expected to be the only mage around, not at all, but one getting caught could blow it for the rest. They didn't know one another; hell, he didn't have the first clue who they could be, but that made four mages running around Berwick and if word got out…

There would be a hunt and even if no actual mages were captured, hunts gave opportunity to arseholes to falsely accuse neighbours they wanted done away with. Chances were entirely normal people would get caught in the crossfire and Crowley really didn't like those odds.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t what Aziraphale would’ve called an easy morning, but many hadn’t been as of late. He missed the days before his mother’s illness, though even those were marred by questions of how long she’d hidden the symptoms. How long she’d truly been sick was a mystery which would never be solved, and everything in him resisted that simple, awful fact.

Whatever the answer, though, the world as he’d known it had ended the first time she’d fainted in front of him and he was still struggling to find his footing in this new age.

His own family was not helpful, which was a sorrow and a fury he kept close to the chest. He and Raphael shared a single look before the knight lifted a hand to knock at Michael’s door. She had a few rooms which had been used sporadically through her life, and it was very clear that they had belonged to her as a child when a maid bid them entry.

Leave it to Michael to insist on a maid’s presence.

Aziraphale smiled at her, receiving a small, nervous one in return. The servants were never nervous in his presence and they never had been in his mother’s. They were all pack members in this castle, and it raised alpha hackles to think a threat had encroached on their territory.

The first room had shades of a young girl, porcelain dolls on shelves beside delicate tea sets and the softest of animals filled with soft wool. Aziraphale knew from his mother that it had been their father who had participated in the small girl’s fanciful tea parties, attended by only the finest of her toys. It was difficult to imagine the stone-faced woman he knew as a giggly youth, pouring fake tea for dolls and fabric beasts and a man Aziraphale had never been able to know.

The front room gave way to a study. The fanciful little girl had become a scholar, maps on the walls and art painted by those who had travelled far and wide. The cliffsides of Sūþwatir, the forests of Esteorþe, the full peaks of Noreir, and the open fields of Westanfyr - they were on boldly coloured display on her walls. As far as Aziraphale knew, she’d travelled to them all. But her excursions to Noreir had always been brief and hardly worth mentioning, as she claimed to find the people there lacking.

Raphael had posited once that it was the people who found Michael lacking, but that was an argument Aziraphale was unable to entertain. Aloud, anyway.

When he tore his gaze away from the art and maps on the wall, he saw she was seated on a harshly straight chair. Their uncle, he noted, was behind a desk in a chair which looked equally as severe. When invited, Aziraphale sat. Raphael was not so did not, instead blending himself into the shadows as the maid had done. And, Aziraphale noted, as Uriel had done as well. Neither knight looked at the other. “You wished to speak with me, Michael?”

“Uncle and I each did, as a matter of fact.”

“Regarding?”

“Your upcoming journey, clearly.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he preferred his sister taking charge of this conversation or not, too aware of their uncle’s steady gaze. He didn’t know what they expected from him, so kept himself under careful, quiet control. “Clearly,” he agreed, “but what about it specifically?”

“Sir Gabriel seems to be under the impression that you have no intention of bringing along a carriage.”

Sir Gabriel had cornered him the previous evening before he’d been able to escape the barracks after dinner and retreat to his own study. He’d asked what size carriage to expect as he was preparing to pack and wanted to know how much room he’d have for his own things. “Only what your own horse is capable of carrying,” had not been the response the Hewin Guard Captain had expected to hear, and he’d looked at Aziraphale as if the new monarch had pushed a lemon down his throat.

He should’ve expected the knight to tell someone else, unsure if he’d come directly to Michael or if Uriel had heard of his complaints first. “I suppose that proves he’s capable of listening,” Aziraphale mused. “A vital skill for a quest across the kingdom.”

“Why wouldn’t you bring a carriage, Aziraphale?” The first words his uncle spoke had Aziraphale resisting the urge to squirm in place. “They’re as vital as your companions’ abilities to listen.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to refute that, but Michael cut him off. “They provide protection from the elements and from bandits. Moreover, they provide privacy should you run across any travelling caravans or even wanderers. A king shouldn’t be available for any and all riffraff to speak with. You already have dangerous ideas, Aziraphale, without uneducated commoners adding to them.”

Dangerous ideas indeed. If only they knew of his multitude of ambitions. “They are also heavy, bulky things which are more likely to slow our progress than encourage it.”

“Do you not think a year is enough time then?”

His uncle may have asked the question with all the calm curiosity as one inquired as to the weather, but Aziraphale knew better. He wasn’t always good at reading people, but his mother had taught him how to find the critique in polite words. She’d been an excellent educator. “I believe a year is adequate,” he replied carefully. More than enough time risked them announcing a reduction and not enough time risked placating suggestions to forfeit without undertaking the risk of embarrassment. It was a careful game, one which ought to have been frustrating. Aziraphale found the challenge an entertaining one, mind working through arguments to pick out the ones least likely to offend and most likely to earn him the outcomes he most readily sought.

“Then a carriage shouldn’t be an issue.” Met spread his hands, smile not reaching carefully blank eyes. Aziraphale ignored how disconcerting that was. “Just a small one, Aziraphale. Be reasonable.”

They could always sell it, he thought, feeling himself giving in. It was so much easier than arguing, and it really was such a small thing. Honestly, the argument wasn’t even worth it, was it? “I am being reasonable. It’s a very important quest. Vital for the future of our kingdom, in fact. I may not have much experience with travelling, but I’ve discussed plans with Sir Crowley. He doesn’t believe a carriage will be necessary either, so-”

“Sir Crowley is a common sellsword who happened to do well at a tournament filled with vagabonds and obviously violent ruffians,” Michael scoffed. “He isn’t a measure of success by any means, nor should his word supersede ours. We are your family, Aziraphale, and we know what’s best for you and for this kingdom.”

His heart clenched. “I- I don’t mean any offence. I know you’re my family, Michael. You’re the only sister I have.”

He wasn’t sure if he imagined the brief pass of distress in her features at being called his sister, it flickered over her features quicker than any blink. Before he could question it, their uncle said, “Speaking of Sir Crowley, I’d like to discuss his… viability for the quest.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes. Now that the matter of the carriage is resolved-” Aziraphale nearly sighed at him. “-we should discuss whether or not he should truly accompany you.”

“He won the tournament. Per your terms, uncle, he earned his spot beside me on this quest.”

“Yes, yes, but we all know he’s as untested as you are. He’s an unknown name and face, just as you are. You’ll have Sir Gabriel, who has consistently proven himself to be a successful force throughout the kingdom.”

In what way? Aziraphale silently wondered.

“After discussing things, Michael and I believe Sir Raphael has also proven himself. He did accompany you on your peace tour, after all, and fought off an attack you faced in Westanfyr, did he not?”

The brief, startling attack near the town of Corbington had been nearly erased from record, no one wanting a single blemish on Aziraphale’s tour. He remembered how terrified his mother had been when he’d returned home, his letter recounting the fight wrinkled and torn in spots from her constant worrying. It had been his uncle’s idea to keep the attack quiet, and she hadn’t argued. “No one knows about that, uncle. If you recall.”

“The family does. What the rest of the kingdom knows is that he’s a strong, worthy knight. And now you’ve even made him the Captain of the Royal Guard. It seems as if that’s been celebrated amongst the people here, and his presence could also serve as a deterrent. Some of the attackers lived, did they not?”

Aziraphale specifically didn’t look over his shoulder at the waiting knight, his arm still in a sling only a select few knew wasn’t necessary. Fewer knew why. “He still wears his sling,” he protested, a truth which was easier than any claims of his continued injury.

“We would give him time to heal, Aziraphale. The people would accept that,” Michael pointed out, tone extremely reasonable. It shouldn’t have been irritating. “If you wanted to make an announcement that Sir Crowley has refused the quest in order to stay in Berwick and train with the other knights, many would accept Sir Raphael as a logical replacement. We would simply… push back the coronation.”

Aziraphale was positive that Crowley would have his head if he tried to say such a thing. Not only would it be a terrible lie, it would be hurtful. Crowley had worked hard, had made the choice to win. He wanted to come along on Aziraphale’s quest. “If that’s the case, I could easily claim that Sir Gabriel made the decision to return home to Hewin to resume his post as Guard Captain. Equally as noble and reasonable a reason which still ensures that Sir Raphael is a logical replacement.”

Annoyance came and went so fast, Aziraphale was sure if he’d imagined it in the lines of his uncle’s face. “Sir Gabriel has been looking forward to this, nephew. It would be an insult to turn him away.”

“It would be an insult to Crowley - Sir Crowley - as well. He worked very hard to get to his position, and he proved himself willing by leaving a meal held in his honour to risk facing attackers who had already killed other knights.” A fact that still hurt, the losses aching in his heart and adding weights to the guilt he carried.

“He’s still an uneducated nobody!” Michael snapped, startling Aziraphale enough that he flinched. He’d never heard her shout before. “He could get you killed.”

“I disagree.” Unlike the carriage, Aziraphale’s resolve did not weaken. Taking Sir Raphael was a temptation, the greatest one they could’ve laid before him, but they would have to wait a reasonable amount of time for his supposed injury to heal. Crowley wouldn’t stay in Berwick. He would go to his grandmother’s with his rightful winnings and needlessly wounded pride. He was clever enough to be brought along. Beyond Aziraphale’s attraction, Crowley had proven himself to be a compassionate person with as much skill wielding his tongue as he was his sword. He could talk down potential attackers until or unless it was impossible to reason with or confuse them, which was Aziraphale’s preferred method for dealing with threats.

“I know neither of you like him,” he acknowledged. “I know neither of you trust him. I know you want Sir Gabriel along because you trust him to protect me if need be and you do not have nearly the same faith in Sir Crowley. I also know the people have been through enough ups and downs that they’re exhausted and reeling, and I will not contribute to that by needlessly changing our plans. We’ll leave first thing in the morning - Sir Gabriel, Sir Crowley, and I - and. should the gods and goddesses wish it, be back with Aelfric’s famed sword by year’s end.”

Michael looked furious and ready to argue further, but Aziraphale focused on their uncle. “I will take the carriage,” he agreed, “and Sir Raphael will stay here to heal and to lead the knights in my absence. If you’ve any advice on what I should bring along with me, I’ll happily hear it.”

It was quiet in the room for a few seconds, each sibling waiting for their very opinionated uncle to make his judgement. “Your crown,” he began and Aziraphale nearly melted into the chair from relief. He’d agree with anything else to get out of this blasted room and into the rest of his day.

“You’re allowed to be angry with them, Majesty.”

“I know, Sir.”

“It isn't for them to dictate how you travel.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then what are you going to do?”

Movement near the gate caught his eye and he smiled. “Talk to Crowley.” He waved towards the gate. “Hello, my dear!”

Crowley waved back, still somewhat dazed by the fact that the guards had smiled at him and waved and asked how he was doing. It was weird. Almost more weird than lifting a hand to the king in greeting as he approached. “Hey! ‘S strange showing up when the sun’s almost at its peak instead of first thing in the morning.”

“Don’t worry. You'll be here at dawn tomorrow,” Raphael reminded him.

“Oh, yes. It should be a busy morning.”

“Gross,” Crowley said with a wrinkle of his nose. “Where’s the other one?”

Aziraphale blinked. “The other one?”

“Sir Gabriel. Or has he decided to not give any input?”

“He's given more than enough input for today,” Raphael said so Aziraphale didn't have to. “Unfortunately, the duke agrees with him.”

“Double gross.” But not unexpected. “How bad is it?”

“I’m afraid my uncle was appalled by the idea of royalty travelling without a carriage, and no amount of reminders that we needed to travel quickly would sway him.” Aziraphale lifted his chin. “However, no one’s said we have to keep it the entire time. We’ll have to adjust our route to pause at a town.”

Crowley grinned a little ferally. “Just, you know, checking; how much trouble would it be if, say, an axel broke?”

“Quite a bit. I've allowed Sir Gabriel to pack the carriage how he chooses. We’ll sell or donate what we can in town and be done with it.”

Crowley's grin turned into a pout. “Ruin all my fun.”

“You’ll be given a fair share of the proceeds, my dear. You'll be fine.”

“Don’t care about the proceeds,” he grumbled.

“It’s unfortunately best this way,” Raphael assured him. “With them fumbling with a carriage, they won't bother the pair of you making actual preparations. More importantly, if the carriage went down you would lose time having it repaired or having another loaded. I highly doubt the coronation would be pushed back.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled again. His plan had been to just leave the thing and Sir Gabriel too if he was so attached to it. “Fine, fine. I'll let them stay distracted.”

“How was your morning?” Aziraphale wondered, resuming the walk and happy to have Crowley with them.

“Slow, peaceful. Laid in bed all morning and dozed, mostly. Gave Bentley a good brushing down.” Which she'd enjoyed immensely. “Handed the letter to my teacher off to be delivered and made sure my bags were all packed to leave first thing tomorrow.”

“Wise of you,” Aziraphale complimented. “I hope you'll approve of what I've done thus far with my own.”

“I guarantee you have too many clothes, Majesty.”

“If I can carry them without being slowed, there aren't too many.”

Crowley snorted. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“I’ll only give you a little bit of consideration when it comes to my clothes,” Aziraphale warned with a laugh.

“Oh, great, we'll be laden down with fabric.”

“We’ll be seeing different climates and seasons over the year. I'm prepared.”

“And how many outfits does prepared mean?”

“Four.”

“Five, if one counts your nightshirt,” Raphael revealed.

“Which I clearly was not.”

Crowley snickered behind his hand. “A nightshirt? Really?”

Lashes fluttered. “If you’d prefer I sleep in the nude on our journey...”

“I did not say that,” Crowley grumbled with pink cheeks as he refused to look directly at Aziraphale. Having to smell him constantly was going to be rough enough. “I doubt Sir Gabriel would appreciate a nude king.”

Aziraphale grimaced while Raphael's laugh thundered. “Sir Gabriel would very likely begin giving our king advice on diet and exercise.”

“More so than he already does,” Aziraphale quietly muttered.

“Considering how hard he hits I don't think he needs either.”

“He doesn't, but Sir Gabriel has... opinions on how people ought to look.”

“Unwelcome ones,” Aziraphale added. “He’s likely going to say needless things about you as well. He believes it's... helpful advice.”

Good thing he didn't plan on taking his clothes off anywhere near either of them on this journey, no matter how keen omega instincts seemed at the idea if Aziraphale was involved. “If he says a damn word I'm going to start calling him brickface.”

“Well... I suppose I should prevent that, being that we should be peaceful amongst ourselves whilst travelling. Yet...”

“He wouldn't know it was an insult,” Raphael laughed.

Crowley threw his head back, knees bending a little, and groaned at the sky. “Of course he bloody wouldn't.”

Aziraphale sighed. “In any case, so long as there isn't a nasty fight amongst us, you can call him what you like. And if he says something unpleasant to you, tell him to not do so again.”

“Fine, fine.” Not that he particularly wanted to fight Sir Gabriel again. The first time had been rough enough. “As my liege commands.”

“How diplomatic of you both.”

“Shush.” Aziraphale smiled despite himself. “Diplomacy is a vital part of my life.”

“And you’re kicking arse at it.”

“I’m glad you think so. Even if you don't always agree.”

“That’s how diplomacy’s supposed to work, innit? Get people who don't agree with you or each other to work together on somethin’.”

“It’s a vital goal,” Aziraphale agreed with a bright smile. This was just what he'd needed all day.

“And a vital skill for a decent monarch,” Raphael added.

“There ya go then. There's your legacy: Decent Monarch.”

Laughing, Aziraphale reached for his hand. “And what a wonderful legacy that would be.”

The sudden warm hold made his stomach do something fluttery and ridiculous. “Yeah. Better than some we've had for sure.”

“Unfortunately so, yes.”

“Better than some nobles we currently have,” Raphael mused. “Your list has been illuminating.”

“List? The one I gave you of who tried to stiff me?”

“Yes. We’ve sent a few scouts out in those directions to see how the towns are fairing under their rule, and Aziraphale’s given me permission to… we’ll say reprimand them as I see fit.”

Crowley grinned and couldn't help but wonder what they might have thought when they heard he was being knighted. “Good. Keep me updated, I'd like to know what happens.”

“I do report directly to our king, and he doesn’t seem to mind sharing things with you.”

“I don’t,” Aziraphale agreed.

“That’s because I'm amazing.” And probably also because Aziraphale liked him. “I’ll expect regular reports, angel.”

“Whenever a scout locates us with news, you’ll know,” Aziraphale promised with a laugh.

Crowley nodded decisively, as if he was in charge of anything. “I do like it when you agree with me.”

Aziraphale gave him a partial bow. “Anything for you, darling.”

“Oh, don't start that. I might like it.”

“Heavens forbid I do something to please you,” Aziraphale purred.

Crowley glanced sideways at him and Raphael both. The knight captain was looking straight ahead but had a knowing smirk on his dark face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m perfectly alright with that.” Purrs still rumbling, Aziraphale was happy as could be to lead Crowley along. “We were on our way to the stables to check on Rhew.”

“I’m sure he's well-fed and still hungry.”

“Without any doubt, but I thought tending him and preparing him for the journey would be a nice way to calm down. Raphael was coming along to lecture me.”

“Calm down?” He hadn't smelled particularly upset, mostly just delighted. “Did something happen?”

“My family and I... don't currently agree on a few things.”

He knew the carriage was one of those things. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“Well...”

Raphael laughed. “Don't take it personally. He thinks you'll agree with me because he knows I make sense.”

Crowley laughed along with him. “Well… you never know until you tell me. I could let you down gently, angel.”

Something he'd proven unusually good at. “I think in this case I do know.”

“The princess said if he found the idea of travel distasteful - which is not what he was saying at the time - that he should call off the trip and name her ruler. To save time.”

“And what were your thoughts on that? Because mine are tell her to do the bloody quest herself if she wants the throne so badly.”

“She wouldn’t need to.”

“She may have gotten her education from the duke, but you earned yours from the queen. People may be surprised now, but it'll be obvious very quickly who's actually more competent,” Raphael argued.

“I don't want anyone to wonder. Especially not them.”

“Everyone’s going to be wondering for the next year anyway.”

“Which is ludicrous. It’ll be a year under Michael’s rule, so-”

“So,” Aziraphale interrupted carefully, “a year for her to show that, perhaps, she isn’t as competent as expected.”

Raphael’s jaw went slack. “Aziraphale.”

Crowley gaped at him for a moment before he started laughing. He wheezed and leaned heavily against Aziraphale's side, struggling to catch his breath long enough to speak. “Angel- ha! You- You bastard!”

The shocked look on Raphael’s face immediately shifted to Crowley for the insult, but Aziraphale neatly straightened his clothes and only barely resisted the smile. “They’re so very confident. They ought to be given an opportunity to prove themselves.”

“You are devious.”

“Hardly. I don’t want Celestria to spend even a moment under a poor rule, but they’re forcing my hand and not listening to me. And… if they fail, there will be consequences.”

“Ooohhh consequences, I like consequences when I’m not the one experiencing them.”

“Consequences aren’t always negative,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“Don’t be pedantic,” Raphael sighed. “The sass you have.”

“At least it keeps things interesting,” Crowley pointed out. “Never any fun if someone can't keep up with the verbal sparring.”

“You’ll have plenty of that on your journey, then.”

“Raphael, you sound as if you won’t miss me,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“I’ll consider this time peaceful and quiet.”

“That means he'll miss you.”

Raphael smiled. “Of course it does.”

“I’ll write when I’m able,” Aziraphale promised. “We’ll send runners when we're in towns.”

“Yeah, that shouldn't be an issue. Communication’s just gonna be slow.”

“We’re accustomed to that from some of our scouts and travelling knights.” Raphael nodded once, stopping as they reached the stables. “I’m off to the kitchens. We'll make sure they keep from loading the carriage with too many provisions.” He was going to use his status as much as need be with Gabriel.

“Thank you. I would so much rather not be overburdened with provisions which will simply go to waste.”

Crowley nodded in agreement but then had an idea. “You know, if we do end up with too much we can always divide it out amongst people as need-be. I don't know anyone who would turn down free food and it would endear you to the people more.”

Aziraphale smiled at him. “That’s just what I would do with it.”

“Then whatever we can't convince Sir Gabriel to leave behind we'll give away. That'll show ‘em.”

“What a devious, lovely way to undermine someone.”

Raphael shook his head. They were a very dangerous combination. “Sir Gabriel really and truly doesn't stand any chance with the pair of you leading the way.”

“I know. Isn't it fantastic?”

“That all depends on who one asks, so I’m going to say yes.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you, Raphael. We’ll come to the kitchens when we're through here.”

Crowley gave him a casual wave, so much more relaxed and easy than he'd felt the first time he'd been on the castle grounds. “Yeah, try and keep Gabe from packing a year's worth of food, yeah?”

“No promises, but I’ll do what I’m able. We’ll figure it out regardless.” Raphael bowed slightly before turning away, and Aziraphale happily tugged Crowley into the stables.

“I’m glad you came today. It’s been a hectic morning, and I’m not sure how well the rest of the day will go.”

“Well, you did ask me to help and it's in my best interest to do so.”

“It is. Travelling poorly would make things difficult for both of us.” He sighed. “Which is part of why I’m in here. Gabriel’s got it into the head of our stablemaster that I ought to bring Rhew’s full armour, and I find that rather ridiculous.”

“Wha- Why? It only going to weight him - and us - down. We're not going into a fucking warzone.”

“He’s convinced we’re going to enter each and every village we come across and, for some reason, we ought to make a production of it. We’re on a mission. Not a…” Aziraphale shook his head. “Honestly, I didn’t even parade into towns whilst on my peace tour.”

“I would bloody hope not,” Crowley grumbled. “If I thought he was capable of it I'd wonder if he's trying to sabotage you on purpose.”

“Raphael… well. He thinks certain people are trying, and Sir Gabriel just happens to have terrible enough ideas. Unfortunately, what he’s proposing is technically correct. My parents just parted ways with so many of the old ways in practice that it’s difficult to remember them.”

“If you can't remember them they can't be that important.”

“If they weren’t in records or still official policy, I would agree with you. Because of them, I’ve quite a bit of writing to do during our travels.”

“Well you'll have time to do it.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure.” Aziraphale smiled when Rhew’s head lifted over his stall door, ears twitching. “He’s heard us.”

“Of course he has.” There were other nickers and snorts from the other horses as they passed, Crowley easily able to see the tall beasts with their height and broad chests. As he'd learned was usual, animals just seemed drawn to him and the royal herd was no exception. “Have the ones who'll be pulling the carriage been selected?”

“Not as yet. Considering that we’ll be selling it, I was considering having Rhew be on the team. One less horse to lose.” Aziraphale lifted his hand when they were near enough, rubbing his horse’s snout and listening to his hooves dance. “I imagine Sir Gabriel will attempt to have our finest steeds in front, but part of my reason for being here included intercepting the stablemaster to make a few suggestions.”

“Probably a good idea. Don't really wanna lose your best.” Crowley reached out as well and rubbed the side of Rhew's snout.

“No, and the stablemaster won’t like the idea of our finest stallions hauling a carriage all through the kingdom.”

Crowley could imagine that would be an issue. “Can't let the royal horses do something so mundane as pull a carriage. They're beasts of burden! Bred for battle.”

“Absolutely. I think I’d like it if you came along and agreed with me,” Aziraphale laughed.

“I wouldn't usually call myself agreeable but I might be able to manage it, for you, this time.”

“And I will deeply appreciate it.” Aziraphale opened the door, stepping inside and encouraging Crowley to follow. “Hello, Rhew,” he purred. “Handsome fellow. Are you ready for a busy year ahead?”

Crowley pursed his lips behind Aziraphale's back and did not wish Aziraphale would call him a handsome fellow and scratch his neck. He did not. “Of course he is.”

“Yes, he is. So is your Bentley, I wager.”

“Bentley is going to be ecstatic. She's never happier than when we're going somewhere.”

“We’re going several somewheres, the lucky lady.” Aziraphale began parting Rhew’s mane to begin plaiting it. “One you're going to continue being on your best behaviour for, silly beast.” Rhew ignored him, trying to find and nuzzle into Crowley's palms.

Crowley let him, rubbing his nose and over the top of his snout. “Stay still for Aziraphale, alright? So he can make you look pretty.” Rhew snorted at him. “Alright, stay still and you can see Bentley sooner. How about that?”

Rhew licked his hand and Aziraphale laughed. “He did enjoy our walk. I'm grateful the pair got on well.”

“Yeah. It would've been a pain in the arse if they were constantly trying to nip and bite each other.”

“Yes, but if we're not careful, this affection could blossom into a foal. As lovely as I think their offspring would be, such a thing ought to wait until we're back.” Aziraphale scritched his horse's neck. “I would hate to put extra stress on Bentley during all of this, and I can't imagine you not being in a steady place to tend her.”

Crowley grimaced. “Yeah, and that wouldn't bode well for us doing this thing in time. We'll keep them separated as much as we can.”

“Yes. Though our stablemaster would be apoplectic if they did breed. A mare of unknown lineage with my little crossbreed.” The “little” horse's nose was larger than Crowley's cheek, pressed against it for a friendly nuzzle that made Aziraphale’s smile brighter.

He really was an affectionate horse. Crowley gave his snout a gentle push with a small laugh. “Gods forbid the royal herd debase itself with a common mare.”

“I say she would be a welcome addition. There isn’t anything common about her.”

“Your stablemaster might disagree.”

“Without any doubt.” Aziraphale slanted him a look. “But he can’t tell me no as king as easily as he could as prince. He could barely tell me no as prince, considering who I have here.”

Crowley laughed and gave Rhew some vigorous scritches. “Your master is ridiculous and a bastard. Being king's only going to make him worse.”

Smiling, Aziraphale tied off the braid and left the stall to fetch a carrot. “I have no idea what you could be referring to. I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“Uh-huh. I'm sure that's what you say to all the pretty ones.”

“The smart pretty ones know better, apparently.”

“I sure do.”

“You even know you’re pretty.” Aziraphale wished his hair was escaping from its tie, but it wasn’t just yet. “Do you ever braid all that hair of yours?”

“Sometimes,” Crowley admitted. “Braiding it keeps it out of the way better but it's time consuming.”

“Anytime you’d like some help with it, I’m available. And capable.”

“Are you just saying that because you want to play with my hair?”

“Of course I want to play with your hair. It’s lovely and soft.” Aziraphale smiled, snapping the carrot under Rhew’s watchful eye, and offered one of the halves to Crowley. “If it’s helpful to you, all the better.”

Crowley took the carrot half automatically, with barely even a thought, too focused on watching Aziraphale eye where his hair was tied back. He liked having his hair touched, as a kid had begged Agnes to brush it regularly, it was comforting. Soothing. “Behave and maybe I'll let you one night.”

“I have no idea why you’re so convinced I never behave,” Aziraphale laughed. “My manners are impeccable.”

“Then you may just get a chance to touch my hair soon.”

Aziraphale decided not to bring up all the time he’d already touched Crowley’s hair, giving Rhew the carrot half he so clearly wanted. “I look forward to it.”

Rhew was, as usual, enthusiastic about his treat and the second he'd scarfed down Aziraphale’s half he was nudging Crowley's hand for his. “Yes, okay, alright you can have this too, greedy.”

“Greedy?” Aziraphale gasped. “Surely not.”

“You don't think so?”

“Well…” Of course he did. “He doesn’t need to know that.”

Crowley laughed and gave Rhew a fond pat. “Don't worry, angel, your secret is safe with me.”

“It had best be, though you’ve proven yourself very adept at keeping my secrets.”

“I am good at keeping them, yes.”

Aziraphale shook his head, but it was true. He’d been kind and good and very protective over the things Aziraphale had asked him to be protective of. He started to reach for his hand, wanting to ask him to come along with him somewhere. Anywhere they could be alone for a little while and let the awful circumstances surrounding them go for a little while.

But someone cleared their throat and Aziraphale turned his head and let his smile shift to something more polite. “Ah, Mr. Masters, just who I was hoping to see.”

“I doubt that, what with you here mucking about with this beast.” The man’s thick moustache twitched as he looked Crowley head to toe. “And your newest knight I’ve heard tell of.”

Crowley eyed him right back. A barrel of a man with arms like tree limbs. He looked like he could easily handle the massive size the royal herd was known for. “And now you've not only heard of, but seen me.”

“I heard you’ve got yourself a pitch black filly.”

“That would be my Bentley,” Crowley confirmed. “She's served me well thus far.”

“Knights usually get their pick of the royal herd, but I heard you didn’t want one.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks pinkened. “Ah, yes. I don’t mean to be presumptuous or speak for you, my dear, but after seeing you with Bentley, I thought you wouldn’t wish to have anyone else.”

“Yeah, no, you're right on the money there. You've got beautiful horses here but one would be wasted on me. Bentley's my girl.”

“A common mare could never be better than one of the royal horses.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. It was too irresistible. “Like my Rhew.” The stablemaster’s frown deepened. “I do have to say I doubt she would be happy only being a royal mare. She seems too… busy.”

“Uh, yeah. Bentley would go nuts if she doesn't have anything to do for too long.” Probably a product of being from working horses. “Honestly it's not me slighting the royal herd or anything, I'm just attached.”

“Hm. Our horses are the finest in all the kingdom,” he boasted. “Anyone is lucky to even see them up close.”

“And to think, Crowley’s been able to feed Rhew and help me brush him.” Aziraphale’s smile was beguiling, but he knew just what he was doing. “Very lucky indeed.”

Crowley shook his head and patted Rhew’s neck. By the way the stablemaster’s face was turning red and the things Aziraphale had said previously, he knew exactly what he was doing. “Rhew is a lovely steed, just like I'm sure the rest of the herd is as well.”

“Our king is no horseman or he'd know exactly how grand our herd is. There are no finer steeds or mares in the kingdom.”

“I’m looking forward to discovering that on our trip, actually.” Aziraphale beamed, hands clasping behind his back. “As a matter of fact, I was hoping to speak with you about that. There's been a bit of talk about taking along a carriage.”

“A carriage?” He looked at Aziraphale with a furrowed brow. “How big of one?”

“Oh, not very.” That, at least, Aziraphale had been able to avoid. “I believe we would only need two horses to pull it. Rhew would do nicely, I think. But we would need someone to match his size and, naturally, his strength.”

Eyes rolled. “And you think this crossbreed would be strong enough to haul an entire carriage, do you?”

“Well, yes. Don't you think so, Crowley?”

“Er, well, probably. I mean he's bigger than an average horse already and Bentley can pull a small cart no problem.”

That was minimal help at best, but Aziraphale’s smile didn't falter. “There. You see? Besides, we wouldn't want one of the show horses.”

“And why not?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Taking the finest of our horses to be used as cart mules? We are traversing the entire kingdom, Mr. Masters.”

Crowley nodded at that. “Mmm, yeah, besides show horses are pretty and impressive but there's going to be mud and rain and going through woods and if we go over the mountains…”

“And we shall be crossing the mountains,” Aziraphale added.

The stablemaster’s moustache twitched again. “They need to stay here. Obviously. Breeding season will be in soon. We can't send our best off on a wild goose chase.”

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened, but his smile didn't seem to falter. “Quite.”

“Right, so, the absolute best won't do. Wouldn't want to risk injury, either.”

“We are covering a lot of ground quickly.”

The heels of the stablemaster’s boots clicked together twice before he turned. “Right. I know just the beast to go along with you. He’ll fit right in with that crossbreed.”

“He’ll be an older work horse,” Aziraphale whispered. “Guaranteed.”

Crowley bobbed his head. “Sounds good to me,” he whispered back. “They'll be used to the hard labour required.”

“They’ll be happy, I think, to go to a small farm in the country.”

“That too. Sounds like a good retirement to me.”

It was indeed one of the older workhorses. Nearly as tall as Rhew and not at all a Clydesdale. The roan had, in Aziraphale’s opinion, sweet eyes. He stroked his long nose. “Hello,” he purred, familiar with the old horse. “It’s so nice to see you, Lwc.” He nickered softly, brown eyes shifting from Aziraphale to Crowley with a curiosity far younger than his body.

Crowley smiled and stepped up to pat the old gelding on the neck, not at all surprised when his ears perked up and turned towards him. “Hello, Lwc. You ready to go on a little trip?”

The stablemaster scoffed lightly. “If you coddle him, he won't work for you.”

“We shall endeavour to remember that,” Aziraphale replied. “I think he'll do a wonderful job hauling the carriage.” Until they got rid of both.

In Crowley's opinion being kind to the animals working for you usually meant they did a better job. “Yeah, sure, no coddling.”

Aziraphale watched the horse rub into Crowley's palm, smile warming. “Indeed. Thank you, Mr. Masters. We're very grateful to you for accommodating our needs.”

Crowley saw the stablemaster’s moustache twitch. “With this settled we just need to figure out the food situation.”

“Travelling rations?”

“Yes, but we'll take care of that. Thank you, Mr. Masters. We'll be on our way.” He harrumphed a goodbye, so Aziraphale gestured to let Crowley go on first.

And Crowley took the bait and headed right out and into the warm daylight. It was warming up and he tilted his head up towards the sun momentarily to soak it all in. “He doesn't seem so bad.”

“No. He's... particular and we do differ in certain opinions on what makes a satisfactory animal, but I know he cares about the horses’ well-being.”

“Considering how good all the horses look, I believe it.”

“Even our geldings like old Lwc.” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “Sir Gabriel's going to be very scandalised by his presence, but I’m pleased. We're still going to lose time, unfortunately, but it'll be alright. We’ll gain it back.”

“We will.” And he would do what he could to smooth the way. “Let's just hope we don't have any major weather.”

Aziraphale looked skyward. “May the gods be on our side for that.”

Crowley wasn't so sure if the gods would have much to do with it. “Or whoever, really.”

“The goddesses,” Aziraphale laughed.

“Whichever ones you like, Majesty.”

“The ones who are most willing to offer their services.” Aziraphale’s belief system tended to be broader than most, though he knew which deity best served which situation. “Although I have high hopes they’ll be on our side for this, I won’t be terribly shocked if they allow mortal business to be mortal business.”

“Wouldn't know anything about that,” Crowley murmured. “Never seen much evidence of the gods doing much of anything. Always just people being people and screwing up or doing good all on their own.”

“People do indeed do as they will, but I’ve never needed proof to have belief. I find it comforting, the thought of higher powers above, but I fully respect if you don’t share in any of it.”

“It’s appreciated.” Crowley smirked down at him. “I do like knowing we'll get along on this long trip.”

“As do I. It would be rather wretched to have two persons like Sir Gabriel along. I’m not sure Rhew and I wouldn’t just leave in the night.”

The smirk grew into a more sincere grin. “I swear to Someone if you leave me in the middle of the night with that pillock I'll never forgive you.”

“I’d suggest you remain your charming self, then, and not some irritating know-it-all.”

Crowley barked out a laugh and threw an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Don’t you worry, angel, I'll be irritating in completely different ways.”

“I have no doubt about that,” Aziraphale purred, only just resisting the urge to snuggle into Crowley's side.

“I mean it. I'll be properly irritating. Make you wanna strangle me in my sleep.”

“There are much better ways to quiet that mouth of yours than a strangulation.”

A sharp heat zipped right up Crowley's spine. He knew he shouldn't encourage this but it was too good to resist. An alpha was paying attention to him and not in a creepy, overbearing way. “You'll have to tell me about those sometime.”

Smiling, Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered. “And demonstrate if you’d like.”

Crowley knew he was playing with fire now. “I'll have you know I can still be irritating even with my mouth full.”

A hand lifted, thumb brushing Crowley's lower lip. “My dear, that almost sounds like a challenge.”

He wanted very much to snake his tongue out, taste the pad of Aziraphale's thumb and his salt-sweet skin. It'd been too bloody long since he'd been touched and the nearing heat wasn't helping. “One you seem up for,” Crowley murmured, lips barely moving.

“Oh, yes. If you're focused on being a menace and not what's being done to you, you aren't being pleased enough. I'm very willing to adjust that attitude of yours.”

“You realise you make resisting you very difficult.”

“I do hope so,” Aziraphale laughed and gave his cheek a light, fond pat.

Crowley let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding when Aziraphale turned away. “You do it on purpose, then.”

“Well, I enjoy you and the reactions you have,” he admitted with a smile.

“Enjoy making me blush, more like.”

“That, my dear, ought to be obvious.” Aziraphale smiled at the scowl he received, happy to guide Crowley towards the busy kitchens.

Chapter Text

The kitchens were a large, warm space of rough hewn stone and bare wood. Shelves and counters covered most of the walls along with a massive brick oven. The centre of it was dominated by a massive work table covered in nicks and scratches from long years of use. It was also a busy space, multiple people were hard at work chopping and mixing and dashing about to make sure everyone that worked and lived on the castle grounds were fed.

Crowley remembered Agnes spending long hours cooking and preparing food, and that had only been for the three of them witg him and Anathema expected to help. He couldn't imagine the work it took to keep an entire castle going.

And in the very thick of it all was a woman with bobbed blonde hair and the cheeriest smile Crowley had ever seen. She effortlessly directed anyone who came up to her even while being deep in the middle of a conversation with Raphael, and her apron was stained with flour.

“Guess that's Nina's wife?”

“Maggie, yes. Neither of them fuss over second names, so you're welcome to call her by her first. She's worked very hard to be in charge as she is.”

“Yeah, I bet. Looks like she knows what she's doing.”

“She most certainly does. As does our kitchen staff. They keep us running as smoothly as the cleaners do. And one can't possibly neglect the personal staff. Goodness, I think mother's handmaiden cried even more than I did…” He shook his head. “She’s at least been gifted enough funds to spend the rest of her days not having to work. Mother and I were discussing over instituting some sort of fund for those who work in the castle for a length of time and granting it to them at a certain point where they've begun to struggle due to age or illness. Her handmaiden is the first attempt at such a thing, and I think once I have more details settled I'll ask the staff their thoughts and suggestions.”

Crowley blinked at him, lips parted. “You'd do that? Really?”

“I think so. I've seen many servants age in my lifetime and the burden of caring for them always falls to their children or other family if they never had pups of their own.” Aziraphale shrugged lightly. “I think some would be happier if they were able to continue caring for themselves instead of feeling like burdens.”

He was almost too kind and sweet to be real. “That… Yeah. I think a lot of people would like that.”

“I do hope so. Mother's handmaiden was very appreciative.” Aziraphale gave his side a light pat. “And I’m very glad you think it's a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea,” Crowley corrected him. “Do you have any idea how much stress that would take off people?”

“The hope is plenty. If it works here, I'd look into stretching it across the kingdom.”

“Gods yes. That would help so many.”

“Oh, good. I think so as well, but it can be so hard to know for sure…” He was more sheltered than he wanted to be but, fortunately, knew it. And wasn't afraid to ask questions to fill the gaps.

“It would do good, believe me.” And if that was what Aziraphale wanted to do he would never not encourage it. “Might be difficult to get other nobles on board but if you set the example…”

“Ah, yes. The other nobles… I wonder if I might just be able to work around them somehow…”

“You have my full, undivided attention, angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Later. We need to save some discussion for the road, and I've a bit of pondering to do on that for now. Now come meet our Maggie.”

Crowley followed him over and around bustling workers. Every one they passed stopped momentarily to bow, which he could tell made Aziraphale nervous, fingers twisting and scent dulling strangely. Though when Maggie saw them her face lit up even more than usual, smile wide and bright.

“Your High-” She stopped herself, flushed, and began again. “Your Majesty. We've been waiting for you.”

“Not for too long, I hope. Rhew needed a bit of tending to.” He planned to go out later to brush him more thoroughly and discreetly tuck away his armour. “Maggie, this is Sir Crowley. I'm sure Sir Nina's mentioned him. She's most certainly mentioned you to him.”

“Oh! Yes!” She clapped her hands together once and then held one straight out, smile never faltering and blue eyes twinkling. “It's lovely to meet you. Nina wouldn't say it in so many words, but she was very impressed with your prowess at the tournament.”

The smile made her cheeks rosy and full. She reminded him of Aziraphale, only more bubbly. He took her hand and gave it a simple shake. “No, I would imagine she wouldn't actually say it.”

“It would reveal too much,” Raphael chuckled. “How did things go with the stablemaster?”

“Splendidly,” Aziraphale purred, wiggle brief and cheerful. “We’re taking Lwc and Rhew for the carriage.”

“The gelding? He'll do well with some fresh air.”

Crowley thought so too. “Yeah, he seems like a sweet old thing.”

“He is,” Raphael agreed. “Some of our youngest castle members have learned to ride on him. He doesn't mind a pulled ear or clumsy feet.”

“I think I learned on him…” Maggie murmured thoughtfully. “When I first started here at the castle as a teenager. Nina was a young squire then and insisted I needed to know.”

“As I recall, she insisted when she was on stable duty.” Aziraphale’s smile softened. “You were both so charming during your courting.”

Maggie flushed pink and fluttered her hands. “Oh, stop that! You're not here to talk about me anyway!”

“My dear girl, I'll have you know I did indeed intend to talk about you. How else shall Sir Crowley know who to thank for last night's wonderful meal?”

Maggie flushed deeper but Crowley laughed and shook his head. “Sir Nina made sure I knew that, angel. Didn't you hear her? She couldn't stop talking about her wife.”

“For very good reason. She's indispensable. They both are.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a nudge with his elbow. “Stop embarrassing the poor girl. We have business.”

“Yes! Thank you, Sir,” Maggie said primly and smoothed her hands down her stained apron. “I was just discussing with Sir Raphael the instructions Sir Gabriel left. I'm not sure what he thinks is happening, but he seems to think you need enough food to feed a small army.”

“We most definitely do not, considering that our small army is and will remain here. I won't have Rhew and Lwc overburdened with more food than three persons can handle. He may be used to grand caravans, but this is not that.”

“Which is similar enough to what I was telling her,” Raphael said with a firm nod. “He wants far more than the task requires.”

“I tried to tell him,” Maggie complained. “But he just kept saying that was how he always did it.”

“Now none of that fretting, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled, shaking his head. “Whatever Raphael’s told you is appropriate is what you ought to follow. What Sir Gabriel always does is not applicable here.”

“Explaining that to him isn’t going to be a simple task, so best not bother,” Crowley muttered.

“Yes, but…won't he check?”

“My dear lady, why on earth would he check? And if he does, you're at liberty to say the king gave you orders.” Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back. “I dare say you wouldn't have any issue after that. Even he isn't so foolish as to go against my word to anyone else. Should he come to me, I'll be perfectly honest.”

“You’ll be politely honest, Majesty. There's a difference.”

“Only a bit of one, Raphael. Negligible.”

“Bastard,” Crowley murmured low enough for only Aziraphale to hear, smiling all the while. “Just don't send him to me unless you want blunt honesty.”

“That may be what it takes to get through that thick skull of his,” Raphael pointed out, watching Aziraphale bring Crowley's hand to his lips as many others in the kitchen did. Reputation or not, their former prince had never been in the habit of flagrant public displays of affection. “And even then he may not understand.”

Crowley snorted to cover up just how embarrassing it was to have his hand kissed in front of the entire kitchen staff. At this rate the entire castle was going to assume they were an item. “Are we even sure he actually knows how to read?”

“I would hope so, being that he wrote the list.” Raphael held out a sheet of parchment, amused. “He’s a fool, but he isn’t entirely stupid.”

That, in Crowley's opinion, was debatable. He took the parchment, only needing to glance over it to know it was absolutely ridiculous. “I still can't believe he wants us to bring this much food. I mean, you'd think he had no idea how to hunt.”

Aziraphale blinked once at Crowley, then again at Raphael. His shrug had Aziraphale blinking a third time. “Gosh. I… I don’t know if he does.”

Crowley stared at him. “Angel, Aziraphale, don't you lot just, like, hunt for sport? I mean I wouldn't but that's- You know.”

“Oh, no. Not in Hewin. Uncle finds that to be beneath him, and an insult to the wealth of his city. Around Berwick, I would say we hunt a few times a year. Not for sport, I would say, as we do fish often and make use of whatever it is that’s caught.”

“Overhunting is also discouraged around our lands,” Raphael added. “We want game to return, not be frightened away forever.”

“Yeah that's… not the norm from what I've seen.”

“Goodness. And what might happen should we overhunt and lose a vital source of food?” Aziraphale huffed. “Not every town has access to the sea’s bounty like we do. It could be detrimental to our independence as a kingdom.”

Crowley shrugged. “Tell the nobles who do massive hunting parties regularly and don't allow anyone else to hunt on their lands that.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I will.”

But Maggie blinked at him, head tilted. “If you're not allowed to hunt, how do people get the meat they need?”

“Pay the lord or suck it up.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, puzzled, and Raphael sighed. “The lords own the lands the people live on, and they’re unable to hunt on those lands. They’re being extorted, Majesty.”

That had him gasping, horrified by the very thought. “For food? It’s a necessity! Who on earth would have sanctioned such a thing?”

Raphael’s lips twitched. This, unfortunately, was where Aziraphale’s isolated childhood shone its ugliest light. “Tradition.”

“No. It isn’t tradition in the capital, and I won’t allow such outlandish behaviours to happen elsewhere. That needs to be changed immediately.”

He was adorably naive. “So you'll tell them what they can and can't do on their lands?”

“There are already certain limitations imposed. Creating kingdom-wide hunting laws wouldn't be an overreach,” Aziraphale reasoned.

“Not necessarily,” Raphael cautioned, “but they would have to be very clear and tailored towards unique climates. Moreover, it would be difficult to enforce. More knights and scouts would be needed and the nobles wouldn't be pleased by the invasion or the loss of income.”

Crowley bobbed his head in easy agreement. “No one likes heavy-handed laws being laid down. Least of all the people in charge.”

“There must be a way to ensure everyone is able to eat without being taken advantage of, though.”

“You’ll have time to plot it all out, Majesty. Travelling is an excellent opportunity to work out plans. You'll have an opportunity to speak with some of the people and discover what they might find to be best as well.”

Smile returning, Aziraphale nodded. “That is very true. Blessedly. I have quite a bit to work out, and this time is going to be invaluable in many ways.” His smile turned to Maggie. “And we've no doubt taken up far too much of your time. We'll take only the food we've previously discussed, and Sir Gabriel will be sent directly to me or Sir Raphael should he complain.”

Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Majesty. That should make my job a lot easier.”

“So happy to hear it,” he purred, patting her arm gently before stepping away and gesturing towards the door. “If you'll accompany me, Sirs.”

Crowley nodded to Maggie who beamed at him, though her smile held something a little knowing, a little sharp, that made him have to fight back a blush as he hurried after Aziraphale and Raphael. Surely the kitchen staff would be ripe with rumours now. “Well, that's one disaster avoided.”

“Blessedly. Maggie is the giving sort and, even if she would've struggled, she would've done her absolute best to fulfil the order Sir Gabriel gave her.”

“And now she won't have to.”

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, considered reaching for his hand. It had quickly become something of a habit, and Crowley hadn’t yet told him off for it. He considered that permission. “She most certainly won’t. I think we’ll head to my study. I can share with you what I’ve packed and we can go over our route once again now that we’ll need to veer towards a town.”

“That's fine by me.” The study was comfortable even if it was full of Aziraphale's scent. “I have a town in mind, it's not too far.”

“Lovely. It won’t divert us overmuch, I hope?”

“Nah, shouldn't.” Originally he'd advised that they just head straight past it to save time. “Just a few days at most.”

“Alright. I’m sure we’ll be able to make it up somewhere.”

“It sounds as if the two of you know just what you’re planning to do,” Raphael mused. “Have you left much time for actually searching?”

Aziraphale nodded. “We have a destination in mind for the first shard, so it’ll be a good way to tell if my theories are sound.”

“Pretty much. If it's there, we can use that to figure out the next one and if it isn't then that's still important information.”

“Oh, I do hope it is. I’ve no idea what else the clues I have point to… It’s the only direction which makes sense.”

Raphael laid a hand on his shoulder. “I have faith in you, Majesty. Your mind isn’t something to be taken lightly.”

He was quite intelligent, that much was apparent even from just the fact that he'd pieced so much together. Sure, he'd had the knowledge available to him but so had everyone else in the royal family who'd tried. Even if they only found one, it would be leagues more than anyone else ever had. “And you've got me.”

“Clearly no one before me has been so lucky.”

“Obviously not.”

“Don’t start preening, Sir Crowley. Your ego will grow large enough to prevent you from entering doorways,” Raphael teased with a low chuckle.

Crowley gave him a little shove. “Shaddup. I'm still running on the high of actually being knighted.”

“As is deserved.”

“By the measures of some,” a voice interrupted, all three halting to see Met emerging from a side room. Aziraphale and Raphael knew it to be his preferred sitting room.

“By the measure of all who watched him fight in the tournament,” Aziraphale reminded him, hands clasping behind his back. The pointed look towards his crown-free curls didn’t go unnoticed. “And, within a year, by all of Celestria.”

“If you succeed, which remains a dubious prospect.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled and a hand went automatically to his hip. “We will. I have faith in Aziraphale’s abilities.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, uncle.” Aziraphale’s smile returned. “We’re off to my study.”

Met’s frown deepened the lines stamped across his brow. “You know very well my complaint. Your lack of respect for your title isn't a reason for a commoner to disrespect it.”

“He is a knight.”

“Barely.”

“And he is my friend.” Aziraphale hurried on when Met opened his mouth again. “Moreover, my lack of a crown isn't disrespect of my title. It's being cleaned ahead of the journey.”

Crowley barely stopped himself from snorting out a laugh. There was no need for a fancy crown on a trip like this. “And is it disrespect when you've asked me to use your name?”

“Not at all. In fact, it's very much the opposite.”

Met didn't bother to hide his derision, eyeing Crowley head to toe. “Speaking of your journey,” he said as if the small exchange hadn't happened, “we need to discuss it. With Sir Gabriel.”

“We’ll gladly meet with him in the library, then. Down here.” Away from his study and the real plans therein.

“Fine. We’ll be meeting alone.” The next pointed look was delivered to Raphael, who bowed low.

“Of course, my lord. I'll take my leave. I have full trust in Sir Crowley's capabilities should something occur.”

Crowley gave him a firm clap on his good shoulder. “Thanks, Raph. It's good to know at least someone believes in me.”

Met’s gaze flicked down to the tartan fabric tied to Crowley's belt. “It’s quite clear that belief in you runs a bit rampant in this castle.”

“It was a joke,” Crowley explained to him slowly as if such a thing might be a new concept. “Just a bit of fun ribbing between peers.”

“He’s a captain of the guard.” However much that grated on Met’s nerves. “You’re not his peer, but a subordinate. Your education is clearly lacking and needs to be corrected.”

“We’ll head to the library now, uncle. Sir Raphael, if you would have a servant fetch Sir Gabriel for us?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Raphael bowed again before giving Crowley a small, supportive roll of the eyes and walking off.

Aziraphale smiled at his uncle. “After you.”

“Hm.” He glowered at Crowley as he swept by and Aziraphale briefly closed his eyes, steeling himself for the continued interaction.

Crowley scrunched up his nose at Duke Met's back, already tired of the rude old man. Just because he didn't always bow to authority didn't mean he didn't respect Aziraphale. Though his twisted up expression smoothed at the slight touch to his elbow, Aziraphale looking up at him pleadingly. Damn it. He inclined his head and swept an arm out. “Majesty, allow me to take Raphael’s traditional place behind you.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, for so much more than just the offer. He hoped that was understood, however, so stepped quickly followed his uncle. “What exactly did you want to discuss in regards to our journey, uncle?”

“We’ll wait for Sir Gabriel to get into specifics.”

Aziraphale’s smile tightened a fraction. “Of course.”

Crowley, of course, rolled his hidden eyes and followed along right behind Aziraphale's left. They went down the hall, up a flight of stairs, and down another hall into a large room whose double doors were already standing open. It smelled of parchment and ink and wood, comfortable chairs were scattered around long tables, and the shelves taller than Crowley was tall. There were more books in here than there were even in Aziraphale’s study, Crowley immediately drawn to the full shelves. Agnes had always said knowledge was power and in here, he could believe it. “There's more books in here than anyone could read in a lifetime,” Crowley murmured quietly.

“Oh, I’ve made a dent,” Aziraphale replied. He kept just as quiet. “As much of one as I was able. Quite a bit of family history is in here. A lot on Aelfric.”

“And a lot on a lot of other things too, I'd wager.”

“Mmhm. Written records of stories told through the years are my favourites.”

Crowley glanced over to where he could see Duke Met taking a seat and also watching them like a hawk, like he was some chaperone. “You'll have to show me those favourites some time.”

“I know many of them by heart, and I've always liked the idea of sharing a good tale by a campfire. You'll hear them soon enough.” Aziraphale led the way to the table, taking a seat at the head directly across from his uncle. A subtle reminder of their places in society that he knew the man did not appreciate. It was, however, appropriate and couldn't be corrected. “Tell me, uncle, who have you left in charge of Hewin in your absence?”

“Your mother strongly suggested Lady Ananiel.”

“The Marquess?” Aziraphale’s brows lifted, the new king wise enough to keep delight from his eyes. “I thought you didn't care for mother's suggestions when it came to Hewin.”

“Only the foolish ones. Lady Ananiel has proven to be... adequate. Certainly not on a permanent basis, but she'll do well for now.”

“Lady Ananiel trained under mother to become a knight,” Aziraphale explained for Crowley's benefit. “She made quite a name for herself before settling in Hewin.”

“She made quite a fortune for herself as well,” Met added.

Crowley made a considering noise and plopped down in the chair to Aziraphale’s right. He slouched down into it with one ankle crossed over a knee and knew the duke was watching him with thinly veiled disgust. “Sounds like my kind of gal.”

“I should hope not,” Met sniffed.

Aziraphale’s smile said otherwise, unfortunately for his uncle. But he didn't dare say so aloud. “My mother is very adept at selecting the right person for the right job. I've no-”

“Was,” Met said lightly, Aziraphale’s smile slipping.

“Ah. Yes. I've no idea how she... did it. I've never known her to be wrong.”

“She must have had good intuition. I imagine such a thing is important for a leader.”

“Following it, I think, is what made her a good one.” Aziraphale did consider his own struggles to balance intuition and fear a weakness, but he had a year to work on the things he believed he lacked.

“Ah, Lord Met! Your High- oh! Your ‘Majesty,’” Gabriel greeted, somehow managing to make it sound as if he'd put quotes around the word. “And Sir Crowley too.” Gabriel’s hand landed, solid and firm, against his shoulder. “You know, I didn't get a chance to speak to you at the celebration.”

“It was really busy,” Crowley said simply, the excuse ready on his tongue. “And we'll have plenty of chances in the coming days.”

“So we will.” Gabriel smiled as he sat across from him, looking between Aziraphale and Met expectantly. “What was I summoned for?”

“My uncle would like to discuss the upcoming journey.”

Crowley thought it was ridiculous that the duke had any say in it at all, as he wasn't even going, but chose to not voice that particular thought. “Most of the preparations are done or are being worked on as we speak.”

“Done?” Met asked, brows lifting. “Nothing is done. What about your route?”

“Decided upon,” Aziraphale said, neverminding that they were on their way to adjust them. They had been decided upon, so it wasn't a lie.

“When?”

“Yesterday. Sir Crowley spent his time before the ceremony assisting me in navigation preparations. Being a sellsword, he's well-travelled and knows the lands well.”

“Yet you didn't invite Sir Gabriel to this discussion?”

“He wasn't located, unfortunately.” Nor had they looked, but that didn't need to be said. “We’ll happily share them with Sir Gabriel soon, however, but I believe it best if the route remains known only by myself and my companions.”

“Obviously your sister and I should be kept abreast of your activities as well.”

That was debatable, in Crowley's opinion. “Aziraphale, didn't you say you wanted to send regular reports back anyway?”

“Of course. So the route will be known, but only after we've traversed it. I don't want to risk anyone but the three of us knowing where we're off to.” And, if he had his way, Gabriel wouldn't know either. He only needed to follow along and avoid getting them all into dangerous situations.

“Are you saying you expect us to spread your route to anyone?”

“Of course not, uncle. But even the most private rooms in the castle are accessible and, ah, we do know that someone's been spreading castle secrets. Raphael's investigating.”

Met didn't so much as blink. “Is he?”

“Most certainly. He's clever and the royal guard is very loyal to him, so I believe him fully capable of weeding out the perpetrator.” He gasped. “Or the perpetrators.”

“If you wish to assign him frivolity amidst your absence, feel free.”

“Is it frivolous to want to make sure sensitive information isn't spread before you're ready?”

Met barely spared Crowley a glance. “It’s frivolous to search for something that doesn't exist.”

“I’ll allow Raphael to judge that, uncle. And it's best to ensure he's kept busy,” Aziraphale defended. Though it was less about keeping his friend busy than it was about keeping the castle safe. They'd never had an informational leak, as far as Aziraphale knew, and he didn't want to start a new, terrible trend. “So we have our route settled, the... carriage is being packed, and we have all of our things prepared. What else would you like to discuss regarding our journey?”

Met eyed him, but there wasn't much he could say to refute it. “The expectations for you all whilst on this journey.”

Crowley’s nose wrinkled. “The wot.”

Aziraphale’s expression turned carefully neutral. “Uncle, I can assure you I will behave with all the decorum as is required and expected of my station.”

“Yes, and I have no doubt Sir Gabriel will behave properly.” His gaze shifted to Crowley. “But you haven't the faintest idea of how to behave.”

“I don't know what you would consider ‘misbehaviour’ when we're going to be travelling through forests and wilderness. It's not like I'm going to be sitting at a noble dinner table.”

“Of course we will be,” Gabriel chortled. “Imagine! The king sleeping every night outside. It simply isn't the way things are done.”

“I’m sure we won't be outside every night,” Aziraphale agreed, but he had as much intention of sleeping at a home of a noble as he did of taking the carriage beyond the first town. With one distant exception.

Crowley's eyes rolled behind his glasses. “If you're so concerned about it you can leave me in the stables with my horse. Like her company better anyway.”

“And what sort of message would that send to our allies?” Met demanded.

“Uncle, I have more than enough time to teach Sir Crowley the manners he'll require on this trip. He’ll learn quickly and well, I have no doubt.”

“If you think a commoner would be able to learn propriety ‘quickly and well,’ you vastly overestimate his skills.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Crowley muttered dryly.

“I have confidence in you,” Aziraphale promised.

Crowley softened just a bit. “I know you do and it's appreciated.”

Aziraphale wished Crowley would show as much confidence in him. Enough to hold his tongue here just a little. “You will be alright in any situation, even a noble home. And I will help ensure that.”

Hanging out in the stables sounded like a much better option to him, especially since out there he didn't have to put on a ridiculous act. Crowley set his chin in his hand and waved the other flippant. “As you like, Your Majesty.”

Aziraphale gave him a quietly pleading look while Met scoffed. “Precisely my point. It's useless to expect him to do anything but embarrass this family.”

Crowley's fist clenched against his leg, jaw tight. Torn between doing something properly embarrassing or just storming out. He could show the duke ‘embarrassing’... and it wouldn't change a bloody thing. “Think what you like. Nothing I say will change your mind.”

“You’re entirely correct about that, at least.”

Aziraphale reached out, fingers gentle against the back of Crowley's tight hand. “The expectations for the crown are clear, uncle. I've always upheld them enough to satisfy mother, and that's enough. She would've adored Sir Crowley. I know it. So that's more than enough time spent insulting him.”

“I-”

Aziraphale’s chin lifted. “He understands the history of what we're doing better than Sir Gabriel does, I'm sure.”

“We’re finding a dead man's broken sword.” Gabriel spread his hands. “What's there to understand?”

“Yes,” Crowley said slowly. “That’s all it is, Sir. Just a broken sword and nothing more.”

Aziraphale angled his head towards his uncle as he very carefully wrapped his hand around Crowley's fist. “They each have their strengths. I'm grateful to have company along on my journey, uncle, and I do understand the expectations. I appreciate your concern, but this is being taken very seriously.”

“If things don't go well, you could start a war,” the duke warned.

“No one wants a war.” No one with any sense, anyway. “I have faith that Aziraphale knows how to deftly navigate any sensitive relationships.”

“Oh...” He was a darling. “It is very true that no one wants a war. I'll do everything in my power to avoid that.”

“Of course you will. I've got no doubt about that.”

Some faith was better than none at all, even if it wasn't manifesting in a way Aziraphale would've preferred. “Thank you.”

“Yes, yes. Desire is one thing, but the actions are what will matter. Your mother never understood that or she would've left this castle once in a while.”

“My mother's weakness was her grief, yes, but the lands remained peaceful under her care. They didn't need to see her to know she loved them, not after the battles she waged and won in her youth. Right alongside your brother.” Aziraphale kept his hand on Crowley's, pleased to feel it very slowly relaxing. “We are taking action. The people will see me. They'll see Sir Crowley and know I have faith in all of our people, and Sir Gabriel and know our forces are strong enough to support their times of need. I will hold Aelfric’s sword, uncle. You can most assuredly count on that.”

“How are you supposed to hold it if it's in pieces?” Gabriel wondered.

“Put it back together again,” Crowley offered, fingers unfurling and just so happening to reach for Aziraphale’s instead. “You know, like a puzzle.”

Aziraphale nearly started purring, but knew his uncle would dislike that immensely. “Indeed. I know it won't necessarily be a simple feat and, likely, the ancient thing won't be suitable for battle, but it will be mended somehow.”

“You have quite a bit of confidence with nothing to back it up,” Met scoffed.

“I’ll have my chance, uncle. We'll be ready tomorrow.”

“‘Course we will.” Whether Duke Met liked it or not.

Sir Gabriel nodded as he stood. “We won't be if we're just talking. We need to be getting ready.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, also rising. Crowley's fingers slipped away from his own. “If you'll excuse Sir Crowley and I.”

“I don't suppose there's much choice in the matter,” he grumbled low. “Fine.”

The sudden loss of warmth made Crowley's fingers flex but he understood. The Duke likely wouldn't look favourably upon such blatant affection and definitely not when he was just ‘a commoner’. “I recall you wanted to speak with me about something… Your Majesty.”

“Quite so. We were en route to my study.” Aziraphale’s smile was almost entirely sincere. “As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest that you sleep in the castle tonight.”

Crowley followed him around the table, frowning a little. “Why?”

Met opened his mouth, likely to echo the question, but Aziraphale’s smile didn't falter. “Practicality, really. The entire city knows you'll be leaving tomorrow, so I can't imagine you'll be able to spend the night quietly for all the people who may wish to question or celebrate with you. Additionally, we are leaving incredibly early. It only makes sense that you be here so we aren't wondering where you could be.”

That… was practical, yes. Crowley bobbed his head in understanding. “That makes sense. I'll grab my stuff and let the innkeep know I won't be staying there tonight.”

“Lovely. I'll have a room prepared for you.” Aziraphale only just managed to keep from smiling in his uncle's direction. That would've been extremely impolite. “Would you like some help fetching your things?”

“Oh, no that won't be necessary. I really only have one bag.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Really?”

“Well… yeah.” Crowley rubbed the back of his head as they stepped out into the hall. “I travel light and really only carry necessities long term.”

“Oh, I see. I have two, so perhaps we do have very different definitions of necessities after all.”

“I have two changes of clothes. One for heat, one for cold.” Crowley lifted one finger for each. “A quick change of shoes for Bentley, a week's worth of dried food, and my crossbow with bolts. Everything else I can get on the go.” It wasn’t ideal but it was what he had to work with.

“No coin?”

Crowley cracked a grin at him. “Most people don't even own enough coin to consider carrying it in a packed bag.” He tapped his hip and the small pack that hung there, opposite Aziraphale’s tartan. “I keep all my coin on me. Less likely to get stolen that way.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale nodded to himself. “Then I’ll need to condense that. Really, I’m not at all certain what’s practical and what isn’t.”

“Do you want my help? I guess I did forget to mention my bedroll and tent but that hardly counts. And you'll probably want eating utensils but I usually just use my hands…” And now he was rambling.

“Yes, I would like your help. Perhaps if I brought my things to your room later, we might compare?”

That seemed safer than going to Aziraphale's room. “Yeah, sure. That should be fine.”

“Wonderful,” Aziraphale purred.

The castle remained busy through the rest of the day, preparations underway for more than Aziraphale’s leaving. It was for those who were staying as well, the staff unhappy and quietly soothed by Aziraphale quietly calling a meeting when Crowley left to get his things.

He had to ensure that everyone knew their new arrangement was temporary, that their roles and duties wouldn’t be changing. He was leaving, but Raphael would still be there. And, the longer he had to sit with that knowledge, the more it was a boon. He would have time to answer questions which needed answers, and he could protect people in ways he’d know Aziraphale would want.

Things would change, but it wouldn’t be forever.

It sat heavy on his shoulders as he walked Crowley up the stairs when he returned. The offer to help carry his bag had been refused, which was no real surprise but it still bothered him. Really, more than it should have. There were so many people he’d grown up with or around that he was leaving, unable to protect, and it grated on every alpha instinct.

“I shouldn’t… be afraid to leave this castle with my own family.”

Crowley hummed, wondering how he should reply without being too harsh. “Well… do you know why it scares you?”

“The strictness and changes that will be inflicted. The possibility that they’ll be fired and replaced after living here for… their whole lives for some of them. My uncle’s castle sees new staff nearly every year, but we don’t.”

“Yeesh. That's no way to have any stability.”

“No, it isn’t. But it is a way to keep a household running to strict, high standards. They think the people here are complacent, but…” Aziraphale sighed. “They work well. They love it here. They’re… they’re my pack.”

His pack… Crowley nodded. He could understand that feeling even if he couldn't express it freely. Betas didn't care, didn't have the same instincts, but as an omega the want of a pack had always been there. A desire that stemmed from a similar place as a want for a mate. Both were things he'd denied himself, for good reason, but he could at least express sympathy for it. “Trust Raphael to understand that. Perhaps even tell him to let anyone who is let go know that they will be brought back on when you return.”

“I have. We met while you were gone, and I made reassurances where I could. But what might happen to those hired in the stead of those released?” Aziraphale lifted a hand in a partial shrug. “The castle would be at an imbalance, but I’m going to do as I’m able when we return. Raphael’s going to run interference as much as he’s able to prevent the worst.”

“Then you should trust him. I know you're still going to be worried but you have to trust he'll ensure nothing unfixable happens.”

“I know, and I do. It's still difficult to leave my pack behind, Crowley.”

“I know, angel,” Crowley said softly and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Probably more so since you haven't left them for this long before.”

“No... And when I did leave last time, mother was here. Obviously, with her being the true pack leader, I was leaving them in more than capable hands. To go off when I’m pack leader is... It feels like a failing.”

“‘S not failing when you're going away to get stronger to protect them.”

“Oh, that’s a very good way to look at it.” Aziraphale clasped his hands together, some of the tension bleeding from his straight shoulders. “I appreciate that, thank you.”

Crowley grunted. “‘S no problem. I'm usually pretty good about seeing the positive in a bad situation.”

“A very good skill to have.” Aziraphale stopped as they reached a door near his study. “I’ve already brought my own bags in here for us to look, but this is the room that was selected for you. I hope you don’t mind that it’s near my own.”

“Oh, er, no. No, that's fine by me.” No one knew he was an omega and such a thing would be considered… improper and highly suggestive so he had no reason to object. Well he probably wouldn't have objected even if he wasn't hiding his presentation, but still. Crowley opened the door and his first impression was that it smelled clean, a faint scent of lemon and vinegar lingered, likely from the recent cleaning. It was slightly larger than the room he'd washed up in yesterday, a large four-poster, an armoire with a tall mirror, and two chairs atop a thick rug set in front of a roaring fireplace. The room was just beginning to warm as if the fire had been lit recently and it probably had. “Wow. This is nice.”

Aziraphale brightened immediately. “I’m very glad you like it, my dear. It’s a lovely little room, I think, and typically reserved for my guests.” He couldn’t recall the last time he’d anyone stay in it, however.

“Little? Angel that bed is the size of the room I was staying in until now.”

Aziraphale blinked at him, then the bed. “Ah. Perhaps I shouldn’t say how large my rooms are.”

Gods above and below. Crowley rolled his eyes and swept in right towards the chairs and where two large packs had been set. “Spoiled royal.”

“Well… I hope I’m not spoiled rotten. But it would be foolish to pretend I’m not privileged.”

“Privileged, then,” Crowley said, smirking over his shoulder. “You know, the little shack I live in could fit in this room with space to spare.”

“Little shack? I thought you didn’t have a home.”

“I think ‘a home’ is more special than some place you sleep occasionally.”

“Yes, I think I would agree with that.” Aziraphale laid a hand on the door frame, studying the walls of the room. “I’ve already resigned myself to saying goodbye to my nest for now.”

Crowley winced. “Yeah, can't really do that when on the road and packing up your bedding every morning.” Hell, he barely remembered what it was like to keep a nest anymore.

“No,” Aziraphale sighed. “I’ll be making the most of tonight, at least, and… This may be silly, but I do have a favoured pillow I’d like to bring along. It isn’t in the bags at present, but it will be come morning.”

“I was going to suggest something like that, actually. I… I've heard it helps.”

“That is a relief. I thought you were going to call it foolish.”

Crowley leaned against the arm of one chair and laughed. “No, no. I'm not only utilitarian. Home comforts are good to have if you can.”

“Have you any?” Aziraphale wondered, stepping nearer a table by the fire. Two bags rested on it.

Crowley looked at the bags and idly tapped the fingers of one hand on his crossed arm. “Yeah… One of my blankets was made by Agnes when I was a kid. That one’s always with me.”

Aziraphale smiled as he opened his own bags. “That’s incredibly sweet. I'm glad you have sentimental things.”

From within the bags Aziraphale’s scent wafted up, warm and rich and something Crowley's instincts yearned for. “I don't keep many on me but the few I do are… special.”

“I’m sure they must be. Everything you've been sharing with me about your life suggests that anything worth only sentiment is rare.” Aziraphale opened one of the pouches in his bag, reaching in to gather some of the gold pieces within. “Now I don't believe you've yet collected your winnings, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley straightened a smidge, eyebrows lifting. “I can't believe I bloody forgot about that.”

“I can. It's been exceptionally hectic around here.” Aziraphale counted out a few extra gold pieces for him before offering the little pile. “And I've no doubt you would've remembered very soon. I also had your boots fetched from the cobbler and your new vambraces have been finished. I'm afraid there wasn't time to dye them black like the rest of your things, but they took red easily.”

It was more coin than he'd ever been paid for anything. Crowley stared at it for a moment, thinking about all the things he could afford with money like that before he snatched up his coin pouch and opened it up for Aziraphale. “Thanks. So much has been going on… I'd have forgotten all about my things in-between everything else.”

“I’m rather organised, I should say, and I didn't want either of us to forget anything.”

“I appreciate it, really. I'd have been sorely missing them once we got going.”

“Yes. As hopeful as I am that we won't run across anyone... nefarious, I'm not a fool. My caravan was, ah, attacked on my peace tour. Just once, but it's made me more determined than ever to keep us from standing out.”

Crowley shook his head and took the chance to plop down in a chair. “From the way Gabriel and your uncle sounded, they want you to stand out.”

“They do,” he sighed. “They want this to be as... flamboyant a trip as possible. As if I should be flaunting the fact that a member of the royal family is traversing the kingdom. Besides putting us in wild danger, that would slow us down exponentially.”

It sounded, to Crowley, like they very much wanted him to fail. That they wanted him slowed and waylaid and attacked in order to ensure he didn't succeed and that they expected him to just do as they demanded without complaint. “It would. Good thing we aren't going to do any of that.”

“No,” Aziraphale agreed and gestured to his bags. “If there are any non-essentials, do tell.”

Crowley hummed and took that for permission to rummage. He had, from the looks of things, four sets of clothes, two sets of boots, two bulging sacks of coin, his crown, and… and good gods above more books. Hell, one entire bag was almost all books. Crowley rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “You really do like reading, don't you.”

Aziraphale beamed. “Yes.”

“Right.” Crowley nodded to himself. “I will allow you to bring four.”

The smile shattered. “Four?!”

“Four or you can lose two sets of clothes for three more books.”

That caused a brief, considering pause. “Four more. I'm strong enough to handle the weight.”

Crowley's lips pursed. “You're also only taking one of those sacks of coin. Two is just excessive.”

Eight books, then. How on earth was he going to whittle them down? “That's acceptable.”

“And where is your bedroll? Tent? Blankets? Up north it gets chilly at night even in the summer.”

Aziraphale nodded, studying his things. “Yes... I suppose I did pack more like I did for the peace tour than for this mission. May I see how much you have?”

“Sure.” Crowley pushed Aziraphale’s things to the side before rising to pick up his own bag from the floor. It was packed neatly, efficiently, and tidy. A tightly wrapped bedroll on top, the tent which was more like a large sheet of leather who's only use was keeping the rain off, two blankets, his spare clothes, and a folded map from a side pocket. “Nothing exciting, really, but I survive.”

There was, somehow, the barest hint of an omega scent amidst Crowley's things, stronger when he stepped aside to give Aziraphale space to look, and he suddenly believed he understood. The mixed signals, the confusing secretive nature of Crowley - he believed he knew why. Whatever it was Crowley carried to hide a scent... Why, it wasn't hiding his own at all, was it? Crowley couldn't possibly be an omega himself. Aziraphale’s experiences with them was limited, but Crowley was just so prideful. Unlike any omega he’d ever met. He was so headstrong and brash.

And handsome and kind and so painfully sweet at times. Aziraphale closed his eyes, carefully keeping his own scent clean as bitter disappointment coursed through him.

Of course he'd have an omega at home and had just been allowing Aziraphale to be so familiar because he was royalty and heavens forbid someone offend a royal with a simple no. “I’m... Ah. I see. Yes.”

Crowley glanced at him and frowned. “You alright?”

It hurt. He’d been as honest as he could be with Crowley. He’d given him pack tartan that was even now being worn at his belt. Crowley must've known what that meant. Having an omega partner, he most certainly knew. Yet he'd let Aziraphale believe... He’d even promised a chance of courting after all of this. A very smooth liar.

It hurt. “I apologise. Just feeling a bit... foolish.”

“It’s alright, angel. Most people don't know how to pack for long distance trips.”

“No…” It was worse, somehow, that the scent was mouthwatering enough to make Aziraphale’s fangs ache. Soft and sweet and floral, with some sort of spicy, earthen undertone that was almost familiar. He swallowed and withdrew to rummage through his own things. They needed to be repacked if only to be brought to his room and redone. “There’ll be a bedroll and tent in the barracks that I’ll have Raphael fetch for me. Uncle will expect me to spend the last night dining with them in the castle, but you’re welcome to join your fellow knights for dinner.”

“Oh, er, thanks.” Somehow he felt like something was wrong or that Aziraphale was upset, he just couldn't put his finger on it. “I'll do that.”

“Good. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. I always do.” Aziraphale worked up a smile for him. “Now I believe I should repack my things properly and more practically. I appreciate your assistance, Crowley.”

He was smiling again but… Crowley thought it didn't quite reach his eyes. “Here, let me put my stuff back so you have room.”

“No need to fuss, my dear. I’m nearly finished, and then I’ll be out of your hair so you may settle in. You’re welcome to explore the castle as you like until dinnertime. The servants are aware of you, of course.”

“Not sure how the Duke or Princess would like that, but thank you.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “You’re a guest. Whether they like it or not, they’re bound to certain etiquette.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

With a nod, Aziraphale gathered his things. “Good. If I don’t see you again tonight,” and he had every intention of avoiding that if possible, “then I’ll see you early tomorrow. Have a good night, Crowley.”

“Oh, sure. Goodnight.” Crowley watched him go, confused over how… cordial Aziraphale was being. Watched him go as if he were fleeing something. And Crowley didn't know what he'd done to cause it.

Chapter Text

He'd been a fool.

Unfortunately for the day ahead, Aziraphale spent most of his night awake. Going over every interaction with Crowley thus far. He still couldn't place where exactly the deception was, and he had the distinct feeling that he simply wasn't going to be able to figure it out.

Perhaps it hadn't been done maliciously. Perhaps Crowley had decided not to erase Aziraphale’s hopes of a future out of pity. The thought was almost worse. That he should be treated delicately and with pity because of his loss and the way he'd wept with - on - Crowley. He could handle rejection. He hadn't ever really had to before, but Aziraphale knew he could. No one owed him romance. No one owed him anything.

He wasn't even owed the respect his crown supposedly held.

Aziraphale sighed as he fixed the golden ring to his curls, gathered two bags which were far better done and organised, and made his way down the stairs.

Crowley's door was knocked on just before the sun began its ascension. Raphael held a torch, face twisted into a puzzled frown as he knocked a second time when he didn't so much as hear a snore from within.

…And then he knocked a third time, lips twitching despite his concerns.

It was the third knock that worked. A faint grunt could be heard from beyond the door followed by shuffling and a loud thump. Silence followed that until the door cracked open and Crowley, glasses on his face, in sleep-soft trousers and tunic, and a red spot on his forehead, peaked out. “Ngk.”

“Good morning to you too, Sir Crowley. Your breakfast awaits.”

“Breakfast? ‘S still dark out.”

“And you're leaving with the dawn. Breakfast is in order.” And it was very peculiar that Aziraphale hadn't wanted to come fetch Crowley himself. Worryingly so with how he'd been so eagerly glued to the new knight’s side. “Everyone else is downstairs already. The horses are being affixed to the carriage. Your own will be left for you.”

“Ngh- Right. Right.” Crowley rubbed his face and bobbed his head. “J'st let me get dressed. I'll be right down.”

“I’ll wait for you. I can't go back empty-handed.”

Crowley grunted as his reply and shut the door in his face. He did not feel remorse for this. The door opened again a few minutes later, all buckled and dressed and running his hand through still mussed hair and with his bag thrown over his shoulder. “This is awful.”

Raphael chuckled. “Aziraphale did say you weren't fond of mornings.”

“No, ‘m not. Mornings are evil and should be abolished.”

“I wonder how that’s going to serve you while travelling with time constraints and a man who barely sleeps.” Sir Gabriel’s sleeping habits were a mystery Raphael had never bothered to solve.

Crowley grunted at him. “They'll just have to deal with me being a grump.”

“If you’re in the mood to pay attention, you’ll see the very rare grumpy version of Aziraphale.” He’d frowned at the wall at least twice that Raphael had seen. “Did something… happen between the two of you?”

“No? Maybe? I don't know,” Crowley sighed. “I don't know what happened. We were going through his bags and one minute he was normal and the next… he just closed himself off. Not sure what I did, if anything.”

Raphael nodded. “Then it’s possibly something in his own mind. I know he was out of sorts after the staff meeting yesterday. Leaving his pack in the hands of virtual strangers - relatives or not - isn’t something he’s had to face before, and protectiveness is a stereotypical alpha trait he unfortunately has an endless amount of.”

“Still wish he would've told me what was up.”

“He probably thought he was hiding it very well. He thinks he’s hiding the fact that he’s irritable this morning well, and he most certainly is not.” Raphael’s lips twitched. “He said ‘no’ to Maggie about something instead of ‘no, thank you.’”

Crowley's eyebrows lifted. He might not have known Aziraphale long, but that did sound a little less cordial than Aziraphale usually was. “Hope he didn't hurt Maggie's feelings.”

“No, I think everyone assumes it has to do with nerves regarding the trip, which…” Raphael shrugged lightly, his torch flickering over the stone walls and illuminating the tapestries. “The duke and princess won’t be bidding any of you farewell.”

“Yeah, that doesn't surprise me.”

Raphael smirked. “It shocked Sir Gabriel.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, well, Sir Gabriel thinks they think he's important.”

“Quite so.” Raphael's smirk softened into an easy smile. “I hope things get easier for you as the journey goes. Alpha instincts can be frustrating now and again, but I like to think Aziraphale got the majority of the good ones.”

Alpha instincts could be even worse when an omega was around and Crowley was glad he'd kept his presentation a secret. He didn't need Aziraphale acting a fool about it on top of everything else. “Last night before he started being weird he said… he's worried about leaving everyone. Worried about how they'll be treated without him here to protect them.”

Then it sounded as if Aziraphale had told Crowley that was bothering him. Hm. “I know it. I'm going to do all that I can to keep everyone in place here while you're gone, and I've been given some gold and access to more should something get beyond me. If they're released, it won't be empty-handed.” Raphael smiled. “Or they may just happen to get re-hired in the subsequent search for a replacement. I wouldn't say the duke or the princess are aware of who's who within these walls. Not like the queen or Aziraphale.”

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “No, of course they don't. Honestly I don't know how their own households stay afloat with changing the staff as often as Aziraphale claimed they do… This kind of work is a skill that grows and develops. You can't just constantly have new people and expect quality service.”

“No, one can't. So we'll be alright here. You just focus on finding those shards.”

“I will. And I'll keep Aziraphale focused on that as well. We don't have the time to get sidetracked.”

“No. Although...” Raphael gave him a small, almost uncomfortable smile. “His week of, ah, sidetracking tends to happen late autumn to early winter. You have plenty of time to plan for it, but he likely won't think about it until it's too late. I’d suggest locating a town with an inn where he can be alone be factored into your route.”

A warm heat zipped right up Crowley's neck. Early winter was a good half a year away at least, but his own heat was rapidly approaching. If Aziraphale went into rut… keeping his heat at bay would be ten times more difficult and straining if he could even hold out that long. “I'll, ah, keep that in mind. Not sure where we'll be by then but I'll make arrangements.”

“Alright. And if you ever hear anyone claim they've spent that time with him, they're lying. He has his own code of ethics when it comes to cycles that makes me glad I've no part in any of it.”

“R-right.” It was so… odd to talk about this so matter-of-factly with a beta. Cycles were so very personal and he'd avoided the subject until now other than the occasional laugh at a quip. “Whole waste of a bloody week, really.”

“I always thought so, but at least it's only the one. We do keep it quiet when it comes to Aziraphale, however, just as we did the queen. We don't want all the world knowing when our royal family is vulnerable.” Raphael lifted his torch a little higher, stopping near a tapestry Aziraphale had been avoiding the last week. The late king and queen were woven so finely into them that they were indistinguishable from a painting. “Celestria has gone through more loss recently than it has in nearly a century. The family has never been this small, not since Aelfric first took the throne.”

Crowley looked up and almost did a double take. The man beside the queen could have been a perfect replica of Aziraphale. There were subtle differences, sure, which could have just been artistic interpretation but the likeness was uncanny. The crown atop his almost white curls and the way they held hands were clear signs of who he was. The late king. “They do say history repeats itself.”

“So they do, and so it seems to be. There were so many rumours when he was a young pup. About his lineage, his legitimacy. Now the rumours are of his... extracurricular activities and his capabilities as leader. The wagging of tongues never seems to cease and it will likely turn to another aspect of him when you make your triumphant return.” Gods willing, it would be triumphant. “He inherited much from his father, things that made him flee from home as a young man to make his own way. In that way, history seems to be repeating itself as well.”

“Yeah…” He couldn't help but ponder the things Queen Frances had said to him at a party that felt so long ago now, how her husband hadn't been welcome with his family and now that same family seemed determined to make Aziraphale feel the same. “Luckily Aziraphale has people like you here so he doesn't have to run away.”

“He has the entire guard and castle. I may not understand the instinctive drive for packs, but I’m not foolish enough to disregard being part of one. I hope you know that you’re a member now too.”

Crowley sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeeaah, kinda figured that.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Nah,” Crowley said with a shake of his head. “It's a little strange to be part of the king’s pack, but apparently my life is just going to be that way now.”

“It certainly is.” Raphael looked up at the tapestry, studying the couple. “Just come back in one piece. Both of you. They don’t deserve a crumbled foundation.”

“We'll come back safe, Raph. I can't promise I won't leave Gabriel in a hole somewhere, but I'll make sure Aziraphale comes home.”

“I did say ‘both of you.’ I don’t trust Sir Gabriel and if he meets an unfortunate circumstance… Well, these things happen.”

Crowley snorted and gave the arm not holding the torch a light shove. “You almost sound like you want something to happen to him.”

Raphael’s smile was all teeth. “I would never say such a thing.”

“No. No, of course you wouldn't.”

“I’d like to be wrong about him, but I won’t hold my breath. I have too much to do.”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “I'll keep an eye on him.” Though he was beginning to suspect that Gabriel was more incompetent than he was malicious.

“Thank you. Keep the other one on Aziraphale. He’s likely to cause more trouble than anyone else.”

“That I can believe.” Crowley continued his chuckles right down into the kitchens.

They weren't as busy as they'd been the day before, it was still early enough that most of the castle wouldn't be awake for some time yet and there wasn't any point in making full meals that far in advance. The door outside had been propped open and Crowley just happened to see a servant carrying a large bag out but that hadn't made the smell of hot food any lesser.

Maggie noticed them and smiled and waved a hurried hand from her place in front of the hearth. “Was startin’ to wonder you'd ever come down here and I'd made this food for nothin’. Hurry up before it gets cold.”

Crowley's eyes rolled but he trudged over. “You wouldn't happen to have hot water too, would you?”

Her head tilted curiously. “‘Course I do.”

“Good. Pour me some into a cup. Leave about… two fingers off the top free.” She gave him an even curiouser look as she passed him the plate she'd kept warm but turned to do as he'd asked anyway.

Raphael hooked his torch into a sconce on the wall. “Dare I ask what you’re up to?”

Crowley settled onto a stool at the large centre table and took up utensils to begin cutting into warm bread and sausage. “The sun's not even up yet, and I need a wake-up.”

Raphael sank down next to him, deciding he would see just what that meant soon. “Alright. Maggie, where has His Majesty run off to?”

“Running interference with Sir Gabriel, I suspect,” she said lightly and set a tall cup of steaming water at Crowley’s elbow. “Last I saw him he was trailing after the esteemed knight as they both blustered through here.”

“Ah. Just the thing to cheer him up.” Or distract him, more likely.

Crowley snorted and drew a small pouch from his bag. From inside he retrieved a little wooden spoon and dumped four scoops of a brown powder into the water which he then stirred with the same spoon. “At least someone is keeping Gabriel busy.”

“Yes. That looks like an odd tea,” Raphael mused.

“Guess it's kinda like tea,” Crowley replied, aware that Maggie was also watching curiously. “Not leaves, though, but the fruit of the plant. Dried and what-not, I think.” And the longer he stirred the stronger the scent of it became.

Maggie sniffed curiously but wrinkled her nose at the sight. “It looks like mud.”

“But tastes amazing.”

“It smells bitter,” Raphael disagreed, but he wasn’t overly fond of tea either.

Crowley smiled at him. “Mind passing some sugar and cream over here, Maggie?”

She blinked but bustled about to do just that. “If you're just going to add to it, why not have tea? We have morning teas.”

“Yeah, but I like the taste of this better.”

“Interesting. Where did it come from?” Raphael asked.

“Across the sea, from my understanding.” He dumped sugar and cream into the brown drink and the colour and smell softened. “They call it coffee beans. The beans have to be ground up to use and I usually carry a little with me for when I need it, but it's expensive so I don't use it that often.”

Raphael huffed a small laugh. “You may be able to use them more often now, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley grinned at him over the steaming cup. “I might! Maybe I'll even have Aziraphale try some.”

“He likely will, but I can't promise he'll enjoy it.”

“If not, more for me.”

“More of what?” Aziraphale wondered behind them, nose lifted in an attempt to find out just what the strange new scent was.

Crowley turned to look at him, cup leaving his lips. “M’ wake up drink.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked down at him. He was as lovely as he'd been the day before. As he'd been every day. Aziraphale’s attraction lingered, despite the things he'd told himself over and over again. There wasn't an opportunity for anything here, and he needed to accept that.

“It reeks,” Sir Gabriel announced, taking away some of the irritation Aziraphale felt at himself.

“To you,” Crowley said and licked some from his top lip. “I think it smells great.”

“It’s very different from tea,” Aziraphale decided.

“He called it coffee,” Raphael explained, lips twitching. “I’m sure you'll run across it again.”

“If I have to get up this early again, yes.”

Aziraphale worked up a smile for him, but Gabriel killed it far too easily. “Of course we'll be up this early! It's the optimal time to travel.”

Crowley pursed his lips and contemplated whether he could risk encouraging Gabriel to sleep with magic. “Agree to disagree there.”

“I would say this time of morning is acceptable for hunting. Travel is-”

“Which I still don't see the point of. We have plenty of food here! Not to mention all the towns in Celestria. It doesn't make sense to hunt when we can just take and buy what we need.”

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened. “As discussed, we will be hunting as needed and that is final.”

“I-”

“Sir Gabriel,” Raphael interrupted, “you wouldn't be arguing with your king, would you?” Gabriel's teeth clicked together. “No? I didn't believe so.”

Crowley covered up a snort with a fork full of eggs. “Don't worry, Gabe, hunting's not a big deal.”

“Gabe?” he echoed.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Sir Crowley, may I walk you to the stables once you’ve finished your breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure, almost done anyway.” Crowley popped the last of the bread into his mouth and downed it with his prepared coffee. He brought the cleaned plate over to where other dirty dishes were piled and clapped Maggie on the shoulder much like he often did to Raphael, only lighter. “Thanks for the meal. It was good.”

She beamed. “Thank you. It's good luck to start off a long journey with a hearty meal.”

“Particularly with one from you, Maggie.” Aziraphale hoped this honesty could make up for some of his earlier rudeness. “I don't believe any of us will make a meal as well as you whilst out and about.”

“I sure can't but I'll try.” Crowley chuckled at the way she ducked her head from Aziraphale’s compliment and then turned to him. “Ready when you are, Majesty.”

“Thank you. We’ll be off once Bentley is saddled. Sir Gabriel's steed is already waiting.”

Crowley made sure to grab his bag as he passed the table. “Sounds like you really were just waiting on me.”

“Oh, well... I've been up and about for a few hours. Plenty of time to have a meal and see about preparations.” Aziraphale straightened his already straight coat. “No need to bother you for all of that.”

“No, suppose not,” Crowley said with a shrug. Aziraphale was still acting odd… maybe the nerves and worries were to blame. “And the extra sleep was appreciated.”

“Happy to oblige, my dear. If you'll follow me, please.” He turned on his heel to leave and Raphael caught Crowley's eye, gave a small shrug. He didn't understand Aziraphale’s mood either.

Crowley followed him out into the cool morning, already looking forward to summer. The sun's light was just barely making the distant horizon soft pinks and yellows but hadn't yet risen enough to scare off the darkness of night. “Seems everything's all ready to go.”

“Yes. Sir Gabriel threw something of a fit when he saw the state of the carriage, but I stopped him from scolding Maggie.” He'd also had to stop the blundering fool from waking his uncle or sister, but that was an entirely different conundrum.

“Good. I'm glad you were there to stop him. She doesn't need to deal with his stupidity.”

“No. I don’t tend to let any of my people suffer fools when I can avoid it. Which…” Aziraphale sighed. “Which is what I would like to speak with you about.”

“Oh… Er, alright.” Had he fucked up somewhere? Crowley didn't think he had and was prepared to argue his own case if he didn't think the reprimand was warranted. “What's up?”

“I…” Oh, he was so very confusing. Even now he was wearing the kerchief on his belt, the gift a symbol of the exact issue he was having. He wanted Crowley to have it, and he didn’t. It clearly didn’t mean the same things to them both. “I wanted to… to apologise.”

Crowley blinked. “Wot.”

“I’ve been… I’ve been insistent and inappropriate with you since we met. I won’t give any excuses for my behaviour, but I will promise to better behave myself and accept things as they are.”

That was… not what Crowley had expected but Aziraphale cooling his attentions might actually make his coming heat easier to fend off. “Al…right. I did tell you I needed time. Glad you're going to give me that.”

Aziraphale averted his gaze. If it was only time, this wouldn’t be as embarrassing or uncomfortable. But if Crowley was hiding his partner’s scent, of course he wanted to keep them quiet. He couldn’t say he knew about them. He didn’t want to make Crowley uncomfortable. “I… Mmhm.”

Crowley sighed and let his head fall back to stare up at the dark sky. So this was what was making Aziraphale act so bloody weird. “Listen. There's a lot about me you don't know, a lot I'm… not comfortable talking about right now. A lot that would probably make you think differently about me, and I don't know now if it would be in a good or bad way. When I say I need time, I'm not joking. There's things I need to do that are gonna have to wait. That's all.”

Looking back up, Aziraphale resisted the urge to reach out by linking his hands behind his back. “Please don’t feel the need to justify yourself to me. It isn’t necessary.”

“Yes, it is. We're going to be travelling together for upwards of a year. Lingering interpersonal issues are only going to get worse if left unaddressed. Angel, if you'd have been making me uncomfortable in a way I didn't like, I'd have done something about it by now.”

Aziraphale didn’t believe that. Crowley was typically very vocal, yes, but he didn’t believe Crowley was being honest about this part of his life. “That we’re travelling together for so long is why I’m apologising for my behaviour. I don’t want you to feel beholden to me in any way.”

It sounded to Crowley like he'd found his eye caught on someone else, someone possibly more available or higher-born, just as he'd worried would happen. That was alright. He was used to flitting between partners and not staying with one long, if the stories were to be believed. It had been silly to think he'd wait. “Then I won't. Easy as that.”

The words should've been a relief, but hurt still rolled through Aziraphale. He nodded, hoping Crowley might feel comfortable enough for honesty as they travelled. Perhaps his partner was the one who'd fashioned that unusual scent suppressing... something for him. Surely there was something if Crowley didn't carry the same scent as his things. That would make sense, wouldn't it? Hiding his partner because of their status as a mage. “Alright,” he accepted, not asking if he was forgiven. He didn't think he had been, but didn't want Crowley to feel more pressure. “I hope...” Aziraphale cleared his throat, pausing when he saw Bentley's head appear over the stall door. It brought out the first real smile of the morning. “Oh, she looks eager. As if she knows the world is waiting to see her again.”

“The menace is probably just ready to be out and about again.” And Bentley had always been the morning person of the two of them.

“I don’t blame her at all. I am too.” Aziraphale’s smile shifted to Crowley. “I hope she’s willing to tolerate Sir Gabriel’s steed. Courage is… unique.”

Crowley groaned. “A unique horse for a unique man?”

“Well. I like Courage. He’s a sweet… skittish thing.”

The snort Crowley let out was one he couldn't have fought back even if he'd tried. “Oh no. Is he one of those who're scared of everything up to and including their own shadow?”

“Not his own shadow, no. Or not as far as I’ve seen. He tends to cower in the corner of the stable during thunderstorms, however, and loud crowds put him off.”

“Aww,” Crowley said, already charmed by the scaredy beast. “Poor thing.”

“From what I've gathered, Sir Gabriel doesn't have much patience for his fears. But I think a bit of time and proper training should settle him.”

“Yeah, and more patience than he apparently wants to give couldn't hurt either.” He drew near enough to give Bentley's snout a fond rub, her ears twitching forward in attention. “You'll show him there's nothing to be scared of, won't you, girl?”

“Her and Rhew. I just hope she doesn't take it upon herself to bite at him. He may end up just as afraid of her.”

Crowley snickered. “Might just be up to Rhew, then.”

“It might just, but he’ll be up for it soon.” Aziraphale reached up and patted Bentley's neck. “And you’ll no doubt have two handsome stallions vying for your affections.”

“Oooohh no,” Crowley said with a shake of his head. “None of that. We both already agreed we don't want to deal with a pregnant horse.”

“I know, Crowley. We’ll keep them separated when we stop. But you know as well as I do that she's a beauty. They'll be helpless to her charms.”

“The charm of being bitten when she's in a mood?” And, as if to demonstrate, she attempted to chomp right down on Crowley's hand and he barely avoided it. “Oi! Stop that, we're letting you out now.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You should know better than to get nipped,” he teased, and took a step back to let Crowley get into the stall. Things between them could still be easy. They should be. Crowley may have made him ache and want in ways he wasn't used to, but that was his own issue. Crowley's crime had been letting Aziraphale believe in a possibility, but he could understand the reasons. He didn't like them, but he could understand.

Crowley rolled his eyes and set about getting Bentley ready. Blanket, saddle, stirrups, bridle. He was familiar and deft with all the buckles and straps, the only thing hindering him was Bentley prancing in place occasionally, clearly ready to finally go. She seemed to know this wasn't just a quick ride. “Bentley, the more you move, the harder it is for me to do this, you know.”

“I’m sure she doesn't care one whit about that.” Aziraphale entered the stable after fetching an apple, cracking it in half to get her attention. “That’s it. Lovely lady.” He let her chomp on it, smiling as he stroked her snout. “We have more supplies for the horses in that carriage than we do for us.”

“That is how it goes, isn't it?” The apple stilled her long enough for Crowley to get the saddle buckled right. “Gotta keep our steeds healthy and happy.”

“Yes. They need to last as long as we do, after all, whilst working even harder.”

“Sure do. We wouldn't get anywhere fast without them.” Crowley let Bentley have the other apple half as a reward for good behaviour before putting the bridle on. It went easy, Bentley used to the action and aware it meant they would be going somewhere soon. “That's a good girl. You know what's up.”

“She’s very clever,” Aziraphale praised, stepping out of the way to hold the door open. “Quite a bit like her master. After you.”

Crowley's eyebrow quirked as he guided Bentley out. Aziraphale seemed to be acting normal again so he wasn't going to complain. “So you think I'm clever, do you?”

“I do believe that's been established.”

“I see that it has.” Crowley chuckled and shook his head. He had no idea what was going on inside Aziraphale's head. “Now I just have to live up to that expectation.”

“You already have been,” Aziraphale assured him. Because friends could compliment friends. It wasn’t unusual.

It wasn't unusual, per se, but it would have been if Aziraphale knew he was an omega. It was the sort of thing he might have thought was a flirtation were it not for the conversation they'd just had. “Oh, good, now I can stop trying to be so clever.”

Aziraphale laughed. “None of that now. You have the most experience with surviving in the world. I need your cleverness more now than ever.”

“You do, don't you? Might not succeed without me.”

“That is very possible. I really am very grateful for your arrival in Berwick.”

“I know, angel. You really are quite lucky I was in the area and decided to stop in.”

“I am. Depending on how well things go, perhaps all of Celestria is.”

“Nooo. No, please no,” Crowley groaned. “I don't need stories and ballads written about me like that. I beg you.”

“Come now, darling, aren’t you deserving of every kind word? Should we succeed…” Aziraphale paused, then nodded to himself. “When we succeed, you’ll become a legend in your own right.”

Crowley gave another pained groan. “I don't want to be a legend.”

“I wonder if Aelfric did before he set off,” Aziraphale mused. “I wonder sometimes if he led the life he wanted or the life which was simply thrust upon him.”

“You'll probably be wondering that for the rest of your life,” Crowley said with a small smile. “Unless you got an ‘Aelfric the Wise’ personal journal stashed somewhere in all those books.”

“How I wish I did,” Aziraphale sighed. “It would solve so many riddles, so many unanswered questions...”

“We'll figure ‘em out, angel, don't fret.”

Some of them, but some were lost to time. To the diary Aziraphale didn't possess. The one that likely didn't exist. “So long as we find the sword, I'll be content.”

“Those are the important parts, yeah.” And Crowley didn't care so much about the hows or whys some long dead king thought it was a good idea to do what he did.

“Yes...” Aziraphale nodded, looking out at the courtyard. The skies above were a slow spread of pinks and blues and oranges. The carriage was preposterously royal in its decoration, but Lwk and Rhew stood before it in far simpler garb. One of Gabriel’s complaints had been the lack of finery bestowed upon the two steeds. But they didn't need to be weighed down more than they were.

The other horse was a mustang with a chestnut coat. His mane was dark black, but his flicking tail was as white as the mark on his snout. Courage’s reins were being held by Raphael, Aziraphale’s smile softening. “I’m going to miss him.”

“Raphael?”

“Yes. He's been my personal guard since he was eighteen. I was eleven and had just returned from Hewin.” Aziraphale laughed to himself. “He terrified me.”

Crowley laughed. “He's just a big softie. I bet he only looked scary ‘cause you were young and he was strange.”

“Oh, yes. And everyone and everything in Hewin frightened me. Thankfully, it really didn't take long at all before he and I clicked.” Aziraphale patted the sword he had strapped to his hip, the unadorned, simplistic hilt a far cry from the highly decorated thing he'd carried around the tournament. “That was also the year he and mother started to train me to fight.”

“Eleven’s a good age for it. That's about when I started.”

“It’s nice to know someone else who started then, though from what he's told me, your training was vastly different from mine.”

“Yeah, from what he's told me too that sounds about right.” Crowley said with a bob of his head. “Agnes had gotten tired of me coming home one too many times all black and blue from fighting with the local village kids and decided that if I was going to keep getting into fights she was going to teach me how to do it properly. She put an old sword in my hand and told me to dodge. I might not have dodged the first time, but I eventually figured it out.”

“Very different indeed,” Aziraphale chuckled, wanting to ask why Crowley fought with neighbouring children. But they'd come too close to Raphael now and, well, they would indeed have plenty of time to chat about their lives on their journey. “Stuck with Courage, are you?”

“For the moment. Sir Gabriel’s inspecting his armour since it's all in the carriage.” The for now went unsaid, Aziraphale giving a nod in response. This wasn't a journey which required heavy armour, especially not for their horses.

“We’ll have him ride ahead a ways and scout the trail,” Aziraphale suggested. “It should give the guards enough time to remove the frivolous additions.”

“Sounds like a solid plan to me.” They weren't going into bloody war and full plate was heavy. “I still don't understand why he's acting this way. The more we take, the slower we'll be.”

“It’s common for Uncle to travel whilst prepared for anything, and I’m afraid he's doing what he always has. He'll have to get used to it once we're off.”

“He’s also realised that one of you is going to have to drive the carriage and doesn't yet understand that it's going to be you. He keeps expecting a footman to come out of the castle.”

“Goodness,” Aziraphale sighed.

The more Crowley found out about Sir Gabriel the more he was convinced the man really was just that stupid. “I don't know, a footman doesn't sound that bad. What do you say, Raph? Surely the Guard Captain can double as a footman.”

“Don’t suggest that. His Majesty may just take you up on it.”

“Your wounds are healed. I don't see why that's an impossibility.”

“See what you've done?”

Crowley grinned cheekily. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Raphael shook his head. “You’re a danger to have about, Sir Crowley.”

“Then I suppose it's a good thing I’m taking him away. You'll be alright, though. Won't you?”

“I will. So will the rest of your pack, Aziraphale.”

Crowley put a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder almost absently and squeezed. “Stop fretting. They'll be alright.”

“I know. I- I do have faith in you, Raphael.”

“I know you do. And I appreciate the concern. Everyone in there does. We-”

“Alright! All present and accounted for.” Gabriel exited the carriage, turning a confused smile on the three. “There’s only one set of plating for the horses, however.”

“How odd,” Raphael replied while Aziraphale tried to stutter out some sort of lie. “You must've missed the other set.”

Crowley nodded along with him. “Surely no one would forget that.”

“No. They weren't forgotten.” Raphael looked to Aziraphale, taking the opportunity to teach Crowley how to help Aziraphale get away with a lie. “Were they, Majesty?”

Aziraphale blinked at him, then smiled. “No, Rhew’s armour was most certainly not forgotten.” Being deliberately left behind was another thing entirely.

Gabriel looked back at the carriage, a hand lifting to his chin. “I could have another look...”

“Actually, Sir Gabriel, we were discussing having an esteemed knight such as yourself scout ahead a ways before we leave. This mission is very important and we wouldn't want ruffians laywaying us this early. It wouldn't look good.”

“It most certainly wouldn't,” Aziraphale agreed. “So if you'll head along the eastward path out of Berwick, we’ll be right behind you.”

“Alright. We're already losing daylight.” Gabriel shook his head as he approached. “I hope you don't sleep so late while we're on the road, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley's jaw clenched momentarily. Losing daylight? Was the man mad? “I'll endeavour to not.”

“Great to hear!” Gabriel clapped a hand on Crowley's shoulder, the sound enough to make the mustang flinch. He took up the reins with a grin. “Thanks for holding him. He's got such a weird habit of running off.”

“Horses can be unusual,” Raphael evaded. Better than wasting oxygen trying to explain that his horse was skittish.

The poor horse's ears were flicking back and forth and his nose was flared. Anxious and stressed. Crowley wanted to go over there and soothe him but stayed put as Gabriel mounted. He didn't want to delay them longer than they already were. “He doesn't even notice how anxious his horse is…” he murmured lowly.

“I did warn you,” Aziraphale reminded him, voice just as soft. “I hope we'll be able to assist in the poor thing’s training. Or possibly trade Courage for someone braver when we sell Lwk and the carriage.”

“It's not training that he needs,” Crowley mused, observing the way Sir Gabriel completely ignored all of Courage’s physical cues and almost bullied the poor thing into moving. “He’s trained well, or he would have bucked Gabe off. He needs encouragement and some self esteem building. Needs to see he doesn't have to be scared of everything.”

“Then it sounds as if Sir Gabriel's the one who needs training,” Raphael suggested. “And best of luck with that.”

Crowley groaned. “Thanks, we'll need all the luck we can get.”

Sighing, Aziraphale watched Gabriel trot off with his uncomfortable horse. “It’ll be alright. Between the two of us, Courage may just earn that name. Raphael, I can help empty the carriage.”

He already had a hand lifted, simple gestures summoning a small handful of guards who'd wanted to see Aziraphale off that morning. “Let your people do their jobs, Majesty. We'll all be alright.”

“That's right. You're the king, at least take advantage of some of the perks.”

“In a few minutes, those perks go out the window. You'll be roughing it,” Raphael reminded him.

“Yes.” And he was looking forward to it. “I’ll tuck my crown into one of the bags once they're through and we'll be off.”

“Probably a good idea,” Crowley murmured. “Wouldn’t want it stolen right off your pretty head.”

Pretty head. Did he mean it? Aziraphale wanted to smile and wiggle and reciprocate as he'd been doing, but the usual reaction was strangled by confusion and an uncertainty that felt so off balance. “No, I don't intend to wear it unless absolutely necessary. But I do have to bring it along.”

The lack of a reaction was interesting. Well, not so much a lack of reaction perhaps. Aziraphale had looked at him like a deer caught by surprise, much different from the flirty fluttery lashes he usually deployed. “We’ll try not to lose it.”

“It’ll only be yours one more year, Aziraphale. Then people will have even more trouble telling you apart from your father.”

Aziraphale laughed as he removed the crown from his curls. “I may take mother’s instead, but the coronation is a long way off and there’s much to do in the meantime.”

“Could always have one designed and made for you special.”

“Oh, that sounds like such a waste. I think I would allow a future partner to do so - that’s traditional - but I’m perfectly content to accept what’s already available.”

He was such an odd royal. Crowley huffed a small chuckle and pulled himself up onto Bentley's back. He didn't want to think about Aziraphale with a future partner, it made his teeth want to grind for some reason. “Suit yourself. I think something with gems that match your eyes would look nice.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks turned a bright, pleased pink. How awful of him to continue to be so charming now that Aziraphale knew there were more secrets at play here than he’d believed. “I’m told that can be difficult. The colour supposedly isn’t as simple to pin down as one might assume.”

“Yeah, they change. Blue sometimes and more green others.”

“Grey,” Raphael added. “Particularly when you’re angry.”

Aziraphale tugged at his coat. “I don’t get angry.”

“Mmhm.”

Crowley laughed and grinned down at them. “He’s right. They went a little grey at my celebration dinner.” When he'd mentioned possibly running into Hastur and Ligur. His scent had gotten sharper too.

“That doesn't mean I was angry,” Aziraphale huffed. “I’m very level-headed.”

“But you were,” Crowley said confidently. “I could tell.”

Aziraphale further proved them right by sticking his tongue out, and Raphael laughed. “Alright, alright. Go on, Your Majesty. Before Sir Gabriel returns or gets himself lost.”

Crowley nodded his agreement then motioned towards the carriage with his chin as a group of guards removed Gabriel’s and Lwk's armour from the back and closed it again. “Come on, hop up. We have a long road ahead.”

“So we do.” But Aziraphale stepped nearer to Raphael first, pulling him into a firm hug. “I’ll be in touch.”

“I’ll wait for word and keep you abreast of the situation here as I’m able.”

“Alright.” It would be more difficult to reach him as they travelled northward, but Aziraphale nodded and held on a few more seconds. It was his last real link to home. To family. Raphael had been by his side more than a decade, and it felt wrong to leave him behind now.

“Farewell, Aziraphale.”

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale wished, withdrawing when Raphael gave him a nudge. “When I see you again, it'll be with Aelfric’s sword.”

“I have faith in you. Both of you.” Raphael stepped up to Crowley, lifting a hand for a shake. “Serve Celestria well, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley grasped his hand in a firm hold, the sun's light just beginning to peak over the castle walls. “I’ll try. Hold the fort down here ‘till we return.”

“I’ll try,” he echoed with a wry grin.

“You’ll succeed,” Crowley said, confident in him. “I have faith in that.” Even if he didn't have faith in much else, he was sure Raphael would be fine. If anyone would be, it was him.

Aziraphale hefted himself onto the proper perch for the carriage, taking up the reins while the horses shifted in anticipation of the journey ahead. Aziraphale just took a deep breath, seeking the window of his mother’s bedroom. “Watch out for us,” he whispered before looking to the gathered guards.

“Thank you all for being here. For being loyal to the crown, be it me or my mother before. Heed Raphael as surely as you would either of us, but don’t dismiss my sister either. Princess Michael will be ruler in my stead, but I will be back. And I will be victorious.”

The cheer that went up wasn’t loud enough to disturb those still asleep in the castle, but it made Aziraphale smile nonetheless. “Are you ready, Sir Crowley?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

“Then let’s be off.” He’d only ever controlled a carriage on the peacekeeping tour and very against the wishes of most along with him, but he cracked the reins with confidence and held tight as he pushed forward, the horses beginning at a light pace as they, too, got accustomed to this unusual position.

And so their journey began, heading towards the rising sun.

Chapter Text

At seeing Aziraphale manning the carriage, the guards at the gate had only wished them a safe journey and the best of luck. Gabriel was, as expected, horrified to see the same. “Where's the footman? Where is your crown?”

“Unasked for and hidden,” was Aziraphale’s honest response. “Sir Gabriel, as lavish a journey as you're used to with my uncle, this is going to be different.”

“Of course it is. I'm travelling with a king instead of a duke. It should be more lavish.”

Crowley had to sigh; he couldn't not. “Gabe… this isn't a peace tour. We'd have no chance of completing this if Aziraphale travelled like a king.”

“That's ridiculous. Every village we reach, he's going to send people out to scour the area for the shard.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “I most certainly am not.”

“Duke Met said you would. That's the easiest, smartest thing to do.”

While more people looking wasn't necessarily a bad thing it would also draw way more attention than they wanted. “Is that how the other quest takers have done it?”

“There’s only been one and he failed. So who cares what he did?”

Aziraphale’s lips pursed. “I care. And, if you recall, I am king. What I choose to do matters more than what others assume I may choose to do. Whatever preconceived notions you may have about this journey should best be forgotten.”

It was difficult for Crowley not to smirk at the confused tilt of Sir Gabriel's head. “Whatever the king wants, the king gets.”

“Thank you, my dear. Now we're going to head east until we reach Stonecross, and then we are going to travel towards the borders. If you find any of this distasteful, Sir, you are more than welcome to return to Berwick.”

Gabriel bristled at that, fingers tightening on Courage’s reins. “I’m not going to return a failure.”

“Then I’ll hear no more complaints.”

“What if I want to complain?”

Aziraphale slanted Crowley a look. “Then I would suggest only doing so if those complaints come with wise suggestions of improvement.”

Crowley snickered and shot him a smile back. “I’ll keep that in mind, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale couldn't help his own smile. “Terror.”

The realisation that keeping a distance from Aziraphale was going to be a challenge came upon Crowley quite suddenly. There wouldn't be any hiding away in a room or leaving, Aziraphale was always going to be there with that wonderful scent of his and that sunshiny smile. “You know, usually when someone calls someone else a terror, it's an insult, not an affectionate nickname, angel.”

“Usually,” Aziraphale agreed, “but I think you know I hold you in high regard.”

“I do,” Crowley confirmed. “Can’t for the life of me fathom why, but I know.”

“I don't know why either,” Gabriel agreed with a shake of his head. “You're a stranger. You don't even have a famous name.”

“Fame isn't a prerequisite for becoming my friend,” Aziraphale sighed.

“I don't have a famous name yet.” And even the prospect of such a thing sounded terrifying. “After we come back with the sword pieces, all three of us will be legendary.”

Gabriel laughed, the sound enough to have his horse's ears flicking uncertainly. “I already am. I'm captain of Hewin’s guard. You know. The city Celestria’s favourite king is from. Not to mention where the future queen has been raised.”

His eyes may have been hidden but somehow Crowley still managed to share a side-eyed look with Aziraphale. He decided playing dumb would be the funnier option over accusing their travelling companion of conspiracy to kill the king. “Oh? I didn't know His Majesty had chosen a mate. I wonder who she is.”

Gabriel blinked at him. “Princess Michael. Clearly.”

“Michael is only going to be queen if I fail,” Aziraphale reminded him slowly.

“Or if you die,” was Gabriel's very reasonable - in his mind - response. “Since you somehow don't have some bastard running around despite all the people you've been with, she's still next in line.”

Crowley coughed in an attempt to hide the laugh that wanted to come out. “Maybe he's been careful.”

“I-” Aziraphale’s cheeks burned. He may not have been ashamed of his past trysts, but he still didn't enjoy them being mentioned in such a crass way. “Of course I have been. Future heirs deserve to be planned. I don't intend to have any without a proper mate.”

“Noble intentions, they just don't usually pan out the way you want.” Especially not for common folk. “You’re lucky it's worked so far.”

It felt like judgement, Aziraphale averting his gaze. “I suppose. I've never had to think about siring potential heirs to the crown, though.”

No, Crowley supposed he hadn't. Up until that fateful masquerade he'd not been the next in line. “Guess that'll be something to think about when you get back.”

“That won't be a problem. Duke Met’s been searching for suitable partners for Prince- King Aziraphale for years. He'll be married as soon as we get back.”

Aziraphale’s grip tightened on the reins. “I will not be marrying someone... selected for me.”

“Oh, I'm sure you can keep as many others as you want on the side. But a monarch should be married.” Gabriel shook his head. “It’s weird how long the queen decided to be alone.”

“Do not speak of my mother in that manner,” Aziraphale growled.

“Angel…” Crowley said cautiously. The growl made him want to melt but now was not the time for that nonsense. “I don't think he meant it like that.”

“Like what?” Gabriel wondered. “It is weird. A monarch deciding to not remarry. Her husband dying is sad, but it's not the end of the world. She should've considered her image more.”

Even from the distance between them Crowley could smell the angry smoke in Aziraphale's scent; it almost would have made him wonder if a nearby farmer was burning a field but it wasn't the time of year for that. “Gabe… don't you think it's a bit uncouth to talk about her ‘image’ so close to her death?”

“The duke and princess don't believe so. The royal family always has to consider their image.”

Crowley frowned. That sounded exhausting as fuck. “I dunno. I guess I disagree. I think never remarrying is sweet and shows her loyalty. She loved him, no one could ever deny that.”

“Why should that matter?”

“That is enough,” Aziraphale growled again. The bumbling fool was an unending source of frustration, but he had to keep at least a little collected. He didn't have anyone to help hide burn marks on the reins. And if he set the carriage ablaze, that was most assuredly going to cause many questions. Not to mention the fact that Aziraphale wouldn't be able to save any of the food or supplies - or his books - without giving everything away. They were still within sight of Berwick’s walls, for heavens’ sake. He flicked his gaze skyward, taking a deep breath. “My uncle and my sister hold different opinions from my mother and I. She did love my father.” To a degree that could've been seen as unhealthy. “And he was taken from her by... by awful means. Watching someone you love wither before your very eyes and be helpless to stop it...”

Aziraphale shook his head. He’d had to do just that. “She made choices which were right for her, and she did her best to lead despite the grief. I will not tolerate any further negativity about her, Sir Gabriel, and if you continue in this manner, I am going to send you to Hewin. Empty-handed or not.”

“You can't do that.”

“I can and I most assuredly will.”

“Don’t tempt him, Gabe. I haven't seen Aziraphale this mad before.” Not even at his celebration dinner.

“Yes, well, you barely know him.”

“Nor do you,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But I do apologise. I don't mean to lose my head.”

“You’re fine, angel,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “Losing your cool occasionally just means you're human.”

“He's royalty,” Gabriel muttered. “He’s supposed to be better than human.”

Crowley snorted. “Say, Gabe, are you like a noble’s kid or something?”

“Of course I am. That's how I know what I’m talking about, and you're... Well, you're behaving like a commoner.”

“Yeah, because I am. There's more coin in the pouch Aziraphale has on his belt than I've ever held in my entire life. And I'm tellin’ you, for us little folk, seeing our leaders as normal people is actually way more comforting than seeing them as like pseudo-gods.”

“They’re not gods. They're in-between, and it's better to know that people are better than you than pretending you could possibly be equal.”

“Betcha I could beat Duke Met at arm wrestling. Probably the princess too.”

“You wouldn't be allowed to challenge them.”

“Yeah, probably not, ‘cause they're scared to lose.”

Gabriel gasped, clearly horrified by the very idea. “You can't say things like that. Of course they wouldn't be afraid of you. It's decorum.”

“Aziraphale and I had a practice bout,” Crowley threw a smile Aziraphale's way. “Wouldn’t mind doing that some more while we travel. Maybe I'll even beat the king.”

He'd only partially been listening, focused on very literally keeping his hands cool, but returned the smile. “We’ll have to see about that, my dear. I've seen you fight more than you have me. I have an advantage.”

“Nah, that just means you'll be more of a challenge. Easy opponents are no fun.”

“Oh, I wouldn't go easy on you. Although we don't have any training swords.”

“Then I guess you'll just have to be as careful with me as you are your various paramours.”

Pink cheeked, Aziraphale eyed him. Either he was deliberately flirting or Aziraphale couldn't actually differentiate friendly banter from flirtation. “Your bruises would be shaped differently, but I’m sure your legs would still wobble by the end.”

Crowley snorted, completely ignoring the slightly horrified look on Gabriel’s face. “You only made my arms wobble last time.”

“I wasn't able to spend as much time on you as I would've liked.”

Well whatever Aziraphale's problem had been yesterday seemed to at least be somewhat cleared up if he was flirting back again. “I guess you'll have to spend more time on me later.”

“This is inappropriate,” Gabriel complained.

Aziraphale shook his head. “As a matter of fact, Sir, we are going to have to rely on one another for training whilst out. Besides the possibility of bandits, we may come across persons who need our help.”

“The king’s help.”

“Yes. My role isn't only to lead, but to serve. Why should my people follow a selfish leader?”

“I sure as shit wouldn't. Be an arsehole and I'm out.”

“You don't have a choice,” Gabriel argued.

“Only a fool believes the monarchy is absolute. My family only continues to rule because the people allow it.”

“There are more of us common folk than there are of you.”

“Technically, my dear, you're less of a commoner now than before. You've a title,” Aziraphale reminded him.

Crowley let out a hiss that was almost more animal than human. “Ew. Gross. Disgusting. I hate it.”

“Then why did you fight so hard for it?” Gabriel asked.

“Not for the bloody title, that's for sure,” Crowley grumbled. “I did it ‘cause knights get paid better, get respect. When you're relying on what people are willing to pay you for odd jobs you take any advantage you can get.” Gabriel didn't need to know he'd promised Aziraphale he'd come along.

“Ha. Sellswords. So weak.”

“Need I remind you that this sellsword defeated you,” Aziraphale reminded him lightly. No matter how close it had been.

“I sure did. Hell, I'm the fucking champion this year.”

“You talk like a commoner.”

“Speaks,” Aziraphale corrected, smile barely hiding his amusement at Gabriel's affronted stare. “I don't find anything remiss with his manner of speaking. He’ll certainly blend into places better when we pass through.”

“Why would you want to blend in? How do you expect to get private rooms in inns?”

“I don't. However, if we do find ourselves in a town for an evening, I plan to pay for rooms as anyone else ought.”

“You are royalty,” Gabriel explained as if Aziraphale was slow. “People give you rooms.”

“How ever are people supposed to make a living without my spending money as anyone else? I've plenty to share.”

“You have more to fund!”

“Which is why we won't be staying in many inns, Sir.”

“Better to not, anyway. It's entirely possible those competitors I fought that escaped are looking for us. Staying lowkey will be safer.”

“We’ll just kill them if they attack,” Gabriel reasoned. “They weren't so tough.”

Maybe not one-on-one, but with that mage helping them out… “We still shouldn't underestimate them. And Aziraphale is still the king; we shouldn't take unnecessary risks.”

Aziraphale smiled. “We’ll be alright, I’m sure.”

Crowley fucking hoped so. They obviously couldn't entirely avoid all potential problems but he didn't want to just stumble into issues that could have been avoided. “Yeah, I'm sure between the three of us we'll be fine.”

“The two of us,” Gabriel corrected. “We’re the knights.”

Aziraphale heaved a sigh.

By the time they stopped for the night, Aziraphale felt far too hot. Sir Gabriel had said irritating thing after irritating thing all day, it seemed, his biases and ignorance on full, continuous display. He didn't even seem to notice how wrong he was, and no amount of telling him seemed to convince him.

“I’ll start the fire,” Aziraphale offered. “I did allow some firewood to be packed into the carriage to save us a bit of time these first few nights, so there's no need to go fetching any.”

“That will be a help.” Especially here in the rolling farmlands outside the city where trees were scarce. “I could try and hunt something up, though I'm not sure how much will be around here.”

“Likely small game, I imagine. We're near enough to the water that fishing may be a better bet for now.”

“Why should you worry about hunting or fishing?” Gabriel scoffed. “We have plenty of food in the carriage.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “In the gear you showed me, I didn't see fishing supplies. Is that something you don't tend to do?”

“Not often,” Crowley admitted as he unrolled his tent. “Fishing takes time and more patience than I usually have.”

“If you’d like, I'll go along with you once I've started the fire. Sir Gabriel surely knows how to tend one.”

Crowley looked over to where Gabriel was setting up his own tent. “I bloody hope he does,” he muttered lowly. “Yeah, sure. I'll probably set some rabbit traps and see what else we can find around here.”

“Lovely. There may be a few wild chickens this direction as well.”

“Mmm, wouldn't mind some chicken.”

“There should be some in the carriage,” Gabriel repeated.

“Thank you, Sir, we did hear you,” Aziraphale replied, heading towards the carriage to unload some of the firewood. “Once you’ve set your traps, return here and we’ll go to the riverbank.”

“Alright.” Crowley grabbed his ropes and headed out into the fields, picking up small sticks and pebbles as he went.

Away from the others, he let his feet guide him, feeling the ground and the life beneath his new boots. They were more comfortable than his old ones had ever been, sturdier too. The quality of spending money, Crowley supposed.

He set three traps around the fields near them, careful to not trespass on anyone's land. Even while travelling with the king it was good to respect such things. A little bit of magic went into each one, hiding them from passing animals as well as people and ensuring he'd know when they were triggered. When he returned a fire was blazing and both his and Gabriel's tents had been erected. “Oh, thanks, but putting mine up for me wasn't necessary.”

“That’s not yours. It’s His Majesty’s.”

Aziraphale smiled from where he was busily setting up his own tent. “Goodness, so sorry, I must have… ah… They do look alike.” Which was far truer than him claiming to have mixed them up. It wasn’t his fault Gabriel had made an assumption which hadn’t been corrected.

He wanted to be annoyed by it, but couldn't bring himself to be and shrugged. “It’s fine, a tent’s a tent.”

“Then- King, I should really-”

“Oh, no. I seem to have finished already.” Aziraphale’s lashes fluttered as he stepped back. No one needed to know it had taken a bit of magic to keep some of it in place. It had been a while since he’d put a tent together, but there were plenty of days ahead for him to observe Crowley. “Thank you. Shall we be off, Crowley?”

“Yeah, sure. The river isn't far.”

“Wonderful. Sir Gabriel, please do keep an eye on the fire. I'll be very put out if it isn't still going when we return.”

Still annoyed that he'd put up the tent of a commoner - he hadn't even really wanted to put up Aziraphale’s, but someone had to have a sense of propriety - he was frowning as he nodded. “Fine, fine. If you want to waste your time.”

Crowley's eyes rolled. “We’re making camp and not going anywhere for the night so there's not much else to do.”

When Gabriel sent Aziraphale an affronted look, he only smiled a little brighter. “Quite true.”

“Come on, then, not sure if we'll catch anything but I guess it's worth a shot.”

“Oh, it isn’t about the catch so much as it is the time spent. Admittedly, I don’t have overmuch patience with fishing when I’m on my own.” Aziraphale offered him a rod and a smile. “At least with a rod. Using a harpoon or a net can be fun, but it’s much messier. We could also set a few traps, but I think that can wait until we’re a little further along. Fish doesn’t keep as well as other meats, I’ve found.”

“Salted fish does,” Crowley said, taking the rod and laying against his shoulder. “But we don't have enough salt for all that.”

“No, and I wouldn’t have wanted to take more than what we did from our stores.”

“It would be more weight than we want anyway.”

“It certainly would.” As they drew further away from the campsite, Aziraphale lowered his voice. “I am sorry if you didn’t want him to set the tent up. He was already in process before I realised and then assumed it was mine. I didn’t bother to correct him.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said just as quietly. “No harm done. I was just surprised is all.”

“As was I. I’m not entirely sure why he’s decided to be helpful, but… it isn’t.”

Crowley laughed and nudged him with his elbow. “I mean, it was kind of helpful?”

“Which is the only reason I allowed it to continue. One less thing for you to worry over.”

“I’m not worried about much right now, angel.” Even if they didn't catch any rabbits or fish they did have food in the carriage and the lands closest to Berwick were generally quite safe with regular patrols. “Relax a little, we're barely finished with day one of a whole bloody year.”

“I know. It's been a very stressful day, however. He's such a...” Aziraphale grasped for a semi-polite description. “Polarising person.”

“You can say ‘self-centred and lacking the brains the gods gave a fish’, angel.”

“I’ll allow you to say so in my stead.”

“Of course you will because you're the nice one, and I'm the arsehole.”

Aziraphale let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Well… I won’t disagree with you, but I do prefer you this way. Having a title may make you uncomfortable, but I hope you know it doesn’t require you to change as a person.”

“I’d bloody hope not! I'm not the type to change that easy. Set in my ways, me.”

“I’m enjoying your way. Your bluntness has been a nice buffer between Sir Gabriel and I.”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “I find being upfront and honest to be easier than trying to come up with half-truths to make someone feel better.” The half-truths and lies he lived day to day was bad enough. “I guess people like you would call that blunt.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “People like me?”

“Fancy people. Rich people. People for whom it is more important to keep someone placated than tell them they're acting like an arse.”

Aziraphale hummed. “I don’t consider it placation so much as keeping the peace. Some people are very capable of hearing that they’re acting out, but other people need… a different approach.”

“Yeeaahh, I think Gabe might need a softer approach, honestly. He doesn't seem to get that he's upsetting you.”

“No, but he was raised by Hewin nobility - his father's the Marquis - and he was all but handed the position of guard captain. I'm afraid he's hopelessly mired in his own opinions of right and wrong.”

That sounded bloody awful. “So what you're saying is he’s sheltered to the point of not realising it.”

“That does indeed seem to be the case with him.” Aziraphale sighed. “Perhaps this trip will be good for him. The world doesn't bow down to him simply because he says so. And, well, he isn't first in the current pecking order. Even in his mind.” His lips pressed together briefly as he gazed towards the riverbank. “I’m not very comfortable pulling any sort of rank, but it seems to be the only thing he'll listen to.”

Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale was such an odd one. Who'd have thought the bloody king wouldn't want to throw his weight around? It only made him more attractive, which was a problem. “It’s what he expects. I'm sure the princess and duke use their status as often as they like.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “Unfortunately. You've seen some of it in the way they speak to the knights.”

“Yeah, I did.” And it had made him want to spit on their shiny shoes. “They’re rude little shits.”

Aziraphale slanted him a look. “They’re particular over who they believe deserves manners. I think everyone does.”

“And I think you should at least be polite to the people meant to protect your life or they may just find themselves too slow to grab a sword one day.”

“How would a lack of politeness make anyone slower?” Aziraphale wondered, baffled. “The royal guard is very well trained.”

Crowley’s free hand reached up and rubbed at his face. “Don’t worry about it, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a puzzled smile. “Alright?”

He was travelling with two people who took almost everything literally. It was barely the end for the first day and he was already tired. “I’m fine. Just realising I'll have to rephrase how I say things sometimes.”

Aziraphale hummed, wondering just what he'd misunderstood. “I don't mean to make things difficult for you. I apologise.”

“It’s fine,” Crowley said with a wave of his hand. “It’s just been a long day is all.”

“It certainly has been that.” And, as Crowley had pointed out, it was only the first day of their year. “After a decent meal, you should be able to get some rest. I’ll try to let you sleep as long as possible. Distracting Sir Gabriel shouldn’t be too strenuous.”

Crowley laughed and bumped their shoulders together as they crested the little hill and the lazy river came into view. “Don’t be too hard on him, angel, it's a tough life being an idiot.”

Surprise had his laugh bubbling into the air. “It must be. Perhaps that’s why he’s as fit as he is. It must be a constant workout.”

“If only that workout made him smarter…”

“He’s clearly working the wrong muscles.”

“Obviously. We should start playing word games while we travel, maybe it'll work his brain enough to learn something.”

“That could be an entertaining way to pass the time. I am curious to discover if your vocabulary extends beyond swearing,” Aziraphale teased, pausing at the edges of the muddy riverbank to debate whether or not he'd rather remove his boots and wade in or fish from the bank.

Crowley, on the other hand, swiftly found a large moss covered rock and sat to begin tugging off his nice new boots. “Can’t be afraid to get a little wet, angel.”

“I’m not. Merely debating on the merits of either option. We wouldn't want to splash much lest we scare off any potential catch.”

“I suppose so.” He didn't have the fine control over water that he had over earth and plants but he could encourage the fish to be less skittish. “I’d still rather not get my boots all muddy.”

“Nor would I.” Though he wasn't wearing his newest pair. They would keep until the ones he was most comfortable in wore out, which would likely be some time. Not as much, perhaps, as Aziraphale would prefer as he didn't think he could get away with keeping them intact for a year without drawing suspicion. He would have to watch Gabriel or Crowley's boots to gauge the proper timeframe.

Crowley removed both shoes and stuffed his stockings into the top of the boots, long toes flexing in cool fresh air. “Aahh, nothing better than taking your shoes off after a long day.”

Aziraphale’s mouth watered, fingers itching to stroke newly revealed freckles. The lack of stockings made his legs look even longer somehow, and Aziraphale wanted them wrapped around his waist. Gosh, remembering he had a mate was difficult. “One or two things, perhaps.”

There was no missing the way Aziraphale's scent had flared up, the sweetness in it overtaking the smoke for a moment before it was reigned back in. Oh, how he wished he could say something about it without giving everything away. “I don't know, angel. This is pretty good.”

“Now it just seems as if you're trying to tempt me.”

“Tempt you into relaxing a little? Why ever would you think that?” Crowley asked, grinning up at him.

“Alright, alright. Budge up.” Aziraphale settled beside him, neatly unlacing his boots. The sigh he let out when he was able to stretch bared legs out was as decadent as the purrs rumbling underneath. “Even with being on the carriage all day, this is very nice.”

The purrs made Crowley want to lean in, to be closer. “See, told ya’.”

“Yes, yes. I can still think of better things, but I’m not going to claim I don’t also enjoy this.” The sun hadn’t yet faded, but the sky was beginning to streak with the colours of sunset. The river encouraged a spring breeze that Aziraphale lifted his chin into, eyes closing and purrs continuing as he let himself enjoy the simple peace of it. He hoped he wouldn’t lose his enjoyment as the days, weeks, months went.

Crowley watched him, transfixed. The softer light of early sunset seemed to suit Aziraphale, it made his blond-white curls almost golden. Like a proper halo about his head. “Okay, maybe sinking into a soft bed after a long time away is just about better. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale agreed with a low laugh. “I don’t get to experience this very often. If I go down below the cliffs or steal away for a few hours to find time to myself, perhaps, but there’s always a time limit.”

“Weeell, there's no time limit now,” Crowley murmured and leaned their shoulders together. His attention was pulled away momentarily by a little snap of magic of one of his traps being set off. There was at least one dinner. “Enjoy all you like.”

“Unfortunately, the time limits continue. We can't sit here all night.”

“No, obviously, but you're not going back into the castle, you're going to camp. It's different.”

“It is, yes.” Aziraphale opened his eyes to smile at him, simple and easy.

It felt supremely unfair that he couldn't just lean in and kiss that smile from Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale probably wouldn't mind and, hell, he'd asked to kiss him before… but Crowley knew it wouldn't be a good idea. He didn't want to start something only to then disappoint by stopping things short, that would be even more unfair to the both of them. “Then just enjoy this for now. There’ll be time to worry about stuff later.”

“Halting worry isn't something I've ever been very good at.” Aziraphale looked back to the river, to the land beyond it. His land now, stretching further than he would ever be able to see at once. “And now I've a whole kingdom to fret over.”

“Careful or you'll start sounding like a parent.”

“My mother once told me she considered herself to be a mother to the kingdom. She hated that she couldn't be everywhere at once to help anyone and everyone who needed it.” Aziraphale lifted a hand in a light shrug. “I think I'm comfortable spreading knights and policy through the lands and, well, if this goes well, I may tour the kingdom every few years. I hope I’m a good parent.”

“I think you should. Do tours, that is. See what the kingdom’s like when you're able to go where you please. But I'm sure you'll be a good one; you seem to care enough to be.”

“I do hope so. All the love in the world can't guarantee how well someone might be at caring for something. Or someone. But I will try.”

“No, but love’s a good start.”

“An important one, I think.” Aziraphale pushed himself up, retrieving the rod. “Alright, let's see if we can catch a fish or two.”

Crowley laughed and stood along with him, feet sinking into a wet earth. “Okay, show me how to fish, Your Majesty.”

“To begin, it's incredibly dull. As you well know.” It was easy to find worms in the muddy banks. Even though it made Aziraphale grimace - Crowley distinctly hearing him apologise to each squirming creature - he got them onto the hooks at the end of their simple, stringed rods. A simple clasp held the line against the wooden pole, and they were undone quickly. “But I think its dullness is only equal to one's company.”

“Maybe that's why I never cared for it, not good enough company.” Crowley followed suit and cast a line out over the reeds and into the water. “Though I suppose this isn't so bad.”

“I am glad you find my company enjoyable. It would make this year miserable to have two intolerable persons with me.”

Crowley laughed and grinned crookedly at him. “You’re welcome for making sure at least one tolerable person came along, then.”

Aziraphale still didn't fully understand why Crowley had fought so hard for him, the chance to come along when he’d been so opposed. He’d foolishly hoped it had been for more romantic reasons, but that it would be a simple kindness meant more somehow. Even while it made the blasted attraction worse. He quietly cast his own line, watching the worm disappear beneath the deceptively calm surface. This river could rush in the right circumstances and teemed with life below. “You did. You’ve done a lot for me very quickly, Crowley, and I do hope you understand just how grateful I am.”

“I do. At least, I think I do.” Especially now that he'd spent a whole day listening to Sir Gabriel blather on. Maybe when Aziraphale’s rut came on he could hide away himself and let a heat run it's course. “But, luckily for you, I can't turn down someone in need. You were kind to me and understanding. It's only right to pay that back.”

Oh, yes, it was far too easy to be attracted to this man. “Lucky for me, indeed.”

Crowley smiled and watched where his line had disappeared under the slow-moving water, the sky gradually darkening and bringing out the sounds of frogs and night insects. The last few weeks in the city had been nice but this was too. The city had its own kind of magic, being filled with so many people, but nothing beat soaking up raw nature in its purest form. At Aziraphale's gasp he opened his eyes to see his line being pulled up stream. “Come on, bring it in before it gets away.”

“I am, I am.” It took a little bit of effort, Aziraphale struggling to keep from wiggling excitedly and actually focus on bringing the fish in. He pushed one end of the pole into the mud and grasped the line to tug the fish nearer. “I can never tell if these blasted things are going to be large or if it’s only the water tension which makes it feel that way.”

“It’s the guessing that keeps you coming back,” Crowley said with a laugh. He dropped his own pole to the ground to help pull Aziraphale's line. “That and the excitement.”

“It is exciting,” Aziraphale giggled, but the line was beginning to dig into his palms. Perhaps it was a big one. He couldn’t heat the line to startle the fish with Crowley helping, however, so he could only keep pulling and struggling against the thrashing fish with him.

Until Crowley’s line went taut a split second before it was ripped from the mud and whisked into the water. “Oh-!”

“Fuck!” He couldn't do a damn thing about it, not without giving too much away. “Forget it!” he decided in a split second. “Just don't let this sucker get away!”

“I’m-” Aziraphale grunted as he was hauled forward nearly a full step. He firmed his grip, continuing to pull as the line vibrated and shifted wildly. “Hold the pole steady. I’ll focus on the line.”

“Okay, okay!” Crowley grabbed the pole, holding it firm so Aziraphale wouldn't worry about it and pulling along with him. “I swear to Someone if you catch a huge fish on our first night no one else will ever believe it!”

Aziraphale laughed, but let warmth flare down the line. The shock of heat caused a bubble in the water, but the line went taut long enough for Aziraphale to drag the fish right to the edge of the surface. “Ah-” Still clutching the line with one hand, he reached into the water and snatched the stunned thing up by its tail and grimaced as it immediately began flailing out of the water. It was nearly as long as his arm and very angry at being captured. “Do you have a knife?”

“I always have a knife,” Crowley laughed, setting the pole aside before tugging said knife from his belt. “Never know when you'll need one.”

“I’d like this poor thing to suffer as little as possible, so one is very much needed now.”

Crowley sighed, not at all sure why it mattered. It was a fish and would die soon anyway but he took the floppy from Aziraphale, laid it on the rock they'd previously been sitting on and made a clean slice right where the spine met the head. It stopped moving almost immediately. “There. No more suffering.”

“Thank you. I know it’s just a meal for us, but it was still a living thing going about its business a few minutes ago.” Aziraphale clipped his line back into place, crouching to wash the muddied end as well as his own hands. “I don’t like killing things, so I try to be respectful when I do.”

“I see.” Then he'd probably have to be the one to kill their food. That was fine. Crowley picked the large fish up by putting two fingers under its gills. “Good thing I'm around, then.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “A remorseless killer, are you?”

“When it comes to my food? I suppose.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I see. I wouldn’t say I have remorse, but I say a brief thanks for the life lost so mine may continue before I eat. And I never take more than I need when I go hunting. If I go fishing and no one else is ready to leave when I am, I’ll throw back any catches.” He smiled over his shoulder. “It tends to aggravate my companions, particularly when it’s a large catch like that one.”

“I can imagine why. Large catches aren't common.”

“I do tend to get a bit lucky in that regard.” He didn’t think it was a result of magic, but he genuinely couldn’t have said for sure.

Crowley shook his head and picked up his boots in his free hand, content to leave them off for now. “Blessed by the gods with luck.”

“That, I don’t believe I would agree with.” Aziraphale’s smile weakened a little as he rose. “I’m grateful for the gifts I have been given, but I wouldn’t say luck is among them. Not after this month.”

“You’ve just had a bad run, things’ll get better.”

“I’m praying for it.” Aziraphale scooped his boots up. “How has your luck been as of late?”

Crowley's head waggled back and forth. “Ehhh, I've never really had the best luck. Things don't usually go my way unless I make them.”

“Well, you’ve made very good things happen in Berwick. I hope that streak continues as we travel.” His nose scrunched playfully. “And I hope Sir Gabriel enjoys his dried meats, as he doesn’t like fish.”

“That’s terrible,” Crowley said, though it was through quiet laughs. “When we get this back to camp I'll check the traps. Might have something in there he can eat.”

Aziraphale beamed. “So quick? You must be very adept with your trap placement if there's anything in any of them.”

“I did say might.”

“Well, I'll have faith in you. Even though you lost one of our fishing poles the very first night we're out.”

“Oi! That's only because I was helping you reel yours in.”

“You should’ve drawn your own line in first.”

“And let this whopper of a fish get away? Hell no!”

“I beg your pardon. I never would have allowed it to get away,” Aziraphale huffed.

“So says you but I thought it looked like you almost lost it.”

Aziraphale’s brows lifted. “You grabbed the line as quickly as I did. I wasn’t even awarded an opportunity to possibly lose it. Which I would not have.”

Crowley grinned right back at him. “Sure, sure. Whatever His Majesty says.”

“When I’m correct - and I am - yes.”

He was far too fun to rile up. “Of course, of course. Completely correct.”

“Yes, I am.” Aziraphale gave a firm nod. “As much as I appreciate your interference, I would’ve preferred not to lose a pole. At least you can use Sir Gabriel’s until we acquire a new one. I highly doubt he’ll make use of it.”

Crowley's eyes rolled behind his glasses. “You got lucky today. Fishing isn't usually so lucrative so quickly.”

Aziraphale’s smile was just a hair smug. “For you, perhaps.”

“Oh? Oh, okay, I see how it is. Aziraphale the Fishing King. That'll be what you're known for now.”

Laughing, Aziraphale swung the rod towards him. “Careful, darling, lest I use this hook on you.”

He was almost too cute. “That so? You'll hook me and not let me go?”

Would he if he could. If this really could go beyond what must surely be friendly banter only. “As familiar as I am with releasing my catches, you would be very worth keeping.”

Crowley snorted lightly. Agnes had been the only one who'd kept him around for any length of time and she'd done it out of duty, pity. It hadn't been just because she'd wanted to, no matter how much affection he held for her, he knew that much. “We’ll see how you feel by the time we make it back.”

Aziraphale had no doubt he would feel the same so long as Crowley was the same. It was the latest bit of unluckiness for him that someone he'd gravitated towards so quickly, so strongly would be unavailable. “So we will,” he murmured, resting the pole against his shoulder again. “All things considered, I wouldn't call this the worst day of my life. Even considering certain company.”

“Aw, angel, I'm hurt. I thought I was fantastic company.”

Aziraphale laughed as the campsite and the considerably smaller fire came into view. It wasn't quite smoulders, but it was low enough that his laughter faded into a sigh. “He’s in need of quite a bit of training, it seems. Or you and I will end up doing all the work. Perhaps you should triple check the stability of your tent.”

“Food first, while we still have light, but not a bad idea.” There was just enough light left of the day that the fire wasn't entirely necessary to begin cutting and gutting the long fish. Crowley noted Gabriel's pinched expression from where he sat and laughed. “Don’t worry. I'll be checking my rabbit traps once this is ready. You can have that if they've caught anything.”

“I don't understand the point of any of this when we have plenty of supplies.”

Aziraphale knelt near the fire, gently encouraging the flames to grow. “Sir Gabriel, I’m not sure how much you think we have but I only ordered enough cured meats for two weeks.”

“Two-?!”

“More than that would be way too much and slow us down. We only have a year to find those sword pieces, we can't be screwing around with enough food to feed an army.”

“I ordered enough food to keep us all year.”

“And I did not,” Aziraphale reminded him. It was extremely difficult to not be annoyed, but it wouldn't help anyone were he to spend the entire journey aggravated. “Crowley and I are perfectly capable of and willing to capture our own meals as needed.”

“Yep. Shouldn't be an issue.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“Fresh meats are far better than cured ones,” Aziraphale disagreed, smiling when the flames roared to life properly. “You’re doing very well with the fish, Crowley.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and chopped the head right off to Aziraphale's grimace. “I’m not as familiar with cleaning fish as I am other game.”

“Yes... Deboning is one of the most important and more irritating steps. I could take over if you'd like to check your traps.”

“That’d be great, actually. Teamwork, right?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, leaving the fire to take the knife from Crowley.

“We aren't a team,” Gabriel protested, clearly baffled. “We’re following the king.”

“We’re travelling together. As a team. Aziraphale can't do this without us, that's the point.”

One of Gabriel’s brows arched, clearly unconvinced, but Aziraphale shook his head and neatly slid the blade down the length of the fish. “Thank you, Crowley. I also consider us to be a team.”

“I hope so. This travelling thing’d be real awkward if you didn't.” Crowley shot him a grin before bounding off into the surrounding fields. He thought he might have spied some wild carrots and onions while he was setting them up and those would roast well over a fire.

For those, Aziraphale entered the carriage to get a few seasonings which were, perhaps, a bit unnecessary. But there was no reason their trip needed to be miserable, was there? They could enjoy things, and Aziraphale was very happy to fuss over their little meal despite Gabriel’s clear bafflement and over his protests.

He also followed Crowley around when he inspected his tent, making note of the things Crowley adjusted and nodding along to his rants over how rubbish a job Gabriel had done. He needed to fix his own tent lest someone look into it, though that could wait until everyone had gone to bed. Which was after their own meal and after the horses had been tended, the four of them needing brushed and fed. A barrel fixed to the carriage was filled with water for them to share, and it was nice. It was safe that first night.

Except for Gabriel’s tent collapsing, but only one person was injured and it was really just a little bruise to the ego more than physical damage. Oh, well.

Chapter Text

The vast farmland that surrounded Berwick seemed to go on and on. Rolling hills of fields that Crowley had travelled through to get to the city in the first place. It was different travelling through them with King Aziraphale and Sir Gabriel instead of being alone. They saw a few farmers on their way, heading into Berwick to sell vegetables or buy goods they couldn't get locally.

Gabriel had wanted to stop one evening at a relatively large homestead, but thank the gods Aziraphale had put his foot down. Apparently the homestead was owned by a minor lordling, but even that was nonsense Crowley didn't want to deal with. So they slept outside, in their makeshift tents for four nights, and Crowley relished it.

In Berwick, there had been enough ambient light to drown out the light of the stars but out here they shone just like they should. Sometimes he just found himself laying in his bedroll, staring up at the sky, and couldn't decide if he missed the city or not.

The hustle and bustle had been exciting, knowing there were people all about had been exciting. Hell, sleeping in a bed regularly had been fantastic. He'd still missed this. Even the hard ground and regular hunting for food couldn't dampen the serenity of being out in the world again.

And neither did the town they approached. Stonecross wasn't nearly as large as Berwick and didn't have massive stone walls surrounding it. As they approached, the houses were closer and closer together and more people could be seen on the road. Many of them stopped and stared at the ornate carriage, much to both Crowley and Aziraphale's chagrin.

“You’d think they'd never seen a royal carriage before,” Crowley grumbled, fully aware that many of them might not have.

“They probably haven’t,” Gabriel needlessly replied, very pleased to be in a town. He had a tight grip of Courage’s reins, the horse liable to shy away from the first person who tried to approach. “It’s shameful that they’re watching the king drive it.”

This was one of the few towns with people who would actually recognise Aziraphale too, a fact he wasn’t altogether pleased by. But at least it would help them sell the carriage. “I think people will be fine knowing their king isn’t helpless. Now why don’t you explore, Sir Gabriel? Ask any patrolling guards how they keep their town safe without walls.”

“They probably don’t,” he scoffed. “It’s a miracle there are any villages that are able to survive in the wilderness without fortification.”

Crowley gave him the most incredulous look his face was capable of. “Wilderness? We're surrounded by farms. This is as wild as a seven-year-old’s birthday party.”

“That may depend on the seven-year-old,” Aziraphale laughed.

“I stand by what I said. The outlying farms probably see more action than anything happening here.”

“Do you find villages are more safe from troubles than the scattered farms?” Aziraphale wondered, intrigued.

“Oh, absolutely,” Crowley said almost immediately. “There’s safety in numbers and humans are big and loud. Most animals, even the big predators, avoid groups of us if they can help it.”

“That does make sense.”

Gabriel’s eyes rolled. “It’s still stupid to not have walls.”

“Thank you for your input, Sir Gabriel. Kindly go introduce yourself to a few guards about town whilst Crowley and I continue on.”

At Sir Gabriel's continued bafflement, Crowley decided to take pity on him. “I’m sure they could benefit from the experience and wisdom of a long-standing knight such as yourself.”

“Obviously,” Gabriel scoffed, looking around. “Alright, I'll go. For the betterment of this little village.”

It was more of an average sized town than a ‘small village’ to Crowley, but he kept his mouth shut about it. It probably seemed that small to Gabriel because of where he came from. “Cool. Meet us at the inn? Place like this should only have the one.”

“Fine. It’s about time you see sense and have us stay at an inn.”

With a firm nod, he rode off and Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Inns don’t spring up out of nowhere, for heavens’ sake.”

“I don't know, I'm sure I've seen one or two just pop right up in the middle of nowhere before. It's how people know it's a good place to make a town.”

“Really? I thought our towns were started predominantly by nobles and knights.”

Crowley chuckled and shook his head. “That was a joke, angel.”

“Ah.” Cheeks pink, Aziraphale offered a small, embarrassed sort of smile. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, but I’m not always good at recognising those.”

“I have noticed, yeah.” And sometimes it was less endearing than he currently found, mostly because Gabriel was the same way. Except he would then never shut up about the thing he took way too seriously. “It’s alright. Just don't take me too seriously all the time.”

“I will try. I can tell on occasion, but I’m not even entirely sure what the tell is in every case. I do know that you’re rarely malicious, so I know your meanest comments are in jest.”

“I’m usually only that rude to people I don't like.”

“That I’m quite aware of.”

“Good. I wouldn't want you thinking I dislike you.”

“No. I don't believe you would do a fraction of what you do if you disliked me.” Aziraphale did have confidence in that, at least. “Have you any idea how to go about selling a carriage and a horse?”

Crowley hummed in thought. “Ol’ Lwk should be pretty simple. He might be too old for royal duties, but he's still strong and healthy enough to pull a plough. The carriage might be more difficult.”

“I won't be looking for the highest value of its worth. Really, I'd be as equally willing to gift it to someone with a need as to sell it.”

“Put it in the square with a sign that says, ‘Free royal carriage. Not a scam.’”

Aziraphale laughed. “If we do that, it may still be just where we left it come next year.”

“That could work! New tourist attraction. Come see the king's own carriage and take it for a ride.” It sounded ridiculous even to himself. “I’m sure there's someone around who'd want to buy it.”

“We’ll ask at the inn,” Aziraphale decided, waving at a wide-eyed set of passersby. “Hello!” he greeted cheerfully, keeping his smile even as they scrambled through messy bows and curtsies. One of them nearly fell right onto their face. “Could any of you kindly tell us where the local inn is?”

Directions were stuttered and stumbled, but Aziraphale and Crowley were still able to find it. There were stables as well as a few simple hitching posts available to temporarily tie up horses. “I’ll stay with everyone if you’d like to go ahead, my dear.”

“Oh, sure.” It would probably be easier for him to go alone this time anyway. Crowley hopped down from Bentley's back and gave her an affectionate pat. “I’m not sure what the room accommodations will be, but hopefully it'll be enough to shut Gabriel up for a bit.”

“Only until we skip over the next inn,” Aziraphale supposed, climbing down from his perch. He went right to Rhew with a carrot. “Here we are, my dear. You won't be hauling this carriage about much longer.”

Not that he seemed to mind it over much. Though Crowley had snickered when he realised it was Lwk who had been keeping him on task and not allowing him to just go off and pull the carriage towards any little thing he thought was edible. Crowley shook his head and headed inside, not wanting to dawdle incase Gabriel returned early and made a fuss.

The inn was smaller than the one he'd stayed at in Berwick but was standard fare for what he expected in an average sized town. There was a large pot of something hot and hearty cooking over a fire and just enough tables for the few people that were there. It wasn't busy, and Crowley would have been surprised if it was; in towns like this people worked during the day and only came to relax in the evenings.

Few heads turned to look at him, just another traveller, common this close to the capital and right after the tournament too. The owner was accommodating enough, an older man, a beta, but he had only two rooms to offer, the others full. It was an annoyance but one they could deal with, especially since the innkeep knew of a nearby knight who would likely be happy to take the horse and carriage they had. Crowley just failed to mention it was the king's horse and carriage.

A messenger was sent off to find the local knight, the young man not quite sure if the blond man petting the very fancy horses was the former prince or not. But what would a new king be doing murmuring to horses? He paid people to do that sort of thing, surely.

Aziraphale, for his part, didn't notice any of the people who walked by him. Those who recognised him and those who talked themselves out of recognising him could be and were nonexistent for him as he tended the three horses. It was Crowley who earned his attention again, his smile easy as he listened to the news. It didn't immediately click in his head that there were only two rooms and three of them, Aziraphale more focused on, “There's room for the horses in their stables, isn't there?”

“Sure is. Most of the patrons don't actually board their horses so we're good there.” And since Aziraphale hadn't blinked an eyelash at only two rooms, it must be fine.

“Excellent. With luck, that knight will be here soon. I don’t want us to be held up for too long. We’re already here two days later than we ought to have been.”

”Yeah, because of the bloody carriage.”

“Which won’t hinder us much longer.” Aziraphale took the reins of both horses to guide them towards the stables behind the inn. “Let’s get these lovelies settled. Something in there smells scrummy.”

“It’s beef stew tonight, at least that's what the innkeep told me,” Crowley said, following him around the building. “I hear this area is supposed to have good ale, too.”

“Well, we mustn’t drink too much. But a sample or two shouldn’t hurt, should it?”

“Now you're speaking my language.”

Beaming, Aziraphale settled the carriage next to the stables and began to unhook Lwk from it while Crowley dealt with Bentley. Rhew, he knew, wouldn’t go anywhere if left on his own. Lwk, while seeming docile and well-behaved, was ultimately more of an unknown. It wasn’t long, a coin or three pressed into a stablehand’s palm, before they were heading inside. “It’ll be nice to ride properly rather than guiding the carriage. That bench is terribly narrow.”

Crowley snickered as he removed Bentley's saddle, knowing she'd enjoy the rest of not having something on her back. “Aww, poor royal backside.”

“I know you’re teasing, but yes.”

That only made Crowley laugh for real and Bentley flick her ears at him in mild annoyance until he calmed enough to speak. “How awful for you.”

“It has been!” Aziraphale guided Lwk into a stall, the horse looking about and flicking his ears curiously. “An actual saddle will be a genuine improvement.”

Crowley was still snickering as he removed Bentley's bridal. “One would think a royal carriage would have more comfortable seats.”

“The one we were given isn’t designed for lengthy journeys. It’s for local events as I didn’t want one of the actual useful carriages lost for this foolishness.”

“Whatever you say, angel.”

“Thank you.” Aziraphale carefully removed Lwk’s bridle, the headpiece, the collar, the bellyband - all the bits which made a horse’s job more comfortable. The gelding shook himself when he was freed of it all, and Aziraphale laughed as he rubbed his long nose. “That’s it, dear boy. You're free of it all for now. You’ll be very happy in your new home, won't you? I'll make sure of it.”

Crowley's eyes rolled and he patted Bentley as she did a similar shake. “We’re not staying very long, angel.”

“Long enough for me to talk to this knight. Hopefully, it's one I already know.”

“Oh?” That piqued Crowley’s interest. “I suppose it makes sense you'd know most knights.”

“Yes, particularly if they were knighted in Berwick.”

“Ah, yeah, I guess if they were knighted elsewhere you would be less likely to know them.”

“Less, perhaps, but it isn't impossible. I think it should be alright, considering how close we are to Berwick.”

“Well I hope whoever it is they're willing to take this carriage.”

“As do I. We’ll just need to be sure it’s emptied properly.”

Crowley hummed. “We could give the food we don't need to the inn. I'm sure they'll appreciate it.”

“We certainly could,” Aziraphale agreed with a smile. “Now I’m going to fetch Rhew lest someone sees him and think he’s been forgotten.”

“Or steal him.”

The smile shifted into a gasp and a blink. “No one would take him! He clearly belongs to someone!”

Crowley snickered and gave his shoulder a light shove. “That’s not going to stop some people.”

“It had better. Besides, Rhew wouldn’t be led astray so easily. He’d put up quite the fuss.”

Maybe. Unless the would-be horse-nappers had a carrot or two for him. “I’m sure he would.”

With a nod, Aziraphale scurried out and soon returned with a very happy Rhew. He chomped on his carrot as he was led into a stall, tail flicking cheerfully, and Aziraphale slanted Crowley a look. “He isn’t spoiled. Hush.”

“I said not a word,” Crowley said, smiling widely despite Aziraphale's unamused look. He'd already led Bentley into her stall and was filling her trough with hay. “You’re the one denying something I didn't mention.”

“I’m stating a fact,” Aziraphale huffed.

“As you say.”

“You’re being suspiciously agreeable.”

“I thought you'd like me agreeable.”

“I like you how you are, and agreeable isn’t a word I would associate with you,” Aziraphale teased, removing Rhew’s gear in the same practised way he had with Lwk.

Crowley leaned against a nearby pillar and watched him, trying very hard not to stare at Aziraphale's generous arse. Would he still like him if he knew all Crowley was hiding? It was an unknown that Crowley didn't want to test, not when it could ruin everything. “Don’t worry, I'll be very disagreeable for Gabriel later.”

“That's the ticket,” Aziraphale laughed. “Now do you mind brushing Lwk for me while I tend Rhew? I want him looking his best for his new owner.”

“Yeah, sure.” Crowley was perfectly happy to take up the coarse brush and start running it over Lwk’s coat, dislodging dirt and grime from their travels. Lwk seemed just as content to allow the brushing to happen. He was, thus far, the most laidback of the three. “You’re just a sweet guy, aren't you?” Crowley said softly to him, murmuring quiet praise as he did his job.

Aziraphale let himself fall quiet, listening to the way Crowley communicated so sweetly with the creature. Even not directed at him, the soft words seemed to drip down his spine and slide tension away. It was unfair that someone who could make him feel warm and loose-limbed would be so out of reach when all Aziraphale wanted to do was draw him near and take him apart just as methodically.

Another test, he supposed, among many. He rubbed Rhew’s nose when he was done, giving him an encouraging murmur of his own before exiting the stall. “They’ll be getting as much a break as we will tonight.”

“Sure will. I'm looking forward to not sleeping out in the elements for a night.” And maybe even sleeping in a bed if Aziraphale didn't mind sharing the room. Otherwise he was fine to sleep in the stables like usual… even if a bed would be nicer.

“As am I, however nice it’s been. We should start getting rain as we travel further northeast.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Ugh. Rain means cold.”

“Don’t fret, my dear. I’ll keep you as warm as I’m able.”

“That so?” Crowley asked, giving him a sly smile. “You’ll be the one to keep me warm, hm?”

If only he could in the way he wanted. “As you like, of course.”

“I might take you up on it, so long as you can be good.”

The tease caused a riot of emotions, desires to cause chaos in Aziraphale’s system. He could be good. He wanted to tell Crowley he would be very good, but it felt unfair. Making promises that were so obviously beyond friendship when whoever Crowley had waiting for him wasn’t available to compete. It had him wondering, too, if Crowley was willing to be unfaithful. Or would he write a letter to this beau to end things? Crowley didn’t seem like a man who would hurt someone in that way, but… “May I ask you a question?”

Aziraphale was giving him such an odd look, brows pinched. “Yeah, I suppose so. What is it?”

“Are you the, ah, the sort of person who prefers to have one partner at a time or do you enjoy multiples?”

It was very good that he wasn't currently eating or drinking anything because Crowley was certain he would have choked to death if he had been; as it was, he mostly just coughed and felt heat searing up his neck. “What kind of question is that.”

“A reasonable one, I think. Some people enjoy and prefer those sorts of, ah… I don’t know what they’re called. The relationships which are opened for others to join.”

Crowley crossed his arms and couldn't bring himself to look directly at Aziraphale, feeling foolish. That was probably the sort of thing he was into, with all his flings and partners. “Not… not particularly. I don't think. Not that I've had that many to worry about it to begin with.”

Then that answered that. He wouldn’t be unfaithful. Aziraphale nodded, reaching out to gently touch Crowley’s arm. “I haven’t been in many, ah, well, what I would call proper relationships either. But I do prefer that they remain exclusive. Others may have their relationships however they wish, but unfaithfulness can be… It’s hurtful.”

“Well, yeah.” He didn't understand why this was the topic of conversation all of a sudden. “No one wants to feel like they've been thrown to the side in favour of something new.”

Then was it a relationship at all Crowley was in? Was it some secret member of his family whom he was hiding? A friend? The confusion and uncertainty was worse somehow. “No, and I can admittedly get a smidge… possessive. Although I’ve never been sure if it’s instinctual or just me.”

Crowley gave a little snort of amusement. “You’re an alpha. It's at least a little bit instinct.”

“Very likely. The betas I’ve been involved with for an extended period don’t, ah, don’t tend to appreciate it very much. I do try to behave.”

“No, I can imagine they didn't.” But he wasn't a beta and didn't mind some possessiveness. It was nice to be wanted, nice to have someone that wanted to do the wanting. Crowley wished things had been different, that they'd met under different circumstances. He couldn't reveal what he was now, not without giving away something much more dangerous. “‘S not that bad though. Their loss.”

“Oh? You don’t mind a bit of possessiveness?”

“I don't mind it, no. It can be… It feels good to know someone wants you like that.”

Aziraphale nodded eagerly, smile returning. “Then, ah, I suppose the loss of others could be your gain.”

“Could be,” Crowley murmured in agreement. He reached up and grasped the hand on his arm. “Told you, court me properly when this is all over. Right now you need to focus on finding those sword pieces. I don't want to be a distraction for you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale’s smile softened. “I’ve been working on some of the plans after we’ve left Tadfield. The direction we should most likely go.”

“Good. We could roll out our map tonight and you can share with me what you've got.”

“Yes, agreed. Even though it’ll be another month before we’re there, I want you to know as much as I do.”

“Being kept in the loop is definitely appreciated.”

“Your input is too invaluable to be left behind. Unfortunately, I’ve discovered that Gabriel has only travelled from Berwick to Hewin. So he won’t be able to provide much assistance on what to expect once we’re in Noreir or Westanfyr.”

Crowley hummed and tilted his head thoughtfully. “I do know someone in Noreir who's travelled a bit… but seeing her will depend on where we cross over.” And if he wanted to risk revealing his friend as a mage.

“Oh? Right now, I think we’ll cross at the easternmost point of the mountains. I don’t think we need to stay at the borders, exactly, but near enough.” As they reached the doors, Aziraphale let him go to open it with a small bow of his head. “From my readings, Aelfric explored the expanses.”

“The eastern point is near where my friend lives. Her village is right at the foot of the mountains on the Noreir side.”

“Then we very well may come across her.” Aziraphale smiled, delighted to know Crowley had friends. “What’s her name?”

“A-Anathema. We grew up together, but she chose to move to Noreir.” Where it was safer. “More settled down, and I do what I do.”

“Anathema,” Aziraphale echoed. “Such an unusual name.”

Crowley shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I'm not the one who named her.”

“Clearly not,” Aziraphale laughed. “I like to believe you'd be better at naming a young one.”

“Ngk-” Naming a child wasn't something that ever crossed his mind. One kind of needed a second person for that and even sharing his heat with someone was a vulnerability he couldn't allow, not while being a mage. “Dunno. Never thought about it.”

“I have, but naming conventions were important on my father's side. He compromised for my mother, but my name still largely fits the parameters. Sometimes I think I want to follow them in a similar manner, but my partner deserves a say.”

“That’s accommodating of you.”

“Well, it’s important.” Aziraphale reached for the door as they arrived at the inn, pulling it open for Crowley with another small bow. It was very much the opposite of what their roles ought to have been, but Aziraphale wasn’t going to start falling into convention now. “If I don’t respect my partner, how can I expect the rest of the kingdom?”

He was so strange in the best way. Crowley couldn't help but smile a little at the sweet chivalry even as the hearty scent of stew hit him right in the nose. “Sounds like whoever you pick will be very lucky.”

“If they think so, I suspect I’ll be just as lucky.”

If someone didn't think they were lucky to be with bloody royalty they were either insane or full of themselves. Crowley didn't want to imagine either with Aziraphale. “You’re sweet.”

“I suppose I can be. A table or the bar?”

“Table,” Crowley said without hesitation and motioned towards the back with his head. “Less likely to get attention that way.”

“Ah, yes.” It was exactly the opposite of what Aziraphale was used to at an inn or tavern. People knew him back home, however, in a very different way than he was known here. In this little town, he was King Aziraphale. In Berwick as well, but he didn't have to always be that. There wouldn't be an escape here beyond Crowley, so Aziraphale followed and stunned quite a few of the patrons by pulling a chair out for him. “I’m not sure if Gabriel will even be able to locate us when he eventually gets shooed away by guards.”

“Maybe we'll get lucky and he wouldn't be able to and he'll go home.”

“Would we be so lucky,” Aziraphale chuckled, smiling when they were approached by the innkeeper.

“Your Majesty,” they greeted, bowing. “I- We weren’t expecting you.”

“Oh, yes, we’ve had to make a small detour. I hope we aren’t an inconvenience.”

“Never! It’s an honour. We heard you were on Aelfric’s Quest.” They eyed Crowley, surprised to see he was with the king when he hadn’t mentioned it before. They would’ve moved someone to ensure the three rooms which had initially been asked for. “One of the shards shouldn’t possibly be in our little village.”

“Not likely, no, but you have beds and wonderfully smelling stew. If it tastes half as good, we’ll be in for a treat.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Of course. I’ll happily get you a bowl. And your companion. On the house.”

“No, no. I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage. Just the stew, please. And some ale, Sir Crowley?”

“Yes to both! I've always heard the ale from around here was good.” And he was enjoying the continued stunned look on the innkeeps face.

“Oh, it is. We've had it brought to the castle a time or two.”

“Th-thank you, Your Majesty.” Another bow, and the innkeep rushed off to get their order.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Everyone in Berwick is so used to me, I don't quite recall how to ask others to stop bowing everytime they speak with me. It's polite, yes, but very difficult to carry on a conversation when I know they're worried over impressing me or risking... some sort of punishment, I suppose.”

Crowley snickered at him. “You know, telling them not to will only make them more uncomfortable because they won't know what to do and feel like they should be doing something. Just be polite and let them do what they feel like and then when you leave they'll all exclaim how kind you were without you even doing anything.”

“Do you think so? I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable with my presence. Honestly, it all rather makes me want to avoid towns even more.” Aziraphale frowned at his hands, clasped neatly atop the table. “My presence shouldn’t be disruptive.”

“It’s going to be whether you want it to or not. You're royalty, angel; people are bound to look at and treat you differently. You'll just have to get used to it.”

“Oh, I do know that.” Aziraphale sighed. “I was born into scandal, Crowley. I know very well how it is to be othered. It's being a bother that I dislike.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people who wouldn't mind if you bothered them.” Crowley included.

That had Aziraphale’s lips twitching. “Is it a bother if it isn't minded?”

“Depends on your definition of bother, I suppose.”

“One would assume the definition is universal and universally disliked.” Such a charming devil. He let his hands fall from the table, smile returning even when the innkeep bowed again as bowls were placed before them. Two mugs of ale followed, the girl carrying them hardly tall enough to see over the table. “Thank you,” he purred at her, smile brightening at her giggles.

It wasn't fair that Aziraphale could be an alpha that was sweet and gentle and intelligent and also good with kids. He had to have a flaw somewhere, a proper one and not just a superficial thing like occasionally not getting the joke, but Crowley couldn't find it. The little girl ran away, pink-cheeked and delighted, a story she could tell for the rest of her life that she would now babble to her parents. “Seems like you like kids.”

“I tend to, and ones born to betas don’t always get to hear alphas purr.” Aziraphale smiled as he picked up his spoon. “I’ll have to give her a few coins before we leave with her already working.”

“It’s a family business. I'd bet she's been helping in some way ever since she learned to walk.”

“More than likely, yes. I wish she didn’t have to, though.” Aziraphale shook his head, wishing he could change things as easily as children her age tended to believe. “One day, perhaps. As you’ve reminded me, small steps first.”

Crowley watched her rush about, often closely watched or followed by an older boy he could easily assume was her brother. “I don't know, angel, looks like she's having fun helping out.”

They both did, no matter how exasperated her brother seemed by her antics. “She is, but there are others like her who aren’t. There’s helping because of a want and there’s coercion. I’m not saying anything is wretched and awful about this particular situation. There’s a nuance to this issue, as there is with so many things. One person’s situation doesn’t fit everyone else’s.”

“I know, angel.” Probably better than he did. Crowley nudged his foot from under the table as he took a long drink from the ale, sweetened with honey. “Stop overthinking everything right now. Just relax and enjoy. You can worry about all that when you've still got a crown next year.”

“I would rather worry about things as if I’ll have that crown than fret over the possibility of not having it at all.”

“That’s fair,” Crowley admitted. “So how does the newly crowned King Aziraphale plan on handling children made to work young?”

“I think I’ve told you before that I’d like to expand education beyond the wealthiest members of society. I believe I can combine those things in some way. If children are being educated, they can’t work at the same time.”

“And what about families who need their children to help harvest, take care of animals, or do needed work and can't afford to hire someone?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. The farming families. They were often far from villages unless they were the foundation of the town itself, depending on the lord or lady in charge. He knew some farmlands had blossomed into villages after being founded by knights, but most were separated and run by families alone. “Gosh. I’m… not sure. They’re just as deserving as anyone else, but that would be difficult to balance. The kingdom needs its farmers as much as we need its innkeepers.”

“Would you like to hear what I think?”

“Yes, of course. Your perspective is invaluable.”

“Right. So. Lots of kids live in places where it would be hard to set anything up long term. I say pay educators to travel about, specifically to those places, and get the basics started. Numbers, letters, things like that. Even just knowing your letters is a step up.”

That was very true. “Travelling tutors. Yes. And they could work around the family’s schedule.”

“Even better; work around the harvest and planting seasons.”

“Seasonal education. Clever.” Aziraphale hummed around his spoon, pleased with Crowley and the stew. “I’ll have to work out funding for those educators as those farms will likely be away from noble taxes.”

Crowley tapped his spoon thoughtfully on the edge of his bowl. “Education tax. Make the land owners pay for the education of the masses.”

“I would have to be mindful to not anger the nobles.” Aziraphale smiled. “To a point.”

“To a point,” Crowley agreed with a grin. “I’m sure your uncle will hate it.”

The smile slipped, Aziraphale’s spoon exchanged for the ale. “He would, but I don’t understand why. I don’t believe my sister would appreciate it either.”

Crowley understood why or at least he knew why. People like Duke Met and Princess Michael truly thought themselves above common folk, that they were inherently better and deserved the wealth they had and that those without deserved their circumstances. “Well, unfortunately for them they're not making the decisions.”

“They may,” Aziraphale murmured. “If we don’t succeed, they will. Michael will.”

“We’ll succeed, angel.” Crowley reached over the table and took Aziraphale's free hand. “Stop fretting.”

“I will fret until we've succeeded. I want a united kingdom which is confident in me, Crowley.”

“And they will be. We'll find those sword pieces and no will be able to deny your right to rule. You'll be the first and only to have succeeded where your ancestors failed.”

“That a week virtually alone with me hasn't dampened your faith is quite the high compliment,” Aziraphale murmured, giving his hand a squeeze and purring low. “I apologise for my sporadic melancholy. It really isn't like me.”

Crowley shrugged lightly. “You’re alright. You've been through a lot the last few weeks, big shake-ups; it makes sense that you might not be the most emotionally stable right now.”

“I suppose. Really, though, I appreciate your understanding.” An unfortunately familiar voice had him sighing, though. “That took less time than I’d hoped.”

Crowley looked up and barely resisted grimacing; not that he'd needed to look when Sir Gabriel's booming voice could be heard over everything else as he demanded to know where the king was. “Damn,” Crowley grumbled. “I was hoping he'd get himself lost.”

“How terrible of you,” Aziraphale scolded, but there was barely a flicker of heat in it as he rose. “Sir Gabriel, over here. If you please.”

“There you are, Your Majesty!”

If there had been any doubts as to his identity, it was decidedly gone now. Aziraphale thanked every god and goddess he could think of that he at least didn't have to sleep in the same room with the oaf. He snored as if he had designs on waking the dead and had, on more than one occasion across the last week, bellowed nonsense in his sleep. Claiming he had messages to deliver or evils to fight. It almost made Aziraphale jealous over Crowley's ability to sleep through anything at all.

As Gabriel approached, Aziraphale sank back into his seat. With the innkeeper staring at him, it was easy enough to gesture at both ale and bowl to convey they'd need another round. Even if Gabriel's first reaction upon taking his seat was to wrinkle his nose. “What is that?”

“Beef stew and ale, Sir. Now kindly lower your voice. We're indoors, not trying to shout across a crackling campfire.” Which did not, unfortunately, drown Gabriel out as much as Aziraphale would've liked.

“‘S good, too. Filling,” Crowley said around a mouthful of said stew. He didn't care that Gabriel grimaced at his abhorrent table manners, he'd done so almost every night thus far and Crowley was determined to keep acting like he had no idea why.

Aziraphale was quite content to pretend the same, no matter how much he would've liked to gently correct Crowley's manners. The devil never seemed to behave so abysmally when it was just the two of them, so he did have an inclination that this misbehaviour was special. “It is indeed. And you won't complain about the inn’s generosity,” Aziraphale ordered, neverminding that he had every intention of paying.

“I’m not complaining about anything. It's just so simple.”

Crowley's eyes rolled. “Nothin’ wrong with that. Some of the best meals I've ever had have been simple.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if this is one of the best meals you've ever had.”

“It’s among the best for me,” Aziraphale insisted. It was too kind of an offered gift to not be. That he'd overpay for it didn't change the offer. That the pronouncement earned Gabriel’s confused drawn brows was immaterial. Lips curved, he took another sip of ale.

“Should you be drinking alcohol?”

“If I so choose to do so, yes.”

Crowley squinted at Gabriel over his bowl. “Why shouldn't he drink? ‘S not like he can be pregnant and it's not gonna hurt him.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “I...”

“What does pregnancy have to do with it?”

“It’s- I mean-” Damn Agnes and the weird shit she knew. “Come on, it can't be that rare to know alcohol is bad for unborn kids. Messes ‘em up.”

“I thought it was uncommon knowledge.” Aziraphale tilted his head, all open curiosity. “My mother has a rule among the employees at the castle regarding such a thing. Supposedly a healer told her drinking alcohol could be very dangerous when she was carrying me.”

“Well, whoever they were were right. At least as far as I've been told.”

“How fascinating.”

“No. It isn't. It's probably just some superstition,” was Gabriel’s easily waved opinion. “In any case, you shouldn't drink that because-”

A bowl and mug were set down for Gabriel, the innkeeper managing a small, nervous smile. “Here you are, Sir.”

“Oh. I-”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale cut in, not wanting Gabriel to embarrass him more than he already had. “We all appreciate a good meal we haven't had to rustle up ourselves.”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.” They bowed again. “And, ah, since your knight didn't tell us it was you, I only said two rooms. But we can have a third ready for you. My family and I will happily sleep in the stables so you-”

“No,” Aziraphale interrupted before his meaning had fully sunk in. “I would never displace you and your-” Two rooms. Two rooms. He blinked, vaguely recalling Crowley telling him there were only two. But he hadn't thought, hadn't realised... Two rooms. “Your family. No. We'll- Two rooms is perfectly acceptable.”

Yeah, that was exactly how Crowley thought he'd react. Of course Aziraphale wouldn't want to kick a family out of their home. “You’re so predictable, angel.”

In what way? Uncertain, Aziraphale blinked wide eyes at him. Gabriel, however, was also predictable. “I don't want to share. This is ridiculous.”

Crowley put his chin in a hand and smirked. “No? Not used to sharing your space, Sir?”

“We shouldn't have to. We're travelling with royalty.”

Aziraphale bristled, quickly turning to the innkeeper. “I’m so very sorry about my knight here. He's from Hewin and doesn't seem to know his manners as well as he ought.”

Crowley barely hid his amused smile behind a sip of ale while the innkeeper looked between the King and the sputtering knight. “O-of course, Your Majesty. No apology necessary. Please, enjoy your meal.” He bowed deeply, clearly nervous, and quickly shuffled away.

“At this rate you two are going to scare everyone in town.”

Aziraphale took a careful breath. “I don't mind spending the night in the stables so the two of you may have the rooms to yourselves.”

“Stop that,” Crowley complained with a nudge of Aziraphale's foot from beneath the table. “If Gabe’s so opposed to sharing a room you can share mine. It's not that big of a deal.”

“That’s more improper than drinking ale,” Gabriel muttered.

So Aziraphale nodded rather than put up the polite argument. “That sounds just fine with me, Crowley. Thank you.”

Crowley shrugged. “‘S not a big deal, I've had to share rooms before.”

As had Aziraphale, though it tended to be for less time than an entire night. A few hours was all it tended to take. He pushed his spoon into his mouth, humming around it rather than answering properly.

“I still don't get what's so bad about the ale, Gabe. It's good.”

“Royalty shouldn't be sullying the temples of their royal bodies with-” Gabriel broke off when Aziraphale lifted the mug and didn't lower it, head tipping back. He grimaced as Aziraphale began to chug. “Gross matter.”

Crowley snorted. “You’re ridiculous. ‘S not like he's eating chocolate covered crickets or something.”

“If that was some sort of exotic dish presented by foreign dignitaries, he'd have to.”

“I am so very glad that you seem to know more about what is expected of me than I do,” Aziraphale snipped, holding his empty mug up to signal his desire for a second. “I will drink and eat what I like, Sir Gabriel.”

“Clearly,” Gabriel agreed, patting his own flat stomach. “You know you wouldn't have so much extra padding if you ate better.”

“You do know that ‘extra padding’ will be to his benefit if we go somewhere cold.”

“When,” Aziraphale huffed. He didn’t need anything to keep him warm, however. Besides, he rather liked his build. “It gets incredibly cold in the mountains.”

“Don’t I know it,” Crowley grumbled. The few times he'd gone into the mountains had been miserable. “And, I mean, nothin’ wrong with a little bulk. Better’n my skinny arse.”

“I don't think there's a better. If your skinny self didn't get cold, you wouldn't need my help keeping warm. That would be a terrible shame.”

“Careful, angel, I'd almost think you want to be the one keeping me warm.”

“My dear, we've well-established that I do by now.” He took his second mug from the innkeeper with a smile. “Thank you again. It truly is wonderful ale.”

The innkeep’s ears turned red but his head bobbed, a hesitant smile gracing his mouth. “That’s wonderful to hear, Your Majesty. The grain used is local. The pride and joy of our harvests every year.”

“Oh, that is exciting.” Aziraphale’s smile softened. “Have you enough for me to buy a round or two for everyone in here?”

“You-Your Majesty!” The innkeep’s eye went wide and he looked around the room behind him. In their time there waiting on Sir Gabriel and eating it had filled up a bit more. Nowhere near packed but certainly not empty. “I- Yes. I believe so. Are you sure?”

“Of course. I would be very happy to, particularly since you've been so helpful in providing us and our horses a place to stay for the night.”

The older man's eyes stayed wide as he stammered, “It-it was no trouble! Not at all. I'll- I- We’ll get right on that!”

Crowley watched him rush off to the back and shook his head. “Now you'll have the whole town talking, angel.”

“They already were.” And they wouldn't be stopping in a town again for a while, so it couldn't hurt. They'd also gone due east rather than southeast, so they still couldn't be tracked too easily.

“Yeah, but this is huge.” Crowley was already seeing the innkeep and his older boy delivering drinks to bewildered patrons who became even more bewildered when he motioned to their table and moved on. Soon the whole town would know the bloody king had bought the whole place a round.

“Do you think so? I don’t intend to do this at the next town we happen across, but I’d rather the scene be a good one if one must happen.”

Crowley watched Gabriel's nose wrinkle as he lifted the mug of ale to his mouth and quickly set it back down again with a grimace and a shake of his head. Bloody fancy arse. “Definitely a scene alright.” The noise in the room had risen to jovial shouts and laughs. “And I'd say it's a good one.”

Aziraphale beamed at him, also happy to ignore Gabriel. “Which is just what I wanted. I know how to exist in an inn.”

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

It felt like a negative of some sort, but Aziraphale’s smile didn’t fade. He had no intentions of finding someone to take upstairs to find a room. Not when the person he did want was sitting right next to him and… and was already going to share a room with him that night. He took another drink of ale before setting it aside to enjoy more of the stew. It wasn’t going to be the sort of night he might spend with someone else; that, he already knew. It was just fine besides, as the two of them had something of an understanding.

Aziraphale was still thoroughly confused on whether or not Crowley was currently single or what the relationship between him and this mysterious omega was, but at least he could be satisfied knowing if anything happened between them, it wouldn’t be at the expense of someone else. It would be because Crowley wanted something with him and was ready to try.

A second round was bought when more people entered, lured by rumour as much as habit. A third might run the place dry before it could replenish its stock, the small inn not at all used to Aziraphale’s generosity, but it didn’t stop him from ordering a fourth for himself and a third for Crowley. Gabriel’s remained untouched, and he disappeared into the rooms upstairs with grumbles under his breath about reckless imbibing of liquor and shameless behaviours of the monarchy.

Aziraphale pretended not to hear him, sending Crowley a pleased smile that was beginning to lean towards tipsy. Or well into it, but he firmly believed he was only a smidge tipsy. “Now it ought to be much quieter.”

And while Crowley wasn't quite tipsy he was definitely well on the way and already leaning heavily toward Aziraphale. His warm scent was difficult to resist when sober and nigh-impossible with lowered inhibitions. “Pfft. Just wait. With how much you bought, everyone’ll be getting loud soon.”

“There’s the volume of happy people, and there’s the volume of irritants. They’re entirely different.”

“So you agree that he's irritating.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “Who?”

“Sir Gabriel,” Crowley said, making sure to enunciate each syllable carefully.

“Who?” Aziraphale hid his smile around his spoon.

Crowley's eyes narrowed behind his glasses. He wasn't so in his cups that he couldn't detect when Aziraphale was playing silly buggers with him. “You bloody well know who.”

“He isn’t my issue until the morning, so I’ve no need to know who.”

“You bastard,” Crowley said around fond chuckles. “Well, suppose I could drink to that! To ignoring irritating wankers!”

Aziraphale laughed, picking up his mug again to thunk it against Crowley’s. “Wicked devil.”

“You like it,” Crowley crooned, setting his chin in his hand. “You like that I'm a little naughty and not entirely good.”

It was fun. Aziraphale swayed closer. “I like that you're clever and funny and distracting.”

Crowley hummed in approval, unable to find it in himself to deny the nice things Aziraphale said about him. “Distraction is definitely wicked of me.”

“Terrible,” Aziraphale agreed with a delighted giggle.

“You say ‘terrible’ but all I hear is a compliment.”

“Because you're utterly shameless.”

“Because it is a compliment.”

Aziraphale reached out for the first time in over a week to twirl a loose lock of Crowley's hair around his finger. He would happily shower him with compliments. Wanted to. “Only you, in all your precious wickedness, would find that to be complimentary. You're fascinating.”

Crowley's lips parted slightly, all his attention narrowed to the twist of Aziraphale's finger that just so happened to brush his cheek. Ever since they'd left the city, Aziraphale had been so sparse with his touch that it was almost like an electric shock. “Precious and wicked aren't usually words that go together, angel.”

“No. You're a unique one, my dear.” It was too easy to look at his lips, to wet his own while anticipation bubbled under his skin. He could guide Crowley closer. It would be easy. Aziraphale made himself look up and into his own reflection in dark lenses. “And I do mean that as a compliment.”

“I’ll definitely take it as one.” And it was impossible to miss where Aziraphale's eyes had been before they'd flicked up. He couldn't help but find it exciting that Aziraphale, handsome alpha that smelled like the sweetest fire, so very clearly wanted to kiss him. He'd told him no once before but it was difficult to remember why with drink dulling the thoughts and Aziraphale's scent in his nose. “Probably don't compliment you enough with how many you give me.”

“I enjoy complimenting you. There's no need to hear things in return.”

“Doesn’t mean you don't deserve to hear it.” Crowley watched him, warm, pink-cheeked, and smiling. “You’re handsome. Gorgeous, even. Don't care what ol’ chisel-jaw Gabriel says. Like the way you look.”

Eyes went round and a brighter blue than normal. “Gosh.” He knew - or at least thought he knew - how to react to compliments, but they were somehow bigger coming from Crowley. It sounded so sincere. “I don’t… I don’t believe anyone’s ever thought to call me gorgeous before.”

Crowley leaned closer still and put an arm around the back of Aziraphale's chair. “Then all your dalliances have been blind idiots.”

Something teased along Aziraphale’s nose, so faint and fleeting he couldn’t identify it. But it made his hindbrain stand at attention and want to lean closer still. Or, better yet, to haul Crowley into his lap. Crowds and propriety be damned. His fangs ached, peeking out more than usual when he spoke. “They weren’t you.”

“No,” Crowley agreed. “They weren't.” But why not? He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't but the why of it was lost in the closing distance between them and all but forgotten when Crowley took that final plunge and let their lips meet.

It was almost familiar, but that was lost almost as soon as the thought formed. He’d asked so many times, Crowley telling him again and again that he wasn’t ready, that it would have to wait until after this journey. The idea of waiting had been an accepted one, but receiving was like a wick finally catching. He gave into it, purrs beginning to rumble in the back of his throat as he simply melted into the unexpected kiss.

Nothing had ever felt more right or better than kissing Aziraphale. It was like something long missing was slotting into place. The purr made him shiver and long to do so himself but the sound was stuck, stopped by something that Crowley couldn't quite place. At least in lieu of purring for him he could cup the back of Aziraphale's neck and draw him that much closer.

A faint sound spilled between them, something needy and instinctual. Aziraphale’s fangs grazed Crowley’s lower lip, the desire to sink them in and claim like a living thing inside him. He parted only far enough to murmur a request to go upstairs, but his own reflection swam in those dark frames and made him blink. And then withdraw, the little whimper of protest from Crowley nearly drawing him right back into the kiss.

Instead, Aziraphale shifted to press their cheeks together. It was like the masquerade. That same feeling of something important being at his fingertips, but there wouldn’t be a royal pronouncement or even his uncle’s concerning speech to pull him away from this. “I want you,” he whispered, which was a terrible place to start. He focused on the pain in his gums, fangs wanting to distend just a little further so they could leave the best possible bondmark. He used them to help him focus on working some of the alcohol through his system. “But not… not clouded. I want you when we’re as clear as a summer sky.”

Crowley took in a sharp breath that was entirely Aziraphale's scent, smokey and heady with want. His hand was still on the back of Aziraphale's neck; it would be very easy to just kiss him again like he wanted, like he knew Aziraphale wanted. “I think too much when ‘m sober.”

It made him want to press the advantage even as it hardened his resolve to not. “Then when that busy mind thinks kissing me is a lovely idea, we’ll both know you’re ready.”

“Curse you and your logic.” Crowley let his head fall, forehead to Aziraphale's shoulder. “Was good though.”

“Careful with those compliments, darling. I may have to remind you that I can make it better.”

“Don’t say that and push me away at the same time. ‘S not fair.”

Aziraphale nuzzled against his temple, pressing a soft kiss to the inked serpent there. “I’m sorry. If you weren’t important, I wouldn’t push you away.”

Important. The word rattled around in his head, seeming somehow impossible. “I know. You're too good. An angel.”

With a little luck and time, perhaps he’d be good enough of an angel for the demon he had so close. Aziraphale kissed his temple again. “Eat your stew, darling, and perhaps we’ll stay away from the next round of ale.”

Crowley huffed a small laugh and sat up, still far closer to Aziraphale than most would consider appropriate. “Probably for the best. Think it's stronger than expected, anyway.”

Something was, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if those feelings could be trusted just yet. Perhaps Crowley wasn’t the only one who needed to wait.

Chapter Text

Villagers couldn’t stay at the inn all night. Their jobs and lives didn’t stop, not even in their king’s presence. Recognising that there were a few stubborn ones who were willing to make the night last until the morning, Aziraphale refused the next time the innkeeper offered a fresh bowl of stew and passed over enough coins that he had to insist they all be kept.

Even without the excuse of others, there really was no avoiding the inevitable. He tipped his head, smile soft when it landed on Crowley. “I think it’s time I retire. And you?”

Crowley rubbed a hand over his face, more full and less tipsy than he'd been earlier in the evening. It had been nice to sit in a place with other people making merry with singing and dancing and actually feel a little apart of it all. It was difficult to get that in Berwick, at least to Crowley, but small towns like this were perfect. “Yeah, probably should. Don't wanna end up over sleeping so much that Gabe comes barging in.”

“Or we’re unable to meet with the local knight.” Aziraphale offered a hand. “Come. We’ve earned a good rest.”

He wasn't nearly as tipsy but he also wasn't entirely sober so Crowley didn't hesitate to take Aziraphale's hand and let himself be pulled up. He smacked a kiss on his cheek on the way up just to watch his cheeks turn rosy. “Yeah, alright, I guess I could sleep a little.”

No matter what Aziraphale’s libido wanted, sleep was indeed all they would do. “Have you any idea which room is ours or should we locate our host?”

“Nah, second on the left he said.”

“Lovely.” Aziraphale kept his hand, guiding him towards the steps he’d seen others use as the evening had gone along. Usually, he’d have taken someone up long before this point. He may have even picked a second person, depending on how satisfied he’d been or how attractive he found the new person. There had been people in the inn who, admittedly, would have typically caught his eye. But there was just something about Crowley that wouldn’t let his attention wander beyond passing acknowledgement. “You seemed to have a good time tonight.”

“Mmhmm. I did. Good food, good company, good drink.” They mounted the narrow stairs up, what little chatter had remained gradually growing quieter. “An’ the music was good too until that fiddle player slipped and the innkeep made him sit down.”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Ah, yes. Poor thing was a bit further in his cups than he thought.”

“Can say that again. Least he didn't get hurt.”

“Nor did he break his violin.” The hall was modest, the walls bare. It wasn’t terribly surprising as art could be wildly expensive, but he wondered if he could bring them something after the year was over. Something to commemorate their evening there.

At the second door on the left, Aziraphale gave it a knock just in case before opening it. “Here we are, my dear. After you.”

Crowley's eyes rolled but he pushed passed the door and stepped inside ahead of Aziraphale. It was the kind of room he'd expected; one small bed with a little side table and a candle. There was just enough space for two average sized adults to walk side-by-side between the bed and wall that sported a small window. It was simple but clean and Crowley couldn't decide if he was glad or embarrassed to see the lone bed. “Not bad, though I suppose this is a step down from the castle.”

“It’s just right for travelling. The castle is a home, so the size difference makes sense.”

“Pfft. Imagine a travelling castle,” Crowley mumbled with a chuckle. “That’d be silly.”

“Some think carriages should behave as travelling castles, but that’s how one ends up with large, slow caravans.” Aziraphale sat on the corner of the bed, the only surprise being the lack of a fireplace, and began to unlace his boots. The single bed wasn’t any sort of trouble for him, but it might be for Crowley. Spring was warming steadily, but the nights still tended to freeze and he’d seen just how bundled Crowley liked to be at night. “Are you familiar with bundling boards?”

“Er…” Crowley leaned against the wall across from him and furrowed his brow. “Can’t say that I am.”

“Mm. It’s a courting custom, typically. One for when the couple is well acquainted with one another, of course, as it’s somewhat intimate in nature, but it also prevents intimacy. Which is…” Crowley looked bewildered, so Aziraphale smiled. “When a courting couple is at a stage where they may need to share a bed, a bundling board is placed between them to prevent untoward touching.”

“That sounds…” Like a sure-fire way to ensure the couple was sexually frustrated, but also like something the ridiculous nobility would come up with. Maybe even a little kinky if one was into that. “Interesting. No one just reaches over the board?”

“Not if they want to ensure accountability.” Aziraphale would probably reach over the board, but he’d never been to the point in courting which needed one. “But debating its merits or effectiveness isn’t the reason I mention it.”

“Oh?”

“Being that we're sharing a bed, I thought you might be comfortable if we did something in the spirit of bundling sans board.” Aziraphale removed a boot and gestured behind himself with it. “You could sleep below the blankets, and I'll sleep atop them.”

Crowley frowned slightly. “Won’t you get cold? It's still not very warm at night.”

He hadn't been cold for one single, solitary moment of his life. “I tend to stay warm. I'll also keep most of my clothing on, so I'll be just fine.”

“If you're sure… You know I don't mind just sleeping in my bedroll on the floor.”

“Nor do I, but I believe we would both prefer taking advantage of an opportunity to sleep in a bed.”

Crowley glanced at said bed. “Well, yeah.” Never mind taking advantage of the opportunity to sleep next to Aziraphale. He was sober enough now to know why the kiss had been a bad idea, yet he could still feel the tingle of it.

“Then don’t be silly.” Aziraphale rose, boots in hand to be neatly tucked beneath the side of the bed he’d decided to claim. It was nearest the single window. “Would you like me to step out so you may prepare for bed?”

“No, no. No need for that.” It wasn't like they hadn't gotten ready to sleep around each other since leaving Berwick. Crowley plopped down onto the space Aziraphale had recently vacated and unlaced his boots to toe them off. They weren't going to bed together, it was just sleeping in the same bed. It shouldn't be that big of a deal.

“Alright.” Aziraphale wanted to watch him, but turned away to unlace his breeches. “I only want to make sure you're comfortable.”

Crowley kicked his boots aside and unbuckled his vambraces and shoulder guard. He didn't wear all his armour every day but it was good practice to wear at least some of it. He was absolutely not taking his clothes off and not just because being naked around Aziraphale made him want to sink into the floor. There were marks, little spots of scales he could never fully remove that would probably spark uncomfortable questions he wasn't ready to answer. “I’m fine, angel. Stop fretting.”

“I will do as I like.” Aziraphale looked over his shoulder, shaking his head at the small mess. It was a stark contrast from the neat pile Aziraphale made with his stockings and breeches. He didn't mind clutter by any means, his spaces in the castle filled to excess, but his clothes received special treatment. The practical practices kept them as safe and whole as his magic. His shirt nearly went to his knees, so he was comfortable enough to leave it. And he knew Crowley didn't sleep in all of his things, but decided not to question him. It wasn't worth putting pressure on him and making the situation unbearable. He did, however, have questions about the glasses. “Is it still not dark enough for you to feel comfortable removing your spectacles?”

Shit. He hadn't even thought about that or expected Aziraphale to ask. Crowley reached up and adjusted them nervously, needing something to do with his hands. “N-no. It's not.”

“Alright.” He’d been hoping to do some reading, but it could wait until Crowley was settled. Perhaps he'd worked too much alcohol through his system, but he didn't think he could trust... Well. Neither of them could be trusted around one another drunk. “When you've settled in, I'll snuff the candle for you.”

“Thanks.” It was still a little awkward but Crowley took off the rest of his leathers, leaving his trousers and cotton shirt on. And only when he was laying down did he remove his glasses and blindly set them on the little nearby table. He felt the mattress dip at his back and couldn't help the little flip of his stomach at knowing it was Aziraphale. “Goodnight, angel.”

“Goodnight, my dear.” Aziraphale blew the candle out, but held his journal. He could write in it once Crowley had properly fallen asleep, light something he never had to lack. “Are you alright with my being here?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said softly, briefly pressing his back to Aziraphale's leg. “I don't mind it. Not like you're bein’ creepy or anything.”

“I wouldn’t want to be.” He let himself warm a little more. Crowley seemed cold, even under the blankets. Perhaps he did sleep in his trousers. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk about our route. Perhaps you’ll take me on a short hunt with you so we can avoid Sir Gabriel.”

Crowley chuckled and pulled the blanket a little further over his shoulder. Somehow, he did in fact feel completely safe laying next to Aziraphale. “Wouldn’t mind that.”

“Good.” Aziraphale turned his head, wishing Crowley had taken his hair out of the ponytail even while relieved that he’d left it. He didn’t know that he could have stayed in that room with that vibrant hair spilled across the pillow, begging for his hands. If he’d been in less of his right mind, he could’ve had his hands in it just a little while earlier. Morals could be so terribly in the way at times. “Do you know I’ve never bundled with anyone before,” he admitted softly.

The snort Crowley let out sounded louder than he anticipated in their quiet little room. “Never got that far or simply didn't want to?”

“Never got that far. Not in typical courting settings. The people who've been brought to me have never been...” Aziraphale tapped the cover of his journal, rolling over to look to the window instead of Crowley's hair. “They’ve never been right for me.”

“Picky, are you?”

“When it comes to forever, yes. I suppose I want things most nobles can't offer.”

But he wasn't picky over who he spent a fleeing night with. Granted, that wasn't forever, but Crowley couldn't help but feel a stirring of something hot and… maybe a little unhappy. It made the way he wanted to press back against Aziraphale all the more confusing. He wasn't usually opposed to a simple sharing of mutual pleasure - it didn't have to be such a big deal - but the idea of being that for Aziraphale made his stomach twist uncomfortably. “Bet that vexes them to no end.”

“Perhaps, but I've never been right for anyone else either. People expect things from a prince that I've never been particularly good at giving. I won't be very good at giving them as king either.” Aziraphale sighed. “How is it that you've... You're not bonded or wed.” At least he hoped not for the first. He didn't think so, but…

Crowley gave a quiet grunt and shifted his legs restlessly. “Kinda hard to have long-term relationships when you don't put down roots anywhere. Hard to get to know people well enough and most people aren't interested in always travelling, always moving.” He didn't particularly like it either but it was easier to dodge suspicion when he didn't stay anywhere long enough for it to happen. “So, you know, not for lack of wanting…”

Aziraphale hummed. “I think I understand, my dear.” Though it called the strange omega in his life into question even further. It seemed even less likely that it was some sort of romance, so who was it? Who were they to Crowley? “I hope you know... Well... We're being very unconventional about things, but I do feel as if, ah, we're courting. I know you said to wait until we returned, and I fully understand that we can't focus on a romance right now. But I do want you to know that whatever it is I’m feeling for you now, I don't believe it's fleeting.”

“Oh.” There was something like hope building in the ache behind his ribs and Crowley didn't know what to do with that, didn't know what it was like to have hope for much of anything. He still didn't know if he could trust Aziraphale with him being a mage or being an omega but oh Gods did he want to. Crowley turned slowly and though there was a blanket separating them pressed his forehead to Aziraphale's back. “That’s alright, then.”

The purrs began of their own accord, but Aziraphale didn’t put much effort into stopping them. “Is it? That’s a relief. I think most would flee at such a pronouncement.”

“That’s silly. I'd think most people would be chomping at the bit to have your attention.”

Fleeting attention, perhaps. “I’d think people would be for yours.”

“They probably have been.” He hadn't been celibate by any means, but partners had to be chosen carefully and deliberately. “I can say I haven't been approached before.”

Aziraphale laughed softly. “You do cut quite the intimidating figure.”

“‘S the glasses. Not seeing the eyes makes people nervous.”

“Mm. I think they make you look mysterious. And as curious as I am about your eyes,” even now wondering what amber eyes might look like, “I don’t mind only seeing your spectacles. They’re a handsome accessory.”

Crowley gave a soft chuckle, stomach twisting into knots as he whispered, “Not just an accessory, you know that. They… well… they're not just for filtering light. The curse makes ‘em look… evil. Inhuman. Easier and less likely to scare people with glasses.”

That gave Aziraphale pause. “That… Really? May I ask how? It surely can’t only be the colour.”

“Snake,” Crowley breathed. “They look like a snake’s eyes.”

“May I… see them?”

“Not gonna freak out? Or… or call for my head?”

“Oh, Crowley, of course not. But you don’t have to let me see if you’re uncomfortable. I would never force that of you.”

He was more than uncomfortable, he was bloody terrified. But also… but also he wanted Aziraphale to see. He wanted Aziraphale to see and not be disgusted or put-off, no matter how off-putting he might have found them himself. “No. No, I- You can. See them, that is, just… they're not pretty.”

Aziraphale set the book on the small bedside table, the candle flaring to life. It was only Crowley's nerves which kept him from noticing that the king hadn't remembered to make a show of using a match. “Close them.”

He did so, breath shallow. “Alright.”

Aziraphale rolled over, watching the light play over Crowley’s face. How warm it made his skin. He was closer than he tended to get when they were in front of the campfire, so it was fascinating to see how he glowed so vibrantly under even a simple candle’s flame. “Only open them when you’re ready, Crowley.”

Crowley's brow furrowed momentarily, listening to Aziraphale's quiet breathing and slight crackle of the candle. It was just them and Aziraphale had never been cruel or hurtful. He was still frightened and was reaching out before he realised it to grasp Aziraphale's arm. “No one but Agnes and Anathema have seen the… well, no one but them since I was a kid.”

“If that’s the case…” Aziraphale took his hand, bringing it to his lips. “Then I consider seeing them an honour.”

“Don’t say that just yet,” Crowley joked, trying to lighten the building dread. It didn't work and he realised nothing would until he actually did it. Bugger all. Crowley took a deep breath and his heart hammered as he opened his eyes to Aziraphale's anticipatory gaze.

“Oh,” Aziraphale cooed, being very careful to only keep his hands around one of Crowley’s. He wanted to reach out to cup his cheek, to tilt his head this way and that so he could see them from every angle. “They’re lovely,” he murmured, fascinated and charmed. They were indeed like a snake’s - or even a cat’s - with their rich, golden colour reminiscent of a coin but for that narrow dark slit in the centre. Very unlike his imaginings, but he was far from disappointed. “Absolutely stunning.”

“Ngk-” Crowley knew his hand was trembling in Aziraphale's grasp and was still waiting for the rejection to drop. When none came and Aziraphale hadn't recoiled from him, was even leaning in closer as if he wanted a better look, Crowley felt the corners of his wretched eyes begin to sting. “You don't mean that.”

Tears, he couldn’t abide. A gentle thumb brushed against the corner of Crowley’s eye. “You’ve heard me lie, darling. I think your eyes are unique and beautiful.”

He'd heard Aziraphale try to lie. That didn't mean what he was saying now made any more sense. Crowley blinked rapidly to keep any tears from falling. “No one's ever thought that.”

“How do you know that if no one’s seen them?”

Crowley winced, eyes flicking away to look over Aziraphale's shoulder instead of his handsome face. “People don't like snakes, angel.”

“Some people, but I like them. Not all of them are venomous and even the ones which are only tend to strike in self-defence.” Aziraphale tucked a loose curl behind Crowley’s ear, unable to resist touching him now that he already had. “You know, you could also say your eyes are catlike. They're both excellent mousers.”

That actually made a small smile twitch the corners of Crowley's lips as he huffed, they were most definitely snake. He didn't mind the casual touches, just grateful Aziraphale still wanted to do them. “I suppose that's better to think of.”

“Mmhm. Though I do mean it. I like snakes.” Aziraphale tipped just a little closer, pressing a kiss to his brow. “And I adore your eyes.”

“Angel…” Crowley said through a shudder, wanting more than anything to just throw all caution to the wind. He could let the spell wrapped tightly around himself go, reveal all, tell him the truth of how his eyes became this way, let his scent unfurl for Aziraphale to know and maybe even like. But what if he didn't like it? What if he was put-off by it? Or even put-off by him being a mage. It was too heavy a risk just yet. “You are a wonder.”

“I’m not.” But Crowley was. He lived with so many heavy burdens, it seemed, all tightly wound in him. Burdens and hurts. “Thank you for showing me. I’ll snuff the candle before they start to hurt.”

Crowley's lips twitched again. “They’re not actually as sensitive as I told you before. Candle light is fine. Making it out to be worse than it is keeps people from asking questions.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale blinked at him, then visibly perked up. “So I might see them again?”

“If that's something you'd like.”

“Yes, of course. I would love to.”

“Then you will.”

Purrs cheerful, Aziraphale rubbed their noses together. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” Crowley countered, looking between Aziraphale's kind stormy eyes and wondering when his heart had started feeling too big for his chest. “This means… That you don't mind… It means everything to me.”

He more than didn’t mind, but only smiled. Time and continued displays of fondness would likely be the best ways to reassure Crowley that he meant this. “I’m glad you’re happy, darling.”

Happy wasn't quite the right word, more like relieved, but it was close enough. “Very happy, angel.”

“Good.” Aziraphale couldn’t resist toying with his hair a bit more, twirling a curl around his finger. It was even more vibrant in candlelight, rich and as bold as any flame. “And I swear to you, I won’t breathe a word of this to Sir Gabriel or anyone else. It’s entirely your business.”

That was also a relief. “I’d hoped you'd feel that way. I… don't think he'd be as understanding as you.”

“He doesn’t seem to understand much of anything.”

Crowley snorted, lips curling upwards as the hand Aziraphale hand had been holding reached and pressed to the slight opening of his shirt that gave just the barest glimpse of chest hair. “No, he's not nearly as intelligent as you are.”

Aziraphale’s cheeks instantly turned pink, his delight at the touch very clear. “It doesn’t take intelligence to be accepting and kind.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't. Luckily for me you're all of those things and handsome too.”

“That isn’t fair to say when you’re in bed with me and too inebriated to consent.”

It was unfair to be in bed with him while being of right enough mind to know things couldn't go any further. “Sorry. I- I can't help but be drawn to you.”

“Nor I to you.” Aziraphale kissed his brow again and made himself roll over again. “We’ll sleep.” At least Crowley would. “And I hope you'll allow me to see your eyes again come morning.”

The heat of the kiss lingered and Crowley found himself pressing against Aziraphale's back just to find more of it. “I will,” he whispered softly. “I definitely will.”

Aziraphale purred softly, letting Crowley stay close. Bundling had been a very good idea on his part. “I look forward to it.”

Crowley would have agreed that it had been a good idea had Aziraphale voiced it. Instead he closed his eyes, focusing on that sweet sound. He was safe here. Safe and wanted and protected by a purring alpha. The sound lulled him to sleep and into sweet dreams.

Aziraphale waited even after Crowley had gone lax behind him, still pressed so sweetly close to him. It soothed quite a few instincts for him, being able to protect someone he cared for. Eventually, he reached for his journal. The little quill had to be brought to the room with a very careful focus, leaving him almost more tired than the alcohol. Silly, forgetting it in the carriage. The little ball of flame danced above the pages, following the swirling loops of his handwriting.

Crowley allowed me to see his lovely eyes today.

Eventually, the day’s events documented as all the days before had been, Aziraphale set everything aside and let the light flicker out before he settled in. Just in time to find himself trapped in long limbs, biting back his laughter as his sleeping companion tangled around him like an untended vine. “Sweet,” he whispered, and covered Crowley's hand with his own. Eventually, he let himself drift into sleep as well.

The next morning dawned early for Crowley. He didn't want to wake up, knowing on some instinctive level that he was safe exactly where he was. Warm and safe with the quiet susurrus of an occasionally turned page. What had woken him, though, was the slight pressure in his skull that made his brows furrow. It almost felt like the prelude to a headache but different. It wasn't painful, per se, but did seem to grow when… when he breathed in a familiar alpha scent.

Crowley froze, taking careful catalogue of himself. Pressure in his head, a slight ache of gums, and a similar pressure low in his belly that he dreaded becoming anything more. The spell keeping his presentation hidden was still going but all signs pointed to a reality he'd thought he'd have more time to avoid.

It shouldn't have happened yet. He should’ve had more time, another week at least. And then he breathed Aziraphale's scent again and it clicked into place. He'd been a fool, an idiot to think that he could sleep next to an alpha he wanted and expect his heat to not be triggered. Agnes' voice rang in his ears ‘you can't deny nature forever, boy’. No, he couldn't, but he could bloody well try.

Crowley opened one eye to see Aziraphale gazing down at him with raised brows, a book in his hand. He couldn't remember Aziraphale bringing any books up with him but it was possible he'd missed it somewhere along the way. The king was sitting up, propped against the little headboard with Crowley curled around his leg. It was sweet that he'd stayed but… well, it gave Crowley no room to panic except in his own mind. “Mornin’, angel.”

“Good morning, darling.” Aziraphale lowered his book. “Are you alright? You've started feeling a little too warm.”

“Y-yeah. I'm alright.” For now. He wasn't sure how long he could keep a heat at bay, having never tried to do so before for more than a day or so. “You’re just ridiculously warm.”

“I did tell you.” He reached down, gently stroking along Crowley's cheek. He was so angular. “Your eyes are as lovely this morning as they were last night.”

Crowley blinked up at him, a dusting of pink on his cheeks. “Sleeping on it didn't change your mind?”

“Not in the slightest.” Aziraphale cupped his chin. “You’re beautiful.”

“Ngk-” That wasn't helping his issue in the slightest. “That’s- Thanksss.”

It was too early for this, it seemed. Poor thing seemed so flustered. Aziraphale hadn't heard the little lisp yet, though something about it teased the back of his mind. It was almost silly being paired with his serpentine eyes. Aziraphale let his hand fall away and closed his book. “Now that you're up, I think I'll get dressed and see about some breakfast. Our mystery knight should be arriving at any time.”

“R-right.” Crowley sat up, letting the blanket fall to his lap. He was hotter than he should be but there wasn't anything he could do about it right now. “Let's hope she takes both horse and carriage off our hands. Should help us make up time.”

“I’m sure she will. If not, I heard a couple talking about the farmer nearby who ensures ale is available. He seems to be in need of a sturdy horse, and Lwk is certainly that. He's a calm old boy.”

“He is that. Calm and dependable.” And he might have been a little too old to be in the royal herd anymore but he was still young enough to be a solid workhorse in Crowley's opinion. “Then we've got options.”

“We do, so I think we’ll be quite alright.” Aziraphale gathered his stockings, perching on the edge of the bed to roll them on. “I almost wonder if it isn’t Courage we should be selling, but I wouldn’t want to subject Lwk to Sir Gabriel.”

“Nooooo,” Crowley agreed. He looked away and turned to start putting what little he'd taken off back on. At least Aziraphale hadn't inquired about that… though he could probably explain the scales as part of the ‘curse’, too. “Besides, I think I'm close to getting Courage to stop flinching everytime someone whistles.”

“I think so. You're doing a marvellous job with him.” Aziraphale found his breeches, lacing them quickly with his shirt neatly tucked in. Coat, shoes, a private wish for a bath, and he was ready. “You are... sure you feel alright, aren't you?”

“I’m fine, angel.” He had to be. “Just still waking up is all.”

“Yes, but…” Aziraphale turned back towards him, hands clasped to fidget. “It isn’t that you have a scent, per se, not the way- not the way I do, rather. Everyone has a scent to me, even if it’s just perfume or simply their skin. There’s just been something… The last few hours, something about you has shifted? Whatever it is causes me to not wish to leave you alone.”

Fuck. Even with the spell suppressing his presentation and heat, Aziraphale could still tell something was up. “Protective alpha instincts, perhaps? We were very close last night.”

“We were.” Aziraphale’s smile returned, soft and sweet. “You’re very clingy in your sleep.”

Crowley flushed as he strapped his armour back on. “Shaddup, you're warm and soft. ‘S not my fault.”

“I’m not complaining, my dear. I’m glad I could keep you warm. I hope you can tolerate your own tent and bedroll until we next come across an inn,” he teased.

“I don't know. Might find myself crawling into yours.”

“Wicked boy,” Aziraphale laughed. “You’d scandalise Sir Gabriel even more than we already have done.”

Crowley grinned. “Just imagine his reaction if he'd seen me kissing you.”

Aziraphale turned pink again, but his smile didn’t fade. “Unfortunately for him, his opinions don’t have any bearing on my decisions. Or yours.”

“No.” Crowley was smiling to himself as he finished his buckles and reached for his glasses. He might not have needed them around Aziraphale, but they were still necessary for everyone else. “Though we should… probably avoid alcohol for the time being.”

“I agree. Certainly in excess and, well, being drunk whilst travelling doesn’t seem altogether wise regardless.”

Crowley chuckled and was glad Aziraphale hadn't seen that as a rejection. “It’s definitely a sure-fire way to give thieves an easy way to steal all your shit.”

“Oh, no. That would be terrible.” All the better that Aziraphale didn’t have to let alcohol affect him if he didn’t want it to. “I wouldn’t want us or our horses to be injured either.”

“Gods forbid anything happen to poor Rhew.”

“Not afraid for Bentley?”

“If she doesn't bite them to death, they deserve her.”

Another laugh spilled out as Aziraphale finally reached for the door. “You and she are both ridiculous. Now come along before our morning is entirely lost.”

Crowley's eyes rolled and pushed his glasses onto his face and stood up, tapping the toes of his boots on the floor. “Alright, alright. Though I wouldn't say the morning was lost.”

“Not entirely. I got some reading done.”

“And you got to wake up to me.”

“You, wrapped around me like a vine.” He’d needed to draw a book from his things in the carriage through the same magic which had gotten him a pen the night before, not willing to leave that bed for even a moment. Not only from the unusual reaction to Crowley’s not-scent, but because he’d been too precious to disturb. Usually so tightly wound, he was so easy in sleep, so… soft. It wasn’t a word Aziraphale thought Crowley would appreciate, but it was apt. “I did enjoy that.”

“Yeah, I bet you did.” They left the room, the inn quiet in the early morning. Crowley wondered if Gabriel was already downstairs but figured he'd find out soon enough. “I don't… Spending a whole night with someone isn't a habit I ever picked up.”

Nor had Aziraphale. Their hands brushed, Aziraphale carefully wrapping his around Crowley's. “Perhaps, once this is all over, you’ll try to stay in one place long enough to see if it's a habit you might like.”

“Maybe.” That would entirely depend on if he decided just how much he could trust Aziraphale. Because there was no way he could stay in Berwick long term without the kind of protection only royalty could offer. It was too dangerous. “We’ve a long way to go ‘till then.”

“And so much to do.”

They didn't immediately see Gabriel downstairs, but there was another knight speaking with the innkeeper whom Aziraphale did indeed know. “Ah, Sir Elyon! Good morning,” he greeted, offering a smile to the innkeeper and missing the knight's gaze falling to their joined hands. “And good morning to you, as well.”

Crowley didn't miss it and had a split second to decide what he would do and absolutely no time to think about it. He dropped Aziraphale's hand and offered his to Sir Elyon. “Good to meet you, Sir. Crowley.”

“It’s Sir Crowley now,” Aziraphale reminded him with a smile.

“The tournament winner?” the knight wondered, her scent light and flowery and not at all that of an alpha or a beta.

“That’s right. Surprised the news has spread so fast.”

“Sir Raphael tends to be prompt with scouts, particularly with urgent news.” She turned to Aziraphale, bowed her head. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Majesty. It’s a great one.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale sighed quietly, heart aching immediately. “Thank you, Sir. It… it most certainly is.”

Crowley was still reeling a little from her gentle omega scent. Sure Raphael and Aziraphale had mentioned omega knights, but this was the first he'd actually met one. It was hard not to stare; luckily his glasses protected him in that regard. “I guess you must be the knight we were told about yesterday.”

“Which I’m rather surprised by. I thought you were in Westanfyr.”

She nodded. “I was, but I needed to come trade a few things a few months ago and haven’t been able to get the papers approved to get back. I was heading towards Berwick to get it sorted as a last resort when I heard enough rumours to keep me here a little longer.”

Aziraphale’s brows drew together. “Goodness. Why on earth would you be having issues returning home?”

“You didn’t hear?” She rolled her eyes, scent souring in irritation. “The great Duke of Esteorþe decided to close off all passage across the inlet, and the word in Elgee is that he’s discouraged passage through the mountains too. He’s got a guard stationed there.”

Aziraphale stared at her for enough seconds that the innkeeper excused himself before scurrying away. “I… The Duke of Esteorþe, you say.”

“Yeah, the bloody pain in the arse noble thinks he’s so high and mighty that he-”

“Is my uncle.”

Her teeth clicked together, scent vanishing in an instant.

Aziraphale took a deep breath, lifting a hand. “Don’t fret, Sir. I won’t deliver any sort of punishment for you speaking your mind. Particularly not when you’ve given me a piece of vital information. He’s closed all travel?”

“Not everything, but the amount of paperwork is insane when most people can’t fill it out themselves.” As she relaxed again, her scent unfurled like a hesitant blossom. “The boats who do make it through trade exclusively with the duke’s own holdings besides. And just to get the paperwork is six gold pieces, so that’s not even counting how much it is to buy passage.”

Crowley let out a low whistle. “That’s a hell of a lot of money for most people.”

“Yes, it is…” Aziraphale shook his head. “So the carriage and horse will assist you in returning home?”

“Yeah. I’ve been on foot when I don’t come across someone who’ll give me a ride. The number of travelling alphas who think I owe them more than coin for that…”

“Bloody perverts,” Crowley grumbled under his breath. “I hope you gave them a good thumping for that shit.”

She eyed Aziraphale briefly before smiling at Crowley, all teeth. “I acted within my bounds as a knight.”

Crowley grinned right back. “As you should. Maybe they'll learn not to disrespect a knight like that.”

“I’m always happy to educate those who don’t take knights seriously.”

Aziraphale looked between them, fairly certain he was missing something in the exchange. “Ah, well, in any case, why don’t we show you the horse and carriage? Lwk’s an older gentleman, but certainly sturdy enough to continue guiding you where you need to go. Additionally, the carriage is light enough for one horse to haul. We’ve been using two due to our… companion’s decisions, so it’ll be nice to leave it and him in someone else’s capable hands.”

“Sure.” The mace at her hip swished a little when she quickly walked ahead, getting the door open before Aziraphale could. “I was surprised when I heard you were set to go on Aelfric’s Quest, you know. You don’t have to prove your kingship to me.”

He turned pink, waving a hand to encourage Crowley out the door first. “Thank you, my dear. It is very nice to hear confidence coming from one of our travelling knights. I hope most feel as you do.”

“Considering Sir Raphael was finally made Captain, your first act is going to win over a lot who might be on the fence. Is it true that Sir Lucian’s being sent to Hewin?”

“Not sent,” Aziraphale protested. “He’s relocating home. To Hewin.”

“It’s true,” Crowley said instead as he walked out. “Though I suspect he won't go until Duke Met does as well.”

“Good riddance,” she muttered, loud enough for only Crowley to hear.

“Until then, he should only be serving as my uncle’s personal guard. When he returns home, he can do… whatever it is he likes.”

“Which will hopefully include him staying there.”

Aziraphale offered Crowley a warm smile, keeping his hands clasped behind his back no matter how badly he wanted to reach out and hold on again. “I can’t imagine he would have much reason to return. His position has been filled, and his family should be in Hewin. He’s always said he likes it better there than in Berwick.”

Crowley hummed. “One would think he'd be happy to go home, then.”

“I’m sure he will be. Eventually.”

“Did he not know he was getting sacked?”

“He wasn’t… sacked,” Aziraphale repeated, nose wrinkling. “But, ah… no. He wasn’t necessarily… aware that I would be appointing Sir Raphael as his replacement.”

Crowley snorted and couldn't quite keep the corners of his mouth from twitching up. “I’m sure it was a pleasant surprise.”

It had not been. Aziraphale slanted him a look. “Sir Raphael appreciated it.”

“Oh, I know he did. You also sort of scared the piss out of him when you did it.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him scared of anything,” Elyon laughed. “So well done. Did he really get injured in the tournament?”

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Crowley confirmed, “but it wasn't serious and he's already on the mend. Just about came with us if he could've.”

She nodded. “I was lucky he didn’t participate the year I won. It was tough competition that year.” And Sir Lucian had not wanted her to be part of it, spite a large part of the effort she’d put into the games.

“Yet you fought valiantly,” Aziraphale purred. “I remember. Mother knew the moment you arrived you had potential.”

“Did she?”

“Oh, yes. Though one ought not show favouritism.” His smile brightened, eyes shining at the memory. “She wagered you would win, and was very gleeful in collecting her winnings.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “She made wagers on who would win?”

“Oh, yes. Every year.” Aziraphale chuckled. “It was a rare one where she would be wrong.”

“Interesting. Did she bet on me?”

Aziraphale’s laughter faded as they reached the carriage, settled beside the stables, but his smile didn’t go away. “She did, as a matter of fact. She said she wasn’t going to make any wagers this year, but she ended up doing so not long after the masquerade. She called you a fiery ginger.”

Crowley grinned, delighted by that. She couldn't have known he was the one she met at the masquerade, but it still felt good to be the one The Queen herself had bet on. “Then she must have had a good eye.”

“She had quite the instinct.”

“From what I heard, she liked the underdogs. Always wagers on the omegas.” Elyon lifted her chin. “She was smarter than her guard.”

“She didn’t share his biases, certainly.” Aziraphale shook his head. “Now this is the carriage. I think it should provide you with decent shelter whilst travelling.”

“Can I wreck it?”

“I beg your pardon.”

She grinned. “Majesty, it’s dolled up like a royal carriage ought to be. Being that I’ve no interest in being the victim of an attempted robbery,” because no one would be getting past her guard, “I’d like to make it stand out a lot less.”

“I say do whatever you bloody like with it. We just don't want it slowing us down despite what Sir Lacks-A-Brain thinks.” At the confused tilt of her head, Crowley sighed. “We were forced to bring Sir Gabriel of Hewin along and the carriage was his idea.”

“That doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. Sir Gabriel kept me out of the duke’s place when I tried protesting being denied boarding and leaving on my own boat.”

“Prick,” Crowley grumbled. “Believe me, if the Duke hadn't tied our hands, he definitely wouldn't be here.”

“Yes, well, I’ll agree with Sir Crowley. You’re welcome to do as you like with the carriage, particularly in an effort to keep yourself safe.”

“Alright. And the horse?”

“Lwk. Come meet him. He’s very well-behaved.”

Crowley led them over to Lwk’s stall, the old boy happily swishing his tail and eyes keen. “Here he is. He's been pretty calm and not easily spooked while we travelled with him.”

“He looks like a sturdy thing.”

“He is,” Aziraphale purred, standing back as she lifted a hand. Lwk’s ears twitched, but he wasn’t nearly skittish enough to evade her. He only pushed nearer, knickering softly. A much louder sound from a nearby stall had Aziraphale looking in that direction. “Now you stop that, Rhew. We aren’t here for you.”

“You know he's not going to stop until you go give him attention,” Crowley said just as another whinny sounded.

“It isn’t attention he’s wanting, but a snack. And if I bring him something, I’m obligated to give something to Bentley as well.”

“Of course you would be. It wouldn't be fair if Rhew got a snack and Bentley didn't.”

“Cheeky thing,” Aziraphale cooed, taking his hand for a soft squeeze before turning away. “She’s going to gain weight if she tries to eat as much as Rhew,” he warned, disappearing into the stall a stablehand had already said held the feed for horses.

Elyon looked at Crowley, hand still on Lwk’s snout since he seemed content to keep it. “Is yours half as spoiled as his?”

Crowley laughed and shook his head. “Oh, hell no. Bentley might be the queen of her own domain but it's just been me ‘n her for a long time. I pamper her when I can as thanks, but she's used to roughing it.”

“Anybody who travels ought to be. I used to be.” She shrugged. “Can I ask you something while he’s busy?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess.”

“Do you think he’s got a chance at this quest thing? Seriously.”

Crowley glanced over to where Aziraphale was talking to Rhew and breaking an apple in half. “Honestly, I think he's got the best shot out of anyone so far.”

“Right. Well, you didn’t hear this from me, but a lot of us are getting ready for a fight. No one wants anything to do with the duke or that sister of his. So I hope you do finish this scavenger hunt so we can all just avoid that. There's been plenty of noise in Noreir, too.”

Yikes. Crowley nodded, frowning. “I can't blame you. I've barely been around them and I don't bloody like them.” Not to mention Hewin was known to be one of the most dangerous for mages. “I can't give you any guarantees, even though I wish I could. But Aziraphale's done the research, we have a game plan. I believe in him more than I've ever believed in anybody.”

“Scouts said Sir Raphael has faith in him, too. Everyone’s being put on alert, though. There’s a rumour going 'round that the princess and duke are the ones who-”

“There we are,” Aziraphale interrupted, hands slightly damp from the two horses. He wiped them on a kerchief as he drew nearer, smile bright. “Well, Elyon, have you decided on whether or not you’ll be taking Lwk and the carriage off our hands?”

“Yeah. A carriage should help me cross into Noreir through Elgee, then it's easy to reach Westanfyr from there. I’ll be able to get home before I know it, so what will I owe you?”

“A meal.”

Her head cocked. “I suppose I could pay for your breakfast at the tavern, but-”

“No, no, my dear. When we arrive on your lands in Westanfyr, I’d like to share a meal with you at your home.”

“Majesty, how do you expect to even get to Westanfyr with a heart this soft?”

Aziraphale’s smile brightened. “I have Crowley.”

Crowley sighed. The bloody angel. “Yeah, I guess that is my role.” But he gave a tired smile to Elyon. “Don't worry, I'll make sure His Royal Majesty doesn't get properly scammed.”

“That would be my worry. If you've crossed swords with him, you'd know not to be too worried about him getting hurt in combat.”

“Oh, I have. He about made my arm go numb.”

“Really? I saw him dislocate someone's shoulder.”

Aziraphale gasped. “That wasn't my fault!”

“They were doing the training pre-tourney,” Elyon continued as if he hadn't spoken. “Weedin’ out the weak and dangerous ones, of course. And this bloke wouldn't give up. Headstrong alpha positive he could beat our prince.”

Crowley snickered at the way Aziraphale pouted. “Ah, alpha versus alpha, the age old conflict.”

“It wasn't at all like that. He was just... very determined. And it was... Well, it's dangerous to not know when to quit.”

“Which you demonstrated very thoroughly when you popped his shoulder out.”

“I did not-” Aziraphale stepped back, pressing the air down. “He swung too hard and I deflected.”

“He deflected so hard, everyone stopped what they were doing because the idiot screeched like a banshee.”

Crowley had to lean against Lwk’s stall to keep from falling over while he laughed. Aziraphale clearly didn't appreciate it, but even Elyon was holding back giggles by the time he found the breath to speak. “Angel! You brute!”

“It was an accident.” Aziraphale huffed. “Besides, I fixed it.”

“He did. It was almost as fun to watch as the break, and the fool screeched just as loud.”

The laughter began again and while it didn't last as long there was slight dampness at the corners of his eyes when it died down. “What a wuss!”

“In any case, he hasn't returned for a tournament since.” Aziraphale tugged at his jacket in a needless attempt to straighten what already was. “And I hope he's learned some humility.”

“Being walloped by the prince himself was probably too much embarrassment for him.”

“I don't believe he'll ever step foot back in Berwick. He left that same day. Didn't even stay for the tournament.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. Elyon seemed a little too gleeful about that. Then again, so did Crowley. “Yes, well, the important thing is that he wasn't around to hurt himself or anyone else by participating in the tournament. If he ever does return, he'll have the same opportunities as anyone else.”

Crowley's eyes rolled behind his glasses. “If he learned anything and can put his alpha pride away.”

“Not all alphas are incapable of setting that aside for the betterment of the whole.” Aziraphale hoped. He thought he did a good job of it. Most of the time.

“Running off and never coming back is more telling, Your Highn- er. Majesty.” Elyon gave him a sheepish smile. “Too many alphas walk ego first. Not all, but enough to make me wary.”

“Double wary for you. I bet they can't be too happy being out ranked or beat by an omega.”

“Most of the royal guard in Berwick don't care, which isn't... typical.” She looked up at Lwk when the horse nudged at her, and reached up to rub his snout again. He really was a sweet, gentle giant. “Other places, alphas tend to get a whiff and think I’m a fragile creature they can take care of. Or take over, more like. I teach them otherwise, and I keep on my merry way.”

“Good on you.” Crowley liked her and was tempted to poke Aziraphale into maybe giving her some land if she didn't have any already. Someone who put up with as much as she did deserved at least some compensation… and it would be entertaining to see certain nobles throw a fit. “It’ll probably be a while before we head to Westenfyr, but I hope you arrive home safely.”

“I have no doubt I will. Being an omega doesn't slow me down, but being horseless and trapped by noble tripe has.”

“Being an omega shouldn't slow you down, my dear. Really, I’m as pleased to have knighted you today as I was when you won.”

“Thank you. I'm glad you were raised by your mum because I don't think you'll ever fully know how strange of an alpha you are. It's a good thing,” she added to clear the puzzlement from his smile. “Do you have everything out of your carriage?”

“Not just yet. We’ll put Gabriel's things in the stall with Courage, I think.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me. Thank the Gods we had the foresight to leave his full-plate behind.”

“That fool tried to bring plated armour along? He has no sense of subtlety.”

Aziraphale laughed. “Goodness, Elyon. Were you not in need to return home, I would send Sir Gabriel on his way.”

“This way, I'll be able to spread word that you're well on your way with at least one competent person by your side.”

Crowley snickered. “Not sure how much that says when compared to Sir Gabriel.”

“You’d be more competent if you were an omega,” she teased. “We get the sense of smell betas don't and the common sense alphas tend to lack.”

There wasn't a whole lot he could say to that that wouldn't give everything away. Maybe, someday, when this was all behind him he would tell her. Sir Elyon was probably one of the safer people to tell that specific secret too. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“So long as we all understand Sir Gabriel’s being insulted, that's fine.”

Aziraphale sighed fondly. “Really, you're both incorrigible. Perhaps it's for the best you don't come along.”

“Aw, come on, angel, she'd be loads more useful than Sir Lacks-A-Brain.”

“Wherever it is he’s gone to this morning.” Aziraphale looked around as if he’d appear in the stables, but it was a relief to not see him at all. “Elyon, would you care to join us for breakfast?”

“No, that’s alright. I’ve eaten, and I’m raring to go. I was able to get a message to my crew to head home, so my boat’s waiting in Westanfyr and I’ve had enough of being on this side of the inlet. So I’ll just get to know Lwk here, and we’ll hitch up and get moving.”

“Alright. There’s plenty of food for him and supplies in the carriage. We’ll leave them for you.”

“Yeah, honestly all that would just slow us down.” As it had been doing already. “With this out of the way we should make much better time to Tadfield.”

“Yes, I hope so. Thank you, Elyon.” Aziraphale took one of her hands in each of his. “I’m very grateful, knowing there are knights like you about Celestria. We will see you again in a few months.”

“You’d better.” When she was released, she turned to Crowley with a small bow of her head. “Good luck to you too, Sir Crowley.”

“Oh, come on, we're peers.” He grabbed her forearm in a firm grip and gave a sharp nod when she grabbed back. “Stay safe out there, Sir Elyon. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”

“Nor you. Either of you.”

“I think we’ll be quite alright.” Aziraphale beamed, but the two knights shared knowing looks. There was more in Celestria than their king knew. At least now he had an opportunity to learn.

Chapter Text

“They don’t have barracks for their guards,” Gabriel announced as he sat down at the table, not noticing the instant souring of Aziraphale’s cheerful scent. Even if he’d had a better nose, he wouldn’t have noticed. “I’ve spent all morning searching for it so I could see their morning training regiment, and there aren’t any!”

“Did you ask someone before you left the inn whether or not they had barracks?”

“Why would I do that when they should have one? Apparently all the guards sleep at home. Ludicrous.”

Quite a few of Berwick’s royal guards slept at home, particularly and especially the ones with families. Aziraphale instantly pitied the poor souls of Hewin who were apparently chained to the barracks. “They don’t need one to train together.”

“But their training grounds are an unmarked spot of land somewhere beyond the town limits. How do the people in town know their guards are capable if they aren’t strictly regimented?”

“They probably know by how well threats are dealt with.” Crowley stared at him over his bowl of cinnamon and honey topped oatmeal. “And it would probably cost the town more money than they can afford to maintain a full barracks.”

“If they can’t afford things, they shouldn’t have a town.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes in a brief, quiet prayer for patience. “Your opinion is noted, Sir Gabriel, if flawed. The proof that their way is working just fine is the fact that the town does exist. Everything is fine here. Besides, they’re very close to the capital.”

“And it's mostly farmland around here. Hewin is more remote and near the mountains; I'm not surprised they need more protection.”

“We’re not remote. We’re the main harbour for the inlet.”

For now, Aziraphale thought, taking a moment to spoon up some porridge so he didn’t come off as snippy. “Speaking of, Sir Gabriel, I’ve heard tell that the harbour has closed.”

“No, it hasn’t. Only to undesirables.”

“And what, pray tell, constitutes an… undesirable traveller?”

“Duke Met and Princess Michael only want agreeable traders to come in and out of the harbour. I don’t need to know their parameters to do as I’m told.” Gabriel’s lips curved, but his brow creased in befuddlement. “I’m trained to do what I’m told, so I do.”

Crowley wondered what it would take to train him to do other things. “We know. There's just a knight we met in town who has been unable to return home through the inlet. Not to worry, though; she should be on her way now.”

“If she’s been forbidden from travelling across the inlet, there must be a reason.”

“There must,” Aziraphale agreed, “but there doesn’t seem to be a very good one in this case.”

In Crowley's experience the reasons were rarely good ones. “Still, I'm just glad she can finally get home.”

“Who?”

“A knight,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Will you be prepared to leave once we’ve finished eating?” Crowley interrupted. “We need to be back on the trail.”

“Of course. Will the horses?” Gabriel blinked almost owlishly at him, mind seeming to be slowly churning behind his eyes.

“They’re ready to go.” Though Crowley and Aziraphale hadn't had a chance to talk more about where they would go. “We checked on them first thing this morning.”

“Mmhm.” Trapped with Gabriel yet again, but at least Aziraphale would be able to ride ahead of the oaf if he needed to let off a bit of heat. Rhew was used to it, and his saddle was better equipped to handle Aziraphale’s flare-ups than the carriage. “We’ll be headed southeast.”

“Towards Pendle, right? I'm a bit familiar with it and the area beyond. Passed through a few times. It'll be the last proper town we see for a while.”

“What?”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, struggling not to roll his eyes or huff. “We won’t be visiting another town for some time after we pass through Pendle, Sir Gabriel. That shouldn’t cause confusion, particularly since we’ve already discussed the fact that we won’t be going into many towns. If the shards were in established spaces, they surely would’ve been found already.”

Crowley nodded along with him. “The shards are likely in hidden, out of the way type places.”

“Well, what’s the point in travelling the kingdom if you aren’t going to be around people?”

“We will be around people,” Aziraphale sighed. “But we are not jeopardising this mission’s timeframe to make an appearance at each and every town in Celestria.”

“Yeah. When this is all said and done you can do a full kingdom tour, though.”

“I think I’d rather enjoy that,” Aziraphale mused. “It wouldn’t be able to happen immediately, however.”

“Let me guess: too much to do at home?”

“I expect there will be after a year under... different rulers.” Different rulers who were apparently keeping secrets. He hadn't known how tightly locked down the harbour was, and to go to a border town to prevent people from crossing there... It didn't make sense, their link to Noreir still fragile after his mother's reunification strategies. And hadn't it been there that unusual weather had been sighted?

Aziraphale frowned, fidgeting along the handle of his spoon. Had his scouts been able to make it there? Was that why no one in the north had responded to his request for a healer whose abilities matched closer to his own?

Had their closure been a contributing factor to her death?

Crowley watched him. He'd noticed over the days they'd travelled that Aziraphale's hands often gave away his emotions. Erratically moving when he was excited and happy, fidgeting when he was worried or thinking hard about something, still as stone when he was upset or annoyed or angry. Crowley didn't know what was bothering him this time. Maybe he was worried about what kinds of changes his sister and uncle would enact in his absence. “I guess you'll just have to see, but at least returning with the sword will mean almost no one can deny your right to fix anything you think needs fixed.”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment, processing the words. “I- Yes. Hopefully it makes it clear that I'm capable of fixing things as well.”

“You won't be able to fix the sword,” Gabriel scoffed. “You’ll need a blacksmith.”

He wouldn't, but Aziraphale couldn't say that. He finished his oatmeal instead.

“Then we'll bring the pieces to a Berwick blacksmith on the way. Easy.”

Aziraphale set his bowl aside, taking out his kerchief to dab at his lips. “Easy, yes. Though the pieces do need to be found first, and we won't manage that sitting here.”

“You’re right about that.” Crowley set his mostly empty bowl aside and stood up. He almost never finished a meal anyway. “I hope you're ready to get moving again, Sir Gabriel.”

“Of course I am. We’ve wasted more than enough time already.”

“Quite.” Aziraphale very generously decided not to mention the fact that it had been Gabriel who’d been out and about that morning to parts unknown. “After you, gentlemen.”

Crowley was more than happy to take the lead, throwing a little wave to the innkeeper who still seemed a little stunned that the king himself was there and had eaten his food. He also couldn't wait to see Gabriel's reaction to their very absent carriage and fourth horse. “Come on, Gabe! As you said, time’s a wastin’!”

Aziraphale watched Gabriel frown, his own lips twitching in amusement. The innkeeper earned a small wave goodbye from him as well, pleased as could be by the services provided. He didn't know rumours that he was romantically involved with his newest knight had spread like wildfire through the town already, their kiss the night before not at all unnoticed.

Gabriel had laughed in the faces of two guards who'd felt brave enough - or were foolish enough - to ask him about their relationship, claiming their king would never trouble himself with a commoner. Being that knowledge of Aziraphale’s bedroom habits had extended even to this town, it had instantly made Gabriel seem like a liar and had only cemented the belief that Crowley and Aziraphale were more than knight and king.

To what extent was the mystery, and people would be surprised to know it was a mystery to the two themselves.

For Gabriel, the only mystery was, “Where did the carriage get moved to?”

Aziraphale prepared himself for a tantrum. “Not sure.”

“So it's been stolen. I knew this town didn't know what it was doing. I'm sending a message to Duke Met right away so he-”

“No.”

“Do you really think the Duke would want to waste his time with something like that?” Crowley asked, knowing full well why the carriage was gone.

“Of course. We've often gone on patrols to see if the landowners near Hewin know how to keep themselves properly safe.” Gabriel scoffed. “Having criminals within a week of either there or the capital is an affront to royal power.”

Aziraphale hadn't heard of any such patrols and wondered if his mother had. He had been put in charge of the kingdom's guards years before, so it seemed... an odd secret to keep. “I suppose it's a very good thing a criminal didn't leave with the carriage.”

“You said you didn't know where it was.”

“I don't, but I certainly know who it's with.”

“How?”

“Because we gave it to her,” Aziraphale explained, patience wearing thin. “She needed it more than we did.”

“You gave away a royal carriage?”

“It’s my property, Sir Gabriel. I may do as I like with it.”

That, he couldn't readily argue with. “Well. At least you didn't give the horse away so we can get another carriage easily,” he said as they entered the stables. It became quickly apparent that he had indeed given the horse away. “What have you done?! Now we have to return to Berwick.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “Why would we have to return? Our horses are plenty capable of taking us where we need to go.”

“We can't traverse the kingdom without a carriage.”

“Of course we can. My mother did,” Aziraphale reminded him, smiling as he approached Rhew. “You, however, are welcome to return to Berwick if that makes you comfortable.”

The way Gabriel’s mouth turned down dramatically said what he thought about that. Pity, Crowley decided. “Then we all carry on. Without the carriage, we'll make much better time anyway.”

“But it won't make for nearly as grand an entrance into towns and cities. What will nobles think when we see them?”

“My hope is that they believe I’m taking this all very seriously. As you should be,” Aziraphale muttered, opening the stall to begin getting his horse ready for a ride. They had a lot of ground to make up after this detour.

Crowley didn't bloody care what some stuffy old nobles thought and would much rather avoid them if at all possible. Bentley knew what her bridle and saddle meant and she shuffled closer in clear interest. “I’d assume they should be honoured that their king graced them with his royal presence.”

“Obviously. But if there's no procession to it, there's little point in talking about it,” Gabriel protested.

“Your opinion is duly noted, Sir Gabriel. Now please prepare your steed. It'll be midday before we leave at this rate.”

Crowley snickered quietly to himself but couldn't help but feel a little bad for Sir Gabriel. The poor man was clearly not the brightest and terribly far outside of his comfort zone. So when he was finished preparing Bentley he went over and laid a hand on Courage’s snout, stilling the poor skittish animal in his attempts to keep Gabriel from buckling his saddle. “There. That's alright. Let Gabe get you ready, now.”

“Gabe,” Gabriel echoed. “I don't know why Courage listens to you.”

“I have a way with animals.”

“He shouldn't need that. He should just behave.” He rose when Courage’s saddle was fixed into place. “Although he has been... better,” he allowed.

“He’s just an animal, Gabriel. He doesn't have the same capacity for thought that we do. Courage just needs a little patience and kindness.”

“I have been very patient.”

“More patient, then.” Because he hadn't been, not in the way Courage needed. “Courage needs a soft hand, which from my understanding is hard to come by in Hewin."

“We don't believe in coddling in Hewin. Things need to behave in certain ways, and that's how it's always been. By all accounts, King Jehoel was attempting to make a few changes before he left and the people rebelled.”

That… just sounded dangerous for all sorts of reasons. “Everyone needs softness and understanding sometimes, especially animals.”

“Too much softness is dangerous. No one thrives without discipline.”

“I dunno, I think a good mix is probably healthy.”

“Well, I don't know what that would be. I grew up under strict rules, and I’m exactly how I should be.”

Or he was exactly how he'd been moulded to be. “I’m sure you are.”

The lands of Sūþwatir were generally some of the best for farming. Unlike Noreir, there were few rolling hills to contend with and fewer dense forests. Though, as they travelled further southeast, the trees began to block their path. Most of the forested lands were in Esteorþe, where towns had built themselves around the protection trees gave.

It took four days to reach the first wooded area, Aziraphale smiling as he reached up and touched a bloom. The apple trees were awakening, spring in full effect. The lush green leaves around them made him smile even though their shade stole the sun. The horses were easier to tie up with so many branches within reach, and Aziraphale felt comfortable pestering Crowley over the best ways to erect a tent with trees about.

He seemed more comfortable within the woods than Aziraphale had yet seen him, and it was rather adorable to see him trying not to be overly cheerful. As if his dark, wicked persona might be blown. “May I go with you when you set up traps?”

“Oh, erm, sure. I don't mind.” He had been more at ease the moment they'd ridden beneath the first branches. While nature in general was his natural habitat, here was where his magic thrived the best. “Once we get further in we can probably hunt deer.”

“That sounds exciting.” Particularly since they’d learned that Gabriel absolutely didn’t have any experience with hunting beyond telling others to go. “A deer would easily last us through the next town.”

“Sure would.” And if they could find a mature buck maybe he could try whittling the antlers into something. His mostly idle hands would probably appreciate being given something to do. “Peafowl is pretty common around here too.”

“That sounds scrummy. We’ve still a few vegetables that would pair nicely with that.” He was missing wine already, the luxury the one farm-related export Noreir was well known for. “Would you say they’re more difficult to catch than deer?”

“They can be, yeah. Smaller target to hit, for sure.”

“It’ll be interesting to see what we come across first. No need to kill multiple creatures at this point.”

“No, ‘course not.” And they wouldn't want to leave parts of a dead animal laying around so close to the road, as such a thing would attract predators. “Personally hoping for deer so we don't have to hunt as much.”

“As am I.” Aziraphale reached for his hand, gave it a light squeeze. “I’m going to get my tent set up.”

“Alright. Gabe? Can you make sure the horses are tied up while I get us firewood?”

Frowning, he mouthed Gabe. “Fine. But your beast had better not bite me again.”

Crowley snickered. “Be nice to her and she won't.” Which was a lie, but one that entertained him.

“She hasn't bitten me yet,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“She’d be punished if she did.”

The snickering stopped immediately and Crowley’s expression darkened. “Touch one hair on my horse and we are going to have problems.”

“Then teach her to behave.”

“Bentley is a fine horse. If she's bitten you, it's because you're doing something wrong.” Aziraphale gently touched Crowley's arm. “It’s alright, my dear.”

Crowley shrugged him off, only feeling more twitchy and irritable as the days passed. He knew it was only going to get worse until he let himself have a heat but he couldn't risk it right now. “I’m going to go get firewood.”

“What’s his problem?” Gabriel grumbled as Crowley left.

“He cares about more things than himself,” Aziraphale replied with a soft sigh. He shook his head, taking Bentley’s reins away from him. “I’ll tie her up since she’s so ill-behaved for you. Rhew won’t trouble you.”

“Fine. I don’t want anything to do with her anyway. She even looks dangerous.”

As if sensing his dislike, her bared teeth were not friendly, but Aziraphale found her endearing. He reached up and stroked her nose. “That’s enough of that, you beautiful thing. You don’t look dangerous. You look strong and powerful. If that’s intimidating for others, that’s their problem and not yours.”

Bentley nickered at him and pushed her snout into his hand, perfectly happy to be pet and handled, almost deceptively docile. It earned her a bit of a glare from the big loud knight but she didn't like him anyway.

Crowley took his time gathering what they needed for a fire, limbs and kindling and the like. He needed the excuse to be away for a bit and calm himself. Bentley was like family, more than family, and he knew she didn't act dignified like the horses Sir Gabriel was used to, but that didn't mean she deserved to be punished for just doing what animals do. No wonder Courage was so skittish if that was how the knight treated him.

At least he had a small chance to just relax a moment, sure that Aziraphale wouldn't let Gabriel do anything heinous. So he returned to camp somewhat lighter after just letting his senses spread out, finding a small herd of deer not too far off. If they could just not make too much noise he could probably shoot one for their supper.

Aziraphale's tent was up, the horses tied and grazing happily. Honestly this whole thing would probably be less annoying if the tagalong got lost somewhere. Crowley glanced over to where Gabriel was polishing a sword that definitely didn't need it and made a beeline for the area cleared for a fire. “Do you wanna help, angel?”

“Start the fire? I would love to.” He needed to. He could feel heat bubbling under his skin as it had been a few days since he had last been alone enough to light a fire. Perhaps before leaving he should’ve built his tolerance up, but using his magic was second nature. As natural as his breath. “How was your walk?”

“Productive.” He dropped it all and plopped himself right down in the dirt, much to Gabriel’s grimace. “It’s easier to find material for a fire in the woods.”

“Undoubtedly so.” Though Aziraphale could’ve and would’ve had flames going without any if he could have his way. He arranged the logs neatly, only striking the iron to his flint once before letting the heat flow from his fingertips to the wood. It was a perfect release of pent up energy, a sigh sliding out as the flames crackled. “There we are. ”

The corners of Crowley’s lips twitched. “Don’t tell me you were cold.” Even though he'd been a little chilly, he wasn't about to admit it.

“Mm? No, not particularly. It’ll be dark soon, and I, ah, wanted to ensure we would have light.” It was at least part of the reason.

Crowley wasn't sure if he believed that but he would allow Aziraphale to have his secrets. “It is getting darker. We should get started on finding supper before the sun sets fully.”

“Yes. I’ll be happy to help you if you’d still like the company.”

“Only if you can be very very quiet.”

“I do have that capability, I assure you. Sir Gabriel, if you’ll watch the fire?”

“Fine.”

“Cool. Come on.” Crowley motioned with his head as he pushed to his feet. He swung by his pack to snatch up his crossbow and a few bolts and barely waited for Aziraphale to get up before beelining for the surrounding trees.

Brows lifted, Aziraphale was quick to follow. He already had his own bow with him, long prepared for Crowley’s return. He cupped his elbow upon catching up, slowing him. “Crowley, are you alright?”

“Wha- Yeah, I'm fine.”

“Are you sure? You were upset when you left.”

“Yeah, I just-” Crowley sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m just not used to being around people so regularly.”

“If you prefer time alone, you only need to say so. I’m willing to tolerate Sir Gabriel’s company to give you that.”

“No. No, you're- you're fine. I had my alone time. If I needed more I'd have stayed away longer.”

Aziraphale nodded, letting him go. “Alright. And if it soothes you any, I took care of Bentley when you left. I know how important she is to you.”

“Thanks… I- I do appreciate that.” And he'd noticed. “Bentley means the world to me. Can't say I wouldn't kill Gabriel if he hurt her.”

“I would hope you wouldn't, but I suppose I would understand.” Aziraphale kept pace with him, voice low and eyes peeled. “Though knowing how feisty she is, she’d likely do away with him on her own. One smack, and he'd doubtlessly earn a hoof in his face.”

Crowley gave a quiet chuckle. How was it that Aziraphale always seemed to manage to pull a smile from him? “Oh, for sure. And she'd be saving me the trouble.”

“How polite of her.” The laughter pleased him inordinately. He enjoyed being able to make the ginger happy. “Unlike her owner, she knows her manners.”

“Excuse you! I know my manners, I just don't think they're worth the effort most of the time.”

“Brutal in your honesty, my dear knight.”

“If being honest means I'm a little rude sometimes, that's alright by me.” Crowley tilted his head and grinned crookedly at Aziraphale. “Besides, I don't hear you complaining.”

“I’m appreciative of your quirks,” Aziraphale purred, very fond of the smile. He truly could be such a darling.

The quirks he knew about, sure. Crowley motioned with his head again, in the direction he knew the small herd to be. “I spotted some deer in this direction while gathering wood.”

“Have you a preference over doe or buck? I know some prefer the fawns, but that... I'd really rather not aim for a fawn.”

He was almost too sweet and soft hearted to be real. Crowley shook his head. “Nah, a buck would be good, though. The antlers would give my idle hands something to do while we travel.”

“Oh? I’ve seen quite a few things being made from antlers. Trinkets and utensils which usually end up for sale at markets, but instruments on occasion.” He’d carved before himself, but usually with some internal heat helping smooth the process. He would still rather draw, but it was a nice hobby.

“Yeah. I carve on occasion. Keeps my hands and mind busy and helps to make a little money.”

“Do you use bone and wood as well as antlers?”

“I use anything I can get my hands on when the mood strikes.”

“It’s nice to have things to do with one’s hands.” It kept both mind and hands busy, though it didn’t surprise him that Crowley would whittle rather than read or write as Aziraphale preferred. “I’d like to see something you’ve whittled. Artists are fascinating.”

Crowley didn't necessarily think of himself as an artist, the whittling and carving was just an idle hobby, but it wasn't like anyone had expressed an interest before either. “Well, if we can take a buck down, you'll get to watch me.”

“I’ll look forward to it, then, and search for a set of antlers.”

Crowley opened his mouth to reply only to quickly shut it at the sound of something snapping not too far away from them. He grabbed Aziraphale's arm and pulled him the other way, using his free hand to push his glasses up into his hair. The one good thing about snake eyes: better low light vision. “Shhh, we're close.”

Aziraphale nodded, trying to catch a glimpse of those lovely eyes even as he scanned the surroundings for brown pelts.

There was another snap, not far from the first and Crowley carefully manoeuvred them into stepping on the wet and quiet places of the forest floor. Knowing where to place his feet was second nature and before long he'd gotten a large oak between them and the herd. He quietly loaded a bolt into his crossbow and lifted it to his face, patient and careful. He didn't need the sound of their hooves to know where the deer stepped, the vibration of the ground and whisper of leaves on fur told him more than simple sounds could. And he stayed stock still when the first unantlered head passed through the bushes between the trees across from them.

Aziraphale stayed just as still, just as quiet. He banked his scent as much as could be done without magic, knowing the smoke in it could make animals wary, but he didn't arm his own bow. He watched Crowley instead, fascinated by the way he'd frozen. Like a block of marble, Aziraphale thought, which was so unusual for a man who always seemed to be on the move. As Aziraphale had discovered, he was even mobile in his sleep. Always fidgeting somehow, some way, yet not right then. He didn't even seem to be breathing, his focus so intense.

Gods help him, but it was attractive.

For his part, Crowley was entirely unaware of Aziraphale's revelation, more focused on watching one then two then three does make their way by. Two stumbling fawns were close to their mothers’ sides and when they passed by Crowley still stayed just as he was. He knew, could feel, another coming and his patience was rewarded when the buck he knew was there followed in the others footsteps. It wasn't terribly large, the antlers upon its head not the impressive sort for a trophy, but it was more than enough to make a meal or three out of. His shot, right behind the elbow of the front leg, was true and the buck took off at a fast limp through the trees.

Goodness. As many hunting trips that Aziraphale had been on, he’d never seen a shot quite like that. Certainly not so quick, the hunters he knew likely to wait before firing off a bow. Aim thrice, fire once and all that. “Well done, my dear.”

Crowley lowered the crossbow and shrugged. “Scared the doe’s though.”

“That’s alright. They’ll take their little ones to safety. In the meantime, let’s not lose track of him. It would be terrible for this to be needless.”

It wasn't possible for him to lose the deer but Crowley didn’t want to have to come up with a believable excuse. “Yeah, he shouldn't be able to get too far.”

“No, I imagine not. That was an excellent shot, my dear. I had no idea you were such an accomplished marksman.”

“It’s the sort of thing that just happens when you hunt for your own food every day.”

“Yes.” The blood trail stirred sympathy in Aziraphale’s heart. The arrow had been a true one, but he still offered a quiet prayer of apology and gratitude as even a true arrow wouldn’t guarantee an instant death. They were, as any animal, a part of the food chain. He wasn’t sure if non-human animals recognised their places as they did, but it was important to Aziraphale to acknowledge the death as more than a means to an end. It was a life taken, and he didn’t want to lose respect for that. As important as it was to not let the guilt overwhelm, one ought not become careless. Carelessness could lead to greed and waste.

A breeze rustled leaves overhead, Aziraphale’s gaze lifting as they made their way through the trees. They were so small compared to them. Some trunks were wider than Aziraphale. Trees had been felled for towns and villages, ones just like this. It was important that greed and waste not come into play with the forests either.

“Do you ever stop to admire nature, Crowley?”

Crowley almost stopped short at the question. Did he ever stop to admire nature? It was almost laughable but it wasn't as if Aziraphale had any way to know that. “I- yes. I do. Often. I've… Well, I've lived as a direct part of this world most of my life. It's hard to not admire what you are so distinctly tied to.”

Some were more distinctly tied than others, but Aziraphale didn’t think he should mention mages. He didn’t know a thing about earthen ones, not really. He barely knew a thing about himself. “Sometimes, I’m surprised by how easy some find it to not. Sir Gabriel, I think, doesn’t know how to pause and enjoy anything which isn’t manufactured by human hands. People like him,” like his uncle and sister, “might look at this forest and see only wood for houses and furniture and hiding places for a meal. I see homes already made out of these trees. Birds and squirrels and chipmunks and so many other critters make use of these, and so do the deer. Taking leaves and bark alongside other animals who find meals out here. We’re such a small part of this little world, yet can do so much damage given the leeway.”

“Small pebbles make lasting ripples,” Crowley reasoned. It was something Agnes had said once to explain how even the small things they did could affect other people. It only made sense that it could apply to nature as well. “Can do a lot of good, too.”

“Yes, I think we can. We wouldn’t have pets or farm animals or horses if we weren’t capable of doing some good with the nature around us, but I… I feel it’s important to always remember we could do bad. We could’ve aimed for the whole little herd, but it would’ve been needless. We could even now continue seeking other prey whilst on the trail of our buck, but it isn’t necessary. Sometimes, I fear losing sight of the line.” He tried to be good. Wanted to do good.

Crowley frowned, brow furrowed. “I mean, I guess we could do those things but there wouldn't be any point to it.” It also hadn't even crossed his mind. “We already have to carry that big bastard back to camp. Any more than that’ll just be excessive.”

“That’s precisely my point, darling.”

“I don't get it, then. I hadn't even thought about killing more than we absolutely needed.”

“Oh, Crowley...” Aziraphale shook his head. He didn't know how to explain. It wasn't necessarily about the two of them in this moment. “Nevermind, my dear.”

“Well… alright…” He still didn't get what Aziraphale had been trying to say. Maybe he was used to the people he hunted with wanting to kill everything they saw and Crowley would just have to show him that wasn't usual. “At least this buck should last us a while. I like not hunting every night.”

“As do I.”

It didn't take long to find the buck, Aziraphale able to feel its natural warmth slipping away. He had to look away from it for a moment, murmuring a soft prayer while Crowley made sure it had passed.

When he felt able, Aziraphale removed a cloth from his pocket to wind around the bloodied wound once the bolt was wrenched free. “If you'll take my bow, I'll carry our quarry.”

Crowley’s eyebrows lifted. “You sure? I know you're strong but it's still quite a walk with dead weight.”

“I’m sure. It's really no trouble, Crowley.”

“Alright, alright.” Crowley took the crossbow that was handed to him. “Do you need any help?”

“No, thank you.” It took a bit of manoeuvring and adjustments - and waving Crowley away twice - but Aziraphale managed to get the felled buck across his shoulders and stood with it carefully balanced. “There we are. Shall we?”

“Suppose so. It's getting late.”

“It is. Do your eyes struggle in the dark?”

Crowley’s lips quirked as he led Aziraphale back the way they had come just at a slightly slower pace. “The opposite, actually. I can see in the dark about as well as most people see in a curtained room.”

“Fascinating. Not at all like a cat’s, then, being that their pupils seem more narrow in the light.” And very good to remember. He wasn't as invisible in the dark as he might normally be.

“Probably the only good thing to come of these eyes, honestly.”

“In your opinion, perhaps. I still believe they're lovely.”

The shadows of the trees meant Aziraphale probably couldn't see the way his cheeks pinked but it happened anyway. “That’s because you're sweet.”

“No, it's because it's true.” Aziraphale adjusted his grip on the buck’s legs, shifting its weight to a more comfortable spot. “You don't have to be embarrassed by them with me. Truly.” He wanted to be a safe person for Crowley. He thought, perhaps soon, Crowley might be a safe person for him to share his own secrets.

“It’s not… embarrassment, exactly.” Not fully, anyway. “I never know if someone seeing my eyes will mean they're terrified of me or want me dead. A curse I just have to live with as best I can.”

“Want you dead? What on earth for?”

Crowley would have scowled at him were there more light. “For assuming they mean I'm a mage.”

Even if he was, Aziraphale wanted to say, that was no reason to want him dead. If he could’ve said so, he would’ve. “I know… I know the more violent ways of sussing out mages has been outlawed, but I still don’t see any reason to make assumptions. People should be left alone.”

“I wish they would just leave people alone,” Crowley muttered bitterly. “Why does it matter so long as you're not hurting anyone?”

“Technically, magic is legal so long as it’s being used for healing purposes,” Aziraphale revealed. He smiled weakly at Crowley’s sharp look. “I know that doesn’t do much, however, when that still outs a person as being a mage at all. And it isn’t a well-known law, even though it was signed into being when my father was still alive.”

“It also doesn't do much when no one enforces it. When the nobility can choose to just ignore it with no consequences. At that point it's a worthless sentiment.”

“I know. But it’s a beneficial law which exists and can be built upon. It will be.” It had to be.

Crowley sighed, shoulders falling. “A lot of people aren't going to like that.”

“A lot of people don’t like how things are now,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“That is also true.”

“So do I continue a status quo which results in unhappy persons and needless persecution of innocents? Or do I make a few noble families unhappy and let people live?” Aziraphale would’ve lifted his hands had he not been carrying the buck. “Personally, I find that to be quite a simple choice.”

The more Aziraphale said these sorts of things the more Crowley wanted to believe him, the more he wanted to just reveal all. “You continue to amaze me. You'd actually go through with doing away with the ban entirely?”

“I’ve been cautioned over it,” Aziraphale sighed. “I realise it isn’t something which will be simple, but my parents laid some groundwork. Mother couldn’t continue it, but I can.”

Crowley nodded, making up his mind. “Well, if that's your plan, you can count on me to have your back.”

“I would hope so. You’ve been supportive when I’ve mentioned magic and mages,” which was the only reason Aziraphale felt safe enough sharing his plans, “and it’s unfortunately very simple to know who might be against the legalisation. They tend to be very… vocal.”

“Heh, yeah.” Crowley had the distinct impression that Duke Met would have some choice words against Aziraphale's plans. “You can handle it though, I believe in you.”

“You see? You keep demonstrating exactly why I ought to have you as part of my council.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at that. “I don't know anything about politicking.”

“I am very happy to teach you whatever it is you might need to know, but I’m sure it's less than you might expect.”

“How mad do you think I could make people if I just refused to remember anyone's names?”

“You would infuriate many,” Aziraphale mused, but laughter bubbled beneath the words. “But I would hope you were able to get along with most of my council. I don't expect everyone to agree all the time - I prefer for you all not - but I would hope for mutual respect.”

“I respect those who also respect me,” Crowley said haughtily. Though he was sure a mage wasn't someone who would be wanted on a royal council.

“That’s a perfectly reasonable requirement.” Aziraphale’s lips curved, the smile as determined as the way he carried the buck through the woods. “You’ll make a fine council member.”

“Gods damn it, Aziraphale, you're actually serious about that?”

“I wouldn't keep mentioning it if I wasn't.”

Crowley frowned. It was the kind of thing that felt way too far and above his experiences and life. Nobles and wealthy merchants were on councils. Not poor village kids turned sellswords. “I’m not sure if I really know what I'd be doing.”

“We can discuss council member duties and expectations. I would very much like you to be on mine because I do have respect for you. Your opinions are honest and come from a place of experiences that I simply don’t have. Experiences I can never have.”

“Why don't we discuss it when we're a little further along?” Maybe then he would have a better handle on how Aziraphale would feel about an omega mage being in a position of power like that.

“As you like, my dear.” Aziraphale’s smile softened. Skittish thing didn’t seem to have much confidence in Aziraphale’s convictions or in his own abilities beyond fighting or surviving. “I only hope you’ll have more faith in us when it’s next brought up.”

“Faith in us?”

“Yes.” The fire in camp hadn’t yet gone out, which was a marked improvement over Gabriel’s usual campfire abilities. It was possible that he was improving. A good sign, but he didn’t want to say anything about it to Crowley just yet. Not when it wasn’t quite in sight yet. “We should handle this here. We don’t want to bring the scent too close to camp.”

“Yeah, that’d be smart. Wouldn't want to attract predators.”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale agreed, lowering himself to get the buck off his shoulders. “Shall we work together?”

“That sounds good to me.” Crowley set their crossbows aside and helped Aziraphale lower the buck to the forest floor before pulling out two sharp knives from the array of them on his belt. “You’re not squeamish about this sort of thing, are you?”

“No, I actually find it cathartic in a way. By the end of it - when it's all portioned and such - I forget it was a living thing at all.” Aziraphale took the offered knife, testing its edge with the pad of his thumb. He didn't hiss at the well of blood, but he did seal it with a simple thought. “It becomes food and clothes and shelter and tools. Something to feel grateful for instead of guilty over.”

To Crowley there wasn't any reason to feel guilty. They'd only taken the one they needed and that was all, guilt didn't factor in when it was just about survival. “Good. Not everyone can handle this.”

Aziraphale didn't bother mentioning the nitwit in camp. “I know. It can get rather messy. Now...”

They got it hung up, antlers brushing the grass so they could reach where need be. They worked together to skin it, each of them avoiding making a mess of the hide. It could be sold or tanned themselves, so neither wanted to waste it. Neither wanted to waste an ounce of the deer, so their cuts were methodic and conversation slipped away.

They didn't need to discuss each and every move, Aziraphale more competent than Crowley would've expected. More competent than anyone might, but this part was as important as keeping one’s aim true. Minimal suffering, minimal waste.

To bone it out, they used a tatty blanket of Crowley's which had obviously been subjected to the process before. Neck, brisket, flank, backstrap - Aziraphale knew Crowley's brows had nearly disappeared from lifting so high, but he simply kept his slices clean and kept working.

The hindquarters were detached for Crowley to handle while Aziraphale continued on to trimming. He liked to keep as little fat as possible, the taste far stronger than that of beef, so was as careful and methodical here as he'd been with the rest. Even when Crowley returned to help, a torch lit and fixed to the ground so they could see in the slim moonlight. Aziraphale tried not to lament over not being able to use his magic to illuminate the area for them instead.

They avoided fingers as the animal was broken into tools of survival and Aziraphale eventually smiled again. Neither noticed the other didn't have a speck of blood or innards on their clothes.

“There we are. I'm not sure we could've done better.”

Crowley wiped the sweat from his brow with a forearm. His clothes might have been magically spared but his hands had not and doing so much moving and cutting had definitely worked up a sweat. “Maybe only if we were butchers by trade.”

“No, I don't think so. You've needed these skills to survive, after all. And I learned from the castle butchers.” Aziraphale tipped his head to the side. “Though we use tables and proper racks in the castle.”

“Alright, next time I'll drag a table and ‘proper’ rack out with us, Your Majesty.”

“Pish-posh. This obviously worked just fine for us.”

“Obviously,” Crowley said with a crooked smile.

The smile was too charming, Aziraphale’s heart doing wretched, unprompted things. How could this rogue not be involved with someone else? How could he not be mated? Bonded? Cherished? He withdrew a kerchief from a pocket to clean hands and blade, gaze falling from Crowley's too-tempting mouth. Knowing what it tasted like hadn't quelled the hunger, merely unlocking cravings instead. “Thank you for allowing me to assist.”

“O-of course.” For a single moment Aziraphale had looked at him with such heat in his eyes and his scent had flared up stronger than the coppery blood around them. He'd looked away just as quickly as it had come but that didn't stop the way Crowley’s instincts urged to surge across the scant distance between them, to give the alpha anything he might want. Crowley cleared his throat, pushing the desires away with a reluctance. “Easier with two people, anyway.”

“People who know what they're doing, perhaps. Teaching and learning alike take time.” He offered the kerchief to Crowley. “Here you are.”

“Thanks.” Crowley took the handkerchief, grateful to have something to wipe the sticky mess from his hands. “‘Course you seemed to know what you were doing just as much as I did.”

“Thank you. Mother always insisted on my knowing survival skills. It drove me mad,” he admitted, guilt rippling over his features. “I never understood why she wanted me to know if I couldn't leave.”

Crowley frowned a little, kerchief sliding between his fingers. “Do you think she could have been preparing you for this?”

“I’m not sure. I wish I could ask her...”

“I know, angel. There's probably a lot you wish you could ask her.”

“How much did she know, how much did she expect, why would she trust me?” Aziraphale’s smile quivered, his eyes almost silver. Why would she send him off when she'd known she was going? “It’s becoming easier, I think, to remember she's gone. But it still hurts far worse than I want it to.”

He knew that, too, understood it far better than some might. Crowley reached out with a mostly clean hand and grasped Aziraphale's fingers. “It will never fully go away but it'll get easier with time.”

His fingers were long and narrow like a musician or an artist, but the callouses left them rough and tough. A survivor’s hands. Hands of someone who was used to roughness. Hands that made Aziraphale want to share all the tenderness he could, all the gentleness strength could obscure. “I’m so angry with her, Crowley. Will that ease as well? Or will it fester?”

“That depends entirely on you, but you don't strike me as the type to let anger and resentment rule you.”

He wasn't usually. Anger made his magic flare into instability. Resentment made his stomach ache. The silver shifted into clouds, blue peeking out as he sighed. Squeezed Crowley's hand. Let go. “Let’s put all this somewhere safe, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale decided he'd been right about Crowley's hands. They belonged to an artist.

He didn't have the benefit of dark lenses obscuring his vision, but he also wasn't ashamed of the way his gaze lingered. The long hair, glinting in firelight and escaping its ponytail, continued to cause his own fingers to itch. The slender throat, his stubborn chin lifted as he rolled tension from his shoulders, continued to cause an ache in Aziraphale’s fangs.

His quill hovered over the pages of his journal as he watched long fingers flex and adjust before the simple carving resumed. There was an ugly splotch of ink on the page - and sinking into the one behind it - that was going to irritate him soon, but his attention was on Crowley, Crowley, and Crowley.

It was the second night of venison, the scent of it roasting over the open flame not as interesting to him as what seemed to linger on Crowley's skin, just out of reach, when they were close enough. It was the second night of watching Crowley whittle bone down into something recognisable.

Oh, he downplayed it as he did most things that didn't involve survival or battle. Aziraphale understood that Crowley saw his own soft points as weaknesses. Aziraphale thought they were easily bruised because they mattered more. He'd flushed and stuttered and hissed denials when Aziraphale had given him and his little carved deer deserving compliments, and he was as eager to see what might come out of tonight's effort as he was to tug that hair and mark that throat.

Simply put, Crowley was fascinating. A puzzle from the first moment he'd seen the man, signing up for a tournament which had changed all of their lives in unexpected ways. That he was beautiful and secretly kind were only small pieces. He didn't yet believe he had everything together, but it was wisest to put the edges together first.

He smiled when a small shift of Crowley's chin told him he was now being looked at in return. “Do you know what it's going to be yet?”

“Not a deer again,” Crowley said, glancing back down at the lump of bone in his hand. It wasn't overly large, just one of the vertebrae; he was saving larger pieces for when he had a better idea of what to do with them. “Maybe a bird this time.”

Aziraphale wondered if he would carve out the feathers. “I’m sure it'll be lovely.”

It was so very unfortunate that his glasses concealed the weight of the dubious look Crowley gave him. “You said that about the lumpy deer, too.”

“Let’s have a peek at it, then. I don't recall a single lump.”

“That’s because you are, for some reason, determined to not see a single flaw in anything I do.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You are argumentative, stubborn,” distrusting, filled with self-doubt, secretive, “and walk as if you never fully learned how. I may prefer to compliment you, my dear, but I’m not ignorant of the fact that you're as flawed as anyone else.”

A small smirk played across Crowley’s lips. “And yet, when you say those things, they don't sound much like complaints.”

“And whatever is the matter with that?”

“I dunno, you tell me.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Nothing at all is wrong with it. I see no reason why I can't accept your flaws and still be fond of you.”

There was a choking cough from across the fire that Crowley resolutely chose to ignore. “How gracious of you, Your Majesty.”

Aziraphale also chose to ignore the sound. Sir Gabriel seemed to spend every single evening polishing and sharpening and counting his weaponry, checking his armour, unpacking and repacking everything - it was a practice in tedium and Aziraphale genuinely didn't understand how he didn't go mad from boredom. “Would you prefer I lie and claim you're flawless?”

“You could but I'd know it was a lie and we'd be right back to square one.”

“So we would,” Aziraphale purred, unable to help the sound. It did stutter a bit when he finally noticed the ink splotch, irritation at himself flaring. Of course. 

“Flaws are hardly things to celebrate,” Gabriel said, as if he were the most reasonable person there.

“They certainly can be.”

“Good thing Aziraphale makes sure I'm fully aware of mine,” Crowley murmured, turning the bone again before starting to shave a small slice. He figured he'd start with the wings, as those were most easily able to break off during.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You just accused me of insisting you were without them.”

“And just a few minutes ago you called me stubborn and argumentative.”

“Crowley, I am stubborn and argumentative.” When that didn’t seem to cheer him, Aziraphale sighed, softened. “I apologise. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings.”

“You haven't,” Crowley assured him, looking up with his signature crooked smile. “I am, in fact, stubborn as a mule and I love to argue. I’m also prone to grouchiness and greatly enjoy complaining. Why you like me at all is a mystery.”

Aziraphale pouted at him. “Wicked boy.”

Crowley grinned, shameless. There were other things about him that plenty of people found to be a ‘flaw’. His affinity for magic, being one. He didn't yet know if Aziraphale thought as such and the thought of finding out was terrifying. Aziraphale could say he wanted to lift the ban on magic all he wanted, but that didn't translate into wanting a mage close, as a lover or on his royal council. Or even something as simple as a friend. He didn't want to lose this camaraderie they'd developed. “I am also that.”

“That you are.” Aziraphale shook his head, rising to poke at their meal to see if it had cooked through yet. He didn’t need to, knowing it was finished already, but the show was important. “You’re very lucky I adore you already, or I wouldn’t tolerate your behaviour.”

Crowley hummed and went back to looking at the beginnings of his carving. He was bloody starving; keeping the spell hiding his presentation and holding his heat back was increasingly hungry work, but he didn't want Aziraphale to know that. “So it's adore now, is it?”

“Perhaps,” Aziraphale purred. It wasn’t difficult to get the meat off the fire, Aziraphale using his own blade to slice into it. “Sir Gabriel, care to join us?”

“I suppose I don’t have much choice, considering how much food you gave away when you lost the carriage.”

Nearly a week after and he was still irritable and irritating over it. Aziraphale had to bite back his sharp retort. “We’re happy to hunt and enjoy fresh food whenever we’re able.”

“Damn right.” Crowley set the piece of bone aside for the moment and tried not to look too eager. “But I'll eat Gabe’s share if he doesn't want it.”

“I didn't say I wouldn't eat it,” Gabriel grumbled.

Aziraphale quietly cut a larger piece for Crowley. It may not have been fair, exactly, but Crowley worked hard and... Well, there did seem to be something just a little wrong. Something that made his nose twitch, though he could never land on the exact reason. “Here we are, my dear. And yours, Sir Gabriel.”

“I still believe you should have Sir Crowley slicing meat. You're constantly doing the work of commoners.”

“We are all in the same situation, Sir. As far as I’m concerned, we're equals.”

Gabriel looked horrified but Crowley grinned at him. “Keep elevating me in status, angel, and people will start to talk.”

“People already talk, my dear, and I’m not overly concerned by it.”

He couldn't be concerned if he really did want Crowley on his council. “Talk more, then.”

“So be it,” Aziraphale chuckled.

“How are you so lax over your image? It’s the most important thing you have,” Gabriel insisted. 

“I am well-aware of my image and the importance of having it be a favourable one. I simply don’t see a reason for my treatment of others to be… I won’t be a wretched person simply due to some finding approval in harshness.”

“And, arguably, being approachable and friendly will better win over the general populace.”

“Being respected is more important than being liked,” Gabriel disagreed.

It was something he’d heard many, many times from his uncle. Aziraphale sat back, taking a bite of his venison long before it cooled. “Being liked can lead to respect if it’s earned.”

Crowley poked at his own before deciding he was hungry enough to just go for it and ended up having to chew funny to get around having a burned tongue. “Leaders who actually earned their respect are usually well liked regardless.”

Between his scrunched face and the way Gabriel’s eyes watered, stubbornly continuing to chew regardless, clued Aziraphale in to just how warm the food still was. He lowered his plate. Oops. “That’s what I choose to strive towards, and the biggest factor in this mission's importance. Finding the sword will hopefully lead to both, which ought to lead to trust. I need to be trusted to enact effective and lasting changes.”

Especially if he wanted to enact the changes he'd admitted to Crowley. It wasn't going to be easy or simple to legalise magic after more than a century of it being banned. “I’d say with the sword, only idiots would oppose you.”

“I wouldn't paint dissenters with such broad strokes.” Aziraphale’s smile hinted at a smirk. “You'll likely disagree with me now and again.”

“I most definitely will,” Crowley agreed. “However, disagreeing with you and opposing your right to rule are very different things.”

He was so very different from anyone else Aziraphale could think of. Possibly Raphael, but only in his unwavering support and the smartmouth. Raphael’s attitude was at least tempered by years of interaction with the uppercrust members of society. He wanted Raphael on his council as well, just as Sir Lucian had been on his mother’s. 

They, he recalled, had thoroughly butted heads. Back and forth often enough that Aziraphale had wondered more than once why the man had been left on it. There were disagreements and then there were battles, and Sir Lucian had been unwavering in his own opinions. Aziraphale didn’t mind having people who would disagree with him or he wouldn’t be planning on having his sister on his council, but he didn’t want meetings to dissolve into screaming matches. He didn’t want his own children to be in attendance, frightened and unsure if they would ever come back. He’d been frightened many times by his mother’s council meetings.

And sometimes he wondered just how well her orders had been carried out with her unable - unwilling - to go out and see any progress for herself.

He didn’t want to be like that. He wanted to see the lands and the people, wanted to be seen by them. The plans he had were ripe for upheaval, but he had hope that the people would be agreeable. There were far more commoners than there were lords and ladies, after all, and Aziraphale thought people like Crowley and Raphael would be very willing to go out and remind those very commoners of that fact. Crowley would without hesitation.

Eventually, Aziraphale returned to and finished his journal entry for the evening. Gabriel eventually retired to his tent, never one for the first watch. He always expected Crowley to stay awake, had no clue that Crowley tended to have his time in the middle of the night. He did well resting, waking, then resting again. It gave Gabriel the last watch, the knight fully assuming that it was only he and Crowley who even had a watch. He would’ve been appalled to know that Aziraphale took his turn. Just more nonsense about the royal image.

Image, he wrote, is hardly everything. A portrait is far more easily destroyed than a tree.

Though a tree, not unlike a person, could still be cut down. He hoped he would be ready for any axes which came his way.

He quietly closed his journal, deciding to keep the ink splotch. He did encourage it to return to only the one page, however, and dry down to avoid any unfortunate transfer. The cause for it in the first place was still there, whittling away. Nearly finished, from what Aziraphale could tell, and still almost inhumanly distracting. 

“Are you going to finish before you retire for the night?”

“Tryin’ to.” He had the wings and tail and the little feather details all done. He just needed to finish the beak. “If I leave it for morning, I'll forget what I was doing.”

“Mm. What do you think about while you carve?”

At this very moment he was using the motion, the repetition of it, to help himself focus and concentrate on the spell keeping his presentation muted and heat at bay. Such a thing required a focus on the self, a subtle manipulation of the natural energies flowing through him. “Depends on what I'm doing at the time. Usually keeping my hands busy helps me listen and concentrate on what people are saying. When I was a kid, my teacher gave me spare parchment to doodle on so I'd pay attention.”

“I see.” Aziraphale hummed softly, opening his journal back up. He noticed his quill had shifted to charcoal a split second too late, but Crowley wasn't looking at him. He was looking at his little bird, and it was just that focus he wanted to capture. “It’s simple for me to listen and be still, but I don't often understand what isn't said.”

“The subtext,” Crowley offered. “I noticed. It's amusing sometimes, but I'll try not to take advantage of that.” His lips quirked, eyes tracking the way his small knife dug in to carve out the eyes. “I’ve never really been good at sitting still, being in one place too long. The more I try, the more my head feels full of angry bees.”

“That sounds exceptionally unpleasant. I’m not sure if I could handle that sort of irritant. What else helps you?”

“Hmm… just having something to do. A task. Being idle is the worst. Being told to sit and wait is probably the worst torture you could give me,” Crowley said with a little chuckle.

“I suppose it isn’t any wonder that you were able to hunt as quickly as you were. Waiting for any others to cross our path would’ve likely been awful for you.”

“Sure would. I've never liked the kind of hunting that requires sitting around and being bored.”

“Hunting with you was the single fastest hunt I've ever been on, so I believe you.”

He wasn't about to tell Aziraphale that he'd used his natural born magic to find the herd and subtly encourage them their way. “Hey, if I have the shot, I'm going to take it.”

“Yes, I saw just that during the tournament. Particularly when you were up against Sir Gabriel.” Aziraphale looked towards Gabriel’s tent, hum soft and uncertain. “I fear I’m being too tetchy with him.”

“A mite,” Crowley agreed with a little nod. He turned the soon-to-be bird over in his fingers without looking up. “I know his demeanour bothers you and you don't agree on… well, anything.”

“It’s hardly my fault that he's wrong about so much.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched as he looked back to Crowley. “It isn’t only his demeanour and opinions which bother me, but what - who - he represents. He's every noble who'll disapprove of my monarchy, including my own uncle. My own sister.”

Crowley looked up at him finally, expression far softer than many would expect of him. “I know, angel, but he also represents someone whose mind can change. Imagine if you could convince Sir Gabriel that you are the rightful ruler, you could probably convince anyone.”

“Potentially.” Optimism was something that often happened by accident for Aziraphale. When he reached for it, it always seemed just out of reach. With Crowley there, looking at him in a way that made his heart yearn, his fingertips were at least able to brush against that fickle optimism. “There are so many steps between now and holding my own council meetings to begin enacting the changes my rule will hopefully bring about. I'll be expected to name members at my coronation.”

“Is that your subtle way of saying I better be there?”

“It’s my hope that I wouldn't have to hint for you to attend. I’d appreciate any friend who would be there with me.”

Crowley's lips quirk upwards, the tease once again sailing right over Aziraphale's pretty curls. “I will be, angel, you can count on it.”

He could, he knew, count on Crowley. “Lovely. Have you finished your bird yet?”

He looked down at the bird with a slight frown. There were spots he could probably add some more detail to… but Crowley could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on right behind his eyes that would be full blown if he put off sleep. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

“May I see?”

Of course Aziraphale wanted to see. Crowley grimaced but leaned around the fire and held it out to him. “If you must.”

 “I must,” Aziraphale purred. His own half-finished sketch could wait, something in him clued into the fact that Crowley wasn't feeling his best. Worry faded into a gasp as he studied the little bird. Feathers each intricately, painstakingly carved on spread wings and an open beak, clearly wailing a tune as it soared. Looking for home, Aziraphale thought with a warm smile. “It looks like a nightingale.”

Crowley blinked at him despite his glasses mostly obscuring the motion. “How’d you know?”

“Because, for all your protests, you are talented. I enjoy seeing your work, and I look forward to seeing more as we travel.”

A warm flush rose to Crowley’s cheeks and his feet shifted restlessly. “It’s just a hobby, angel.”

“You can be talented at and praised for a hobby.” Aziraphale rose and circled the fire, holding out a hand to help Crowley up. “You can say ‘thank you.’ I promise you won't die from it.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled, but he grabbed Aziraphale's hand and let him help. His hand was still as soft as always, with only slight callouses, the hand of a future king. He rose, chest to chest with Aziraphale, and once again felt the usual tug towards him, scent curling up like a warm blanket he wished he could sink into. “Why risk it?”

Laughing, Aziraphale pulled him closer. He knew there was a secret in him - a great many of them, in fact - but this one in particular had something to do with his health. Aziraphale could feel something swirling in Crowley, but couldn't pinpoint it. The burgeoning headache he could feel, but not whatever else was happening.

If it made him feel a little more protective, he blamed Crowley. The man could simply tell him instead of hiding. If he even knew.

A sound worked its way out of Crowley's throat, one that made Aziraphale smile even as he knew it was a signal that a kiss may have been wanted - expected - but it might not be fully welcome. He pressed one to Crowley's brow instead, letting something slip in that would ease the headache. “Rest, darling. I'll wake you in a few hours.”

He was an idiot. A great big giant fool. Crowley closed his eyes briefly, letting himself soak in the warmth Aziraphale's lips left behind. He might be able to delay the physical aspects of a heat, but the instincts were another matter and Aziraphale was an alpha who was kind and gentle and who'd kissed him like it had meant something. He was hopeless to not want to give in to that. “Y-yeah. I'll try. Try not to get too lost in that book of yours.”

“I’ll do my very best.” But he was going to finish his sketch. Crowley’s face was imprinted on his mind well enough already that he could very easily detail him from memory a thousand times over. As much as he wanted to push him back into his tent and get lost in each other, he stepped back. He kept the nightingale. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

He missed the feel of Aziraphale's palm against his the moment it was gone, fingers flexing briefly in a bid to keep from reaching for him. It wouldn't do to give in and risk his heat breaking through the spell. Crowley nodded his head, a slight twinge in his chest. “Goodnight, angel.”

Crowley didn't want to turn and go to his own tent, but he did. When he laid down, listening to the cracking fire, Sir Gabriel’s snores, and the scratch of Aziraphale's quill on parchment, he realised his headache was gone after all.

The next town they came across was smaller than the first, tucked in amidst the trees which fueled its economy. It was the best source of lumber nearest Berwick. It pleased both Aziraphale and Crowley to see the younger trees planted to replace the ones felled, the different stages of growth a delight. It was a different sort of farming, one which required a lot more patience. It also required a different sort of strength, a judgement of the winds to avoid a tree falling in the centre of town. 

Because it was smaller, its inn was. Unfortunately - depending on who one asked - it also wasn’t a particular popular destination so three rooms were available. Gabriel had fewer complaints about the guard, which could’ve been a sign of his standards being worn down or a sign of the confusion that seemed to be growing in him with each passing day.

He and Aziraphale still weren’t seeing eye to eye by any means, but the latter was attempting to be more patient and less prone to fiery flares of irritation and the former… didn’t seem to notice.

It was an easy day spent trading and gathering information. Aziraphale sent a simple letter to the castle and a more detailed one to Raphael, unsure if he was relieved or not to have no sign of any messengers attempting to find them. They were on the precipice of their third week. Forty-nine remained, though the time they were making now that the carriage had been removed was highly encouraging. Three more weeks would find them in the village of Tadfield, a small one Crowley said was on the water. One he apparently hadn’t visited in eleven years.

He was oddly quiet about the birthing he’d supposedly assisted with, but the family he’d helped on that rain-filled night would likely put them up for the few days Aziraphale planned to spend there. He didn’t think the first shard would be in the village, no, but he did have a strong feeling that it would be near there.

From South to East, water flows…

“It could take a few days to search the lake,” Aziraphale said to Crowley after Sir Gabriel had gone to his own room. They were alone in the inn’s tavern, only the innkeep nearby in case the king requested anything new. “Really, it could take as much as two weeks considering its size. But it’s the only body of water in that part of Esteorþe. Not to mention that it touches Sūþwatir.”

“It does seem like our best bet so far,” Crowley agreed. “Maybe someone in the area has seen something out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, and people will know what we’re seeking if word’s already reached that far. I hope that makes them more willing to help.”

Or it could make them wary and worried they'll be accused of ‘hiding information from the crown’ or some such. They'd just have to play it by ear. “Gotta be careful; it could send people looking for it, too. People who don't have honest intentions.”

“Why would anyone else seek out the sword?”

“To keep you from getting it, to sell it for a high price, to use it themselves in order to gain power,” Crowley listed off, flicking a finger up for each option. “And probably more reasons I can't think of off the top of my head.”

Aziraphale’s eyes seemed to grow rounder for each suggestion. Dissenters might not want him to have it, sure, but they hadn’t run across anyone like that just yet. His own family, but that was… complicated. “It’s too dangerous for anyone else to wield and, well, if someone needed money that badly, I would give them some.”

Crowley shook his head. “It’s rarely actually about the money, angel. It's about the power of being able to control how much something like that would sell for.”

“That’s so… self-serving.” Aziraphale tapped the side of his mug, studying the map they’d spread across their tucked away table. “I don’t understand persons like that.”

“Not everyone can be an angel like you.”

“You wouldn’t do that either,” Aziraphale pointed out, very sure of it.

“No,” Crowley agreed, “But I can easily imagine why someone would. Knowing there's a powerful artefact out there that could give one the authority to rule the land? It's a mighty temptation. And if you don't want the responsibility of that, you could always sell it and never have to worry about money for the rest of your life.”

Aziraphale fidgeted with his mug, turning it against his palms over and over. He’d never had to worry about money, not in the way of some people. His worries had been in too much of it and what to do with it, how to parse things out equally. He’d learned at his mother’s knee how to balance taxes and the services they could provide with what the people could give, whatever station they were at. Overly taxed and you would have a large destitute and unhappy majority. Under taxed and defence became nonexistent, as did funds they sent to help communities in other ways. Preparing for or avoiding disaster. The balance wasn’t always achievable and there was always, always, always going to be someone who was unhappy, but it had been important enough to his mother to strike the most harmonious chord. It was important to Aziraphale as well.

But he had never known what it was like to go without. To go hungry. He’d fussed over facts and figures until his eyes had crossed, but he’d been able to go to a warm bed after and know breakfast would be on the table come morning. It was different, another world. Even travelling, he wasn’t afraid of where his next meal would come from or over a lack of shelter.

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. Perhaps some might see that as a failing, a reason to take the sword for themselves and reject his rule, but it wasn’t something he could help. It was, in Aziraphale’s opinion, a vital reason to have advisers who could understand other perspectives. He wouldn’t leave his advisors in destitution, but he’d pick some who knew what that life was like. He’d make well-rounded decisions. He just needed an opportunity to do so. 

“We’d best find it first, then, and utilise every skill and tool we have at our disposal.”

“Agreed.” The kinds of people who would want it to sell to the highest bidder weren't the kind to care if the buyer had good intentions or not. And Crowley was convinced Aziraphale probably had the best intentions of anyone. “And you've got the best chance of anyone to find it.”

“Considering that we already have its hilt,” which was said very quietly, “I agree.”

“I do wonder how the pieces have stayed hidden all this long, though.”

Aziraphale thought they could use the hilt to find them somehow, but he wasn’t sure what exactly one should do. He knew from his readings of his father’s journals that there were tracking spells, but none had ever been written for him to practise. “We may… need someone else. I fear they’ll be as difficult to find as the shards themselves.”

Crowley hummed and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Someone else?”

Lifting his mug, Aziraphale’s sigh was broken by an errant fly he had to wave away from his drink. “Someone else,” he confirmed. “Someone with… technically illegal knowledge, which is why they won’t be easy to find. I think… I think something like, ah, a tracking spell may be beneficial,” he whispered.

The tapping of his fingers stopped immediately. A tracking spell… where in the world had Aziraphale heard about such things? However… Crowley could easily make the necessary leaps to figure out how it would work. The sword had, theoretically, been whole once. The pieces would share an intrinsic connection even after all this time. Sure the ages between when they were last together would make it more difficult but… it could be done. “I… see. Finding someone with that talent would indeed be difficult.”

“I know. Not to mention forcing the poor thing to hide their skills around Sir Gabriel.” He knew how difficult that could be. “It isn’t exactly something we can openly advertise for.”

“No. No, definitely not.” Though plenty of mages were used to having to hide. “And especially since you asking would just scare them away.”

“I know.” Aziraphale closed his eyes as if he could hide from the rolling guilt. “I had Raphael send messengers far and wide in search of someone who could help mother, and there was no reply.” There had been one for his father, but he wondered if there had been knowledge amongst the people that his father was more than he’d been able to say. Perhaps being unable to help him had made those same mages too afraid to try again with his mother.

“Oh… angel…” Crowley reached across the table and covered one of his hands with his own. “I’m sorry.”

Aziraphale turned his hand, taking comfort in the way their palms settled together. “I did everything I could and it wasn’t enough.” He blinked damp eyes open, meeting Crowley’s gaze with a watery smile. “Eventually, I hope to accept that. In the meantime, we’ll just have to do our best. I have faith that we’ll find success at this lake.”

“I hope we do, angel.” If for nothing else, than for Aziraphale's confidence. Even just finding one piece of the sword would boost it significantly. “You’ll make your mother proud.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Aziraphale sighed. “Now about the route after we leave Tadfield...”

Chapter Text

They promptly left the little forest-side village after a single night, but word of the direction that the king travelled in was already spreading along their path. A whirlwind that blew ahead of them and fanned the flames of rumour and speculation. Neither King Aziraphale nor Sir Crowley nor Sir Gabriel were privy to this, as they avoided settlements wherever possible, much to the Hewin knight’s chagrin but even he could not argue with his king.

Conversely, Crowley would have been perfectly happy to argue with Aziraphale but, well, he agreed that avoiding villages was for the best. They couldn't avoid people entirely, other travellers using the roads just as they were, but did their best as they made their way through the thick forests that this part of Sūþwatir and especially Esteorþe were known for. And the further east they went, the more familiar Crowley was with the area.

He'd grown up around these woods. Played and hunted and learned under the trees that sheltered them on their journey. Crowley knew which animals migrated where and was able to easily and subtly navigate them around the village he'd spent most of his formative years in. The letter he'd sent to Agnes should have arrived by now and since he hadn't received any kind of reply or worried letter back he could believe she approved of his choices in her own, confusing, way.

They crossed a river, their path turning significantly more east than south like they had been headed. The road was well trodded and almost maintained the closer they drew to Tadfield. The village wasn't terribly large but had been gradually growing as their fishing industry grew as well. Its growth was hampered only by its isolation. Surrounded by great forests and at the edge of the kingdom, the easiest way to Tadfield was actually by boat across the large lake it sat beside or by rowing upstream.

It was a quaint little place. Quiet and slow and Crowley had been away from it long enough that not a single person recognised him immediately. Just the way he'd grown used to.

“The family I know lives on the far eastern outskirts of the village. They have a small farm and should be able to put us up in the barn for however long we're here,” Crowley told his companions, only slightly worried he might not be remembered… it had been eleven years, after all.

“The barn?” Gabriel protested. “That's no place for a king. Surely a town like this has at least a baron or baroness for us to stay with.”

“Sir Gabriel, had you been listening to Sir Crowley, you would know there isn't a noble family in Tadfield.” Based on his accounts and Aziraphale’s notes on the various villages, it was founded by a knight who had left the lands to the villagers upon his death. “I am perfectly comfortable spending my nights where my gracious hosts may send me. If you prefer the inn, you're welcome to use your own funding to procure lodgings there.”

“It’s a nice, clean barn,” Crowley grumbled. At least it had been the last time he'd been here. “And it would be rude for our king to snub his nose at hospitality.”

Clever thing. Aziraphale beamed at him, but had to give Rhew’s reins a small tug when he tried to rub his snout against Bentley's neck. “Stop that, silly thing. She isn't a snack.”

“Now you've done it,” Crowley said with a roll of his eyes. “You said the magic word.”

“And he’ll get one once we've arrived at their home so long as he behaves himself.”

“Uh-huh.” Bentley gave a snort that mirrored Crowley’s dubious noise. “Like how you said he wouldn't get any the other day because he kept pulling to the side of the road to eat daisies but you gave him a c-a-r-r-o-t anyway?”

Aziraphale slanted him a look. “I... didn't realise you noticed that.”

“I notice a great many things.”

“Clearly.” Those dark lenses did nothing to obscure his vision. “But I mean it this time. Not a thing until we've reached our destination.”

“Riiight. Because that's worked out so well in the past.”

“Shush. I don't feed him every time.” Rhew swung his head towards Bentley again and Aziraphale had to tug at the reins. “No. No. Stop that this instant.”

Crowley's head fell back as he laughed. Rhew’s interest in Bentley had only increased through their weeks of travel, though whether that interest was only of a friendly nature or something much less innocent wasn't something any of them had wanted to find out. “You and your spoiled horse.”

“He isn't spoiled. He's loved,” Aziraphale protested. A third attempt at getting to Bentley had Aziraphale heaving a sigh, and even Rhew seemed to laugh when he dug a carrot out of a saddlebag. “Not a word.”

It was easy to not say a single word when he was too busy laughing himself sick. Luckily Bentley was very well trained and only needed the most minor of guidance from Crowley to lead their party to the modest farmhouse that hadn't changed all that much since he'd last seen it eleven years ago. A newer addition had been added on to one side and the chicken coop looked a bit larger, but everything else looked mostly the same. The farm sat atop a small hill that overlooked the lake and the surrounding forest and horses and cows could be seen grazing in the nearby field.

Crowley hopped off Bentley and gave her neck a pat. “Sit tight. They didn't know we were coming.”

“All the more reason to leave,” Gabriel insisted.

“That's enough, Sir, thank you.” Aziraphale climbed off Rhew to take his and Bentley's reins in hand. Thus far, the only horse she’d bitten was Courage. “We’ll wait for your return, Crowley.”

“Thanks.” The walkway up to the house was paved with crushed rock that had long since been worn mostly flat and the garden along one side was well-weeded. His boots made enough noise on the rock and the wooden front porch that the door opening right as he raised his fist to knock wasn't much of a surprise.

Crowley barely caught the young kid that bounced off of him by the shoulders before he fell backwards back into the house. All he saw was scruffy blond hair briefly before the cherubic young boy looked up at him with surprised, wide blue eyes.

“Whoa there, kid. Where's the fire?”

The boy blinked up at him and, if Crowley’s intuition was right, he looked to be right around eleven years old. “S-sorry, mister. You alright?”

“I’m good kid, no harm done. Lookin’ for your mum or dad, I suppose.” The father was probably out, but he could smell the beginnings of stew from further inside.

The boy's face brightened immediately. “Mum!” he shouted, dashing away through what Crowley could see of a well-loved living room. “Someone’s lookin’ for you!”

“Alright, Adam, alright,” could be heard from the rear of the house, the woman’s low laugh evident in her voice. It took her a few seconds to make her way out, wiping hands on a well-worn apron. “I’m so sorry about Adam. He’s always been one to…” Recognition flickered over her features before the apologetic smile warmed. Others may not have known who Crowley was, but she would certainly never forget. “Hello, Crowley.”

His smile softened a bit, the woman familiar but for a few new wrinkles on her face. “Deidre, it's been a while.”

“It has been that. You’re a few months shy of his eleventh birthday. August. The apples were all in full bloom then, but we’ve only got the flowers in the orchard now.”

“I remember that August. Hot as blue blazes.” Her lips curled more upwards and Crowley hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I hate to drop in on you unexpected like this, but I was hoping you could put my friends and I up in your barn for a little while.”

“Of course.” It was easy to agree, though as soon as the words were out, she looked towards the nearest window. “I’ll need to talk to Arthur, but he’ll be so grateful you’re finally here. He’d never refuse. Though I’m not surprised Agnes would send you again.”

“Uh…” Crowley blinked at her. “Finally here?”

“I don’t mean to say that you took too long. It’s only been a day since we received Agnes’s response, but every day we’ve waited has been… Frightening. We don’t want to risk Adam.” The smiled faded, worry lining her eyes. “He’s so sweet. He’d never hurt anyone.”

Crowley's mouth moved silently for a moment. If they'd asked Agnes for help with something and the boy looked perfectly healthy to him… there were only a few things it could be. He decided not to tell her that he hadn't heard from his old teacher. He'd witnessed her clairvoyance enough in his life and only bloody wished she'd told him they were expecting someone. “He’s showing signs, then?”

“More than signs. He showed his friends before we could tell him he needed to keep it quiet, but…” She looked around as if anyone could possibly hear them from inside her own home, still lowering her voice. “Well, we don’t have to pump the well for water anymore. He’s just a bit too enthusiastic so water doesn’t only end up where it’s needed.”

Water. It wasn't the most easily spotted talent to be given but just as dangerous as the others. Crowley nodded his understanding to her, knowing full well how difficult it could be for a child to keep such things hidden. “He’s still young, yet. The fine control will come with time and practice. He's lucky to have parents who love him as much as you do.”

“We’re lucky to know someone like Agnes to call on when things go awry.” Deirdre let out a bubble of a laugh. “Though now I know why I wanted to swim so often when I was carrying him. Never been in the lake so much.” And had been able to, though she’d never tested it thoroughly from fright, been able to breathe underneath the surface. “Never been so thirsty in my life either. Do your friends know?”

Crowley shook his head. “We were actually in the area for something else originally… I don't know if the news has reached this far yet…”

“Oh, there’s been all sorts of news. The letter from Agnes wasn’t the only thing that reached town yesterday, though any royal news gets announced in the square. We knew about the queen, of course. We heard that weeks ago, right alongside learning we’d have us a king again.” She’d been a girl when King Jehoel had passed, but had gotten well used to the reign of their reclusive queen. A hand lifted to her chin, thoughtfully brushing it. “I feel so bad for him. Not everyone does, but to be sent off all through the kingdom so soon after losing his mother… It must be hard if he’s as kind as people say.”

“Yeah…” Crowley barely resisted looking back at that very king. “About that… Don't freak out but he's kind of on your property now.”

“He’s what.”

“Don’t freak out. He thinks we might find a piece of the sword around here.” She looked like she was going through the various stages of grief and Crowley put both hands on her shoulders. “Breathe. We're just going to stay in the barn. You're not offering your home. You're not. He wouldn't let you anyway. You're not feeding him or anything like that.”

“I have to! You can’t just have someone at your home without feeding them.” But to have a member of royalty at her home. A person who could rip her son away without anyone ever being able to say no. “I should see if Adam can stay over with one of his friends.”

”Adam would probably enjoy that,” Crowley admitted though he wasn't going to try and talk her out of it. He trusted Aziraphale, yes, but that didn't mean he was going to ask a mother to risk her child. She didn't know Aziraphale and… and he still didn't know how Aziraphale would react to the actual reality of a mage that wasn't in a story or a hypothetical. “But I mean it, just treat him like you would anyone else. He actually likes that.”

She blinked at him, fear stiff in her shoulders. “How- We were all told he’s travelling with two knights.”

“Yeeaah, it's Sir Crowley now I suppose.”

“Well… If anyone deserved a title like that, it’s you.” Her shoulder sank under his hands. “I don’t know how Agnes would’ve told you about Adam if you’ve been with him. We asked for someone to come give Adam a bit of training and help controlling his-” She couldn’t say the word, even in a whisper, while knowing the king was nearby. “She said her student would be along today and would do a good job with him.”

“She meant me,” Crowley told her with a sigh. “Agnes knows far too much and tells far too little. I'll do what I can for Adam while we're here, you have my word.”

“Even with him being here?” she asked, no longer sure if she felt bad for him. If he took her son-

Loud, happy barks shattered her calm, gaze shooting over Crowley’s shoulder to the front door. “Dog, stop it! I didn’t say speak!” Adam protested over the barks.

They couldn’t hear the words that followed, but Crowley knew the voice and the laughter that followed well by now.

“Adam,” she whispered.

Crowley groaned. Royalty was almost as bad as a bloody toddler. “I told him to wait,” Crowley hissed under his breath and turned to quickly stalk out with Deidre hot on his heels.

They found both boy and king around the side of the house along with both Rhew and Bentley happily munching on tall grass. Crowley hadn't realised Deidre had froze the moment she'd set eyes on the king and marched right up to him. “I thought you were waiting. At the gate.”

“I was. Unfortunately, Courage got scared off by this little fellow.” He gestured to the black and white, scruffy dog Adam was valiantly trying to make sit. “And during that chaos, Bentley decided she’d had enough of waiting and even I am not going to halt the progress of two rather large, powerful horses, being that Rhew insisted on going along with her.”

Crowley rubbed his temples. “Of course.” He sighed and figured there was nothing to be done for it now. “Well, since we're here. Aziraphale, that there is Deidre Young.” Crowley turned and motioned to the woman standing still as stone beside the house. “And I see you've already met her son, Adam. This is Aziraphale, one of my travelling companions.”

“I would introduce you to Sir Gabriel, but we’ll have to wait for him to find his way back.” Aziraphale smiled, thinking he knew why the woman was so uncomfortable. He had no idea it was far more than just his title that frightened her. “Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Young. You have a delightful son, his dog’s ill manners aside.”

“Adam’s a wonderful boy,” she said, finding it easy to defend him. Surely, he couldn’t be so cruel as to take a boy from his family. It wasn’t his fault he’d been born as he had been, and he was delightful and wonderful and all manner of other positive adjectives. That he was also stubborn and mischievous was typical for a child and shouldn’t be held against him. “Adam, why don’t you and Dog stop pestering the king?”

The boy's wide round eyes landed back on the man who'd been pulled around the house immediately. “You’re the king?”

“Oh, yes. Though one wouldn’t know it, considering how this one talks to me,” he teased, gesturing to Crowley.

Crowley's eyes rolled. “I talk to you like I talk to everyone else.”

Adam was still staring at Aziraphale. “What’s it like? Being king and all? Is it fun gettin’ to boss everyone around?”

“Adam, don’t pester him,” Deirdre pleaded.

“No, no, it’s alright. I don’t mind a curious pup.” Aziraphale smiled down at him. “Being a king is about far more than merely bossing people about. Not everyone listens as it is. One only has to try telling Crowley what to do to know that’s impossible.” His smile brightened at yet another eye roll. He could tell even with the dark lenses on. “Thus far, being king is quite a bit like being prince. More people are relying on me to do a good job, however, so I’m learning how to do so.”

Adam looked positively fascinated but Crowley put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from bouncing on his toes. Deidre looked about ready to faint. “I know it's exciting to have someone so interesting about, but why don't you let us settle down and you help your mum with anything she needs? We just travelled a long way to get here.”

Adam stuck his bottom lip out but one glance at his mother turned that into concern for her. “But I can still come and ask questions later, right?”

“So long as it's okay with your mum and Aziraphale.”

“It’s perfectly alright with me,” Aziraphale agreed, hoping this Mrs. Young would be able to relax soon. She may just need a bit more time.

Crowley rubbed the back of his own neck. “Like I said, let us get settled in.”

“Mmhm.” Aziraphale watched Adam run to his mother, Dog at his heels until he was whisked right off his feet. He protested being carried like a baby, but Deirdre shushed him as she scurried back into the home. The easy smile on Aziraphale’s face crumpled as he looked at Crowley, looking more like a kicked mutt than a king. “I truly didn’t intend to intrude on her land. I hope she isn’t irritated with me long.” If that’s what it was. He wasn’t sure, but he knew his presence had upset her.

“It’s not that, angel, trust me.” And Crowley understood her fear all too well. He didn't have any children, no, but he'd feared for friends and himself all the same. “They’re just going through a tough time right now.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t intrude, then. The inn’s a perfectly acceptable place to stay.”

Crowley shook his head. “It’ll be fine. Just let me have a better chat with Deidre later. Uninterrupted.” Though he was realising he should have just lied to her and not said who Aziraphale was. On the other hand, if he had and she'd found out she'd probably be quite cross with him. There was no winning here. “And you are the king. Your presence is going to throw off any common folk.”

“I know,” he sighed. “It’s simpler at taverns and such. I know how people behave there, and it seems as if I’m a bit less intimidating when I’m seated with a daily special and a drink. In any case, we’ll go settle in as you said. Your silly girl deserves a bit of tending after the rides we’ve had the last few days.”

“She sure does.” Crowley went over to her and gave Bentley an affectionate pat. “Come on, girl. Let's get you set up so you can relax.”

“If Sir Gabriel doesn't find his way back soon, we'll have to seek him out.” As much as he detested him, he wasn't going to let the man get lost. Or stay lost. He hadn't any control over Courage’s reaction to the small dog’s high-pitched yapping. Dogs weren't a fear they'd been able to work on over the weeks spent travelling.

“Must we? Losing him could be a bout of good luck.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “As nice as it would be to travel without him, this would be a foolish reason to lose track of him. He’s been useless when it comes to hunting and dealing with travellers, but…” He trailed off as he tugged Rhew’s reins, convincing him to follow Crowley easy since it also meant following Bentley. “Gosh, there’s surely some reason to keep him along besides it being the right thing to do.”

“He takes a watch so we both get more sleep,” Crowley offered, leading the way toward the barn in the back. “And uhh… we can use him as a human shield?”

“We can not!” Although the idea had merit. “He is formidable in battle. You know that firsthand.”

“Exactly my point! He can fight whatever it is while we run away.”

“As if you would run from a fight,” Aziraphale tsked.

Crowley chuckled. “No, you're right, I wouldn't. But you also just gave a reason to keep him around. He's a good fighter. If we get into a scrape he'd be good to have around.”

“Yes, and it’s a very good thing we haven’t been in one yet.” Aziraphale waved away a fly as they stepped into the barn, looking around the different stalls. Horses and mules alike were already at home, their whinnies and nickers and brays seeming curious. Doors behind them were opened, allowing the beasts free reign in a paddock neither of them could see well yet. “I suppose we’ll be taking up the loft, and it’s likely best to not let these two share a stall with how… amorous Rhew’s been feeling.”

“Ugh. Yeah. I can agree with that.” They found clean empty stalls and made sure both Rhew and Bentley were comfortable with fresh hay. A ladder led up to the loft which was where he'd slept last time. “How long do you think it'll take before Gabe gets Courage under control again?”

Aziraphale knew the warmth that wanted to flare in his gut wasn't why Crowley asked, but he couldn't help himself. His lashes fluttered, smile coy. “My dear, I’m flattered, but you deserve a bed the first time.”

Crowley coughed but was still able to throw a pink-cheeked smirk over his shoulder as he climbed the ladder. “If you think I haven't had a roll in the hay before you'd be mistaken.”

How lucky for them, Aziraphale thought, watching that pert behind until it disappeared. “Our first time, then, should the occasion occur. Thoroughness can be far more difficult to achieve when bits of hay are poking uncomfortable places.”

“The hay poking is part of the charm.” Just as last time, the loft wasn't quite tall enough to let him stand up straight but Crowley peeked his head over the side. “Now are you gonna come up here and drop your stuff off or are you gonna make me come down there to do it for you, Your Majesty?”

“Impertinent devil,” Aziraphale accused, a purr in his throat as he began to scale the ladder. “To answer you, I suppose Courage’s calming down enough to follow orders depends on how loud and long Sir Gabriel yells.”

Crowley sighed and sat back to give Aziraphale enough room to climb up after him. “Then, I suppose, if he doesn't show up soon we should probably go looking for him.”

“We will. If you track him half as well as you do quarry, he’ll be found quick as you please.”

“I’ll find him,” Crowley said and flopped backwards onto the hay that lightly covered the loft's floor, his bag abandoned beside him. “Won't be too hard with his horse acting the way it does.”

“No.” Aziraphale laid a blanket over the hay before taking a seat. It smelled of horses and hard work over the distinctive hay. “He won't want to sleep here. We’ll keep Courage with Rhew so the poor thing can have time in the paddock, but I’m going to get Sir Gabriel set up at the inn.”

Crowley lifted an eyebrow over his glasses at him. “Really? Is this your way of getting me all alone in the hay, angel?”

“I had you all alone in an inn a few weeks ago, and we only slept.” He crossed a finger over his heart. “I won't touch you without permission, Crowley.”

“I’m teasing you,” Crowley said and gave Aziraphale's knee a light shove. “I know that.” Even if the instincts he kept under tight lock and key wanted otherwise. “You’re too sweet for that.”

“I’m glad you have that sort of confidence in me. The thought of forcing anyone is appalling. Nearly as much as…” He worried his lower lip, deciding he may as well put a fear to rest. Whether it was true or not. “There are… some who might feel pressure because of my station. As if telling me no would result in a punishment, so there's agreement even if I’m not actually wanted. Blessedly, Raphael can always figure that out if I don't see it. But… he isn't here.”

Crowley glanced sideways at him and tucked his hands under his head. “If you're feeling pent-up or something and worried you won't notice the more subtle ‘nos’...” He didn't want to offer but it seemed like the kinder thing to do. “I can play Raph’s part. If you wanted.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

He really really didn't want to say it any more plainly. “I’ll… You said you struggle knowing if people don't actually want to… be alone with you. So, I'm sayin’ if you're needing that I'll be the guy making sure they're not just sayin’ yes ‘cause you're you.”

Aziraphale blinked at him again. “You- That isn’t-” He shook his head. “No.”

The relief he felt at that ‘no’ was palpable. It shouldn't have mattered that much, it wasn't like they were anything other than friends, but Crowley all but sagged in his sprawl on the hay covered floor. “If you're sure…”

“Of course I’m sure. I thought I’d made it clear that…” Was Crowley asking because he wanted Aziraphale to seek someone else? Bother. He was so very confusing. “I know scented gifts don’t matter overmuch to betas,” especially being that Crowley hadn’t onced asked it to be refreshed even though Aziraphale knew his scent had long gone from the cloth, “but they do to me.”

Crowley frowned just a little. There was a subtle change to Aziraphale's scent that made him want to be desperate to understand, to be good. He shifted, pushing away the desire with a reluctance. “I know they matter. If I recall correctly, you said you don't give them to just anyone.”

“No one,” Aziraphale admitted, rubbing his hands against his thighs. Perhaps it had been too impulsive. He hadn’t been in a very stable state of mind, after all, with everything happening.

“No one?” Crowley sat up, faced him with wide eyes behind his glasses. “Really?”

“It’s my pack tartan, Crowley. It isn’t appropriate to gift it to just anyone. But you’ve been… Well, you’ve been good to me since you arrived, so I-” He waved a hand.

Crowley stared at him. Said tartan was still hanging from his belt. He'd hoped, seemingly foolishly, that Aziraphale giving him something like that would mean something and treating it the way he wanted to was likely to give him away for the omega he was but he'd kept it. Crowley untied the kerchief from his belt and held it out to him. “You’re supposed to… er… keep these scented, right?” He asked as if he didn't know. As if he hadn't despaired when Aziraphale's sweet and smoky scent had begun to fade from it.

“Of course, yes.” Aziraphale slipped the patterned cloth from Crowley’s grip and tucked it into the collar of his shirt so the oils of his scent could soak in. “And you’ll… you’ll want it returned, won’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley said with a nod, trying not to seem too eager. “If you'd wanted to re-scent it, you could've said. I'm not- I'm not very good at this sort of thing.”

“Neither am I. Especially when I’m uncertain if someone’s being agreeable because of what I am and not who.”

Crowley blinked a few times which helped him to not stare at the peak of kerchief as if he were worried Aziraphale would take it and not give it back. “You… you weren't asking me to help you find someone, were you?”

“Why the gods would I want to do a foolish thing like that?”

Crowley shrugged. “Sexual frustration?”

“I’m not frustrated with you. You’re very confusing in this regard, admittedly, but I’m not very familiar with relationships.” Or with people mattering so much so fast. He was, if he was perfectly honest with himself, afraid. “And while I’m also unfamiliar with waiting, I keep my word.”

How had no one snatched up this alpha yet? He wasn't the kind one let slip through their fingers even though Crowley felt like he was doing just that. “That’s- That’s what I meant. Figured you were pent up and tired of- of the waiting.”

“No. I very easily could’ve taken anyone to bed at the last tavern we stopped at, but I didn’t particularly want to.”

“That was weeks ago.”

“The point still stands. I don't find myself wanting anyone else.”

Yet, said an annoying little voice in the back of his mind. Crowley told it to shut up and ducked his head. “I’m afraid you might be waiting a while still.”

Aziraphale expected as much, but he was as willing to wait now as he had been before. “May I refresh this anytime the scent fades?”

“Yes,” Crowley said with no hesitation. He then cleared his throat and refused to look at Aziraphale. “I’d… like that.”

It was sweet. Crowley was sweet. “Then I have every reason to continue waiting.”

Crowley looked up at him over the rim of his glasses. “Well, in that case, for the record, I'm not just humouring you. Should know by now that I speak my mind.”

“Yes.” He did, but Crowley also had secrets. Ones Aziraphale didn't feel comfortable pressuring him over since he had secrets of his own. Perhaps he could share. If they were going to have time alone, perhaps he would.

Unless it made Crowley think less of him somehow. There was a difference between supporting legalising magic and being involved with a mage, and Aziraphale still didn't know Crowley's relationship with one. And he didn't want him to feel pressured to share that connection just because of what Aziraphale was.

Gosh, but this was confusing and an end didn't seem to be in sight. He tried not to be too sad about it.

“I'll return the kerchief later tonight when it's scented thoroughly. For now, we should try finding Sir Gabriel.”

“Yeah… suppose we should.” He couldn't stop himself from continuing to glance at where the kerchief had been tucked into Aziraphale's collar. “‘Sides, wouldn't want him showing back up on his own and giving Deidre a fright.”

“No, certainly not. I feel as if I've already done so. You're sure she's alright with my staying here?”

“She’s fine with it.” Or, she would be. Crowley glanced sideways at Aziraphale, wondering if he should tell him. “Though that could change if we don't waylay Gabriel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed, rising from the bundle of hay to begin making his way down the ladder. “We’ll eat at the inn, though. I don't want her to go to any trouble.”

“I did tell her she didn't have to worry about feeding us or anything.” Not that she'd listened but he'd tried. Crowley followed him down, glad to not have to worry about his head hitting any beams on the barn's ground floor. “So maybe Gabe staying elsewhere is for the best.”

“Agreed. Considering my theories on the shards, I'd rather keep him as out of the loop as much as possible whilst searching for it.”

Yes, his theory that magic was required. If he was right, Crowley wasn't sure what he would do. He didn't want to give away either his or Adam's status as a mage but he also truly did want to help Aziraphale succeed. “Imagine the look on his face when you show up with a shard.”

“I have. Several times,” Aziraphale wistfully sighed. “He’s going to be absolutely shocked. I know he doesn't think I’m capable.”

Crowley snickered and led him out of the barn, glimpsing Bentley already napping in her stall. She deserved the rest. “That’s because he's an idiot.”

“Your confidence in me is truly humbling, Crowley.” Aziraphale dearly hoped he didn't let him down.

“I was hoping for more encouraging than humbling.”

“I want to do well for you. To earn that faith. It is encouraging.”

Crowley's lips twitched. “So you want to be good for me, angel?”

Aziraphale slanted him a look. “That, my dear, has been well established. I can and will be very good for you,” he purred.

The twitching of Crowley's lips turned into more of a grin and he flung an arm around Aziraphale's shoulder. “I have no doubt you will be.”

Aziraphale wiggled cheerfully. That didn’t make him feel humbled, only eager and hopeful. Before he could say anything, though, a barking dog streaked out of the home with his young master hot on his heels. The smile instantly softened. “It’s so nice to see a child able to be a child.”

“Yeah. I remember being that age. Though I was more… angry than Adam seems to be.”

“Were you?”

“To my detriment, yes. Told you my parents… well… they couldn't afford to keep me around so they gave me to Agnes. I get it now that I'm grown but when I was kid it hurt. I didn't understand. I was angry at them, angry at Agnes, angry at the world.”

“I’m glad she was able to give you the space you needed to be that angry boy. So you could grow up to be the admirable man you are.” Aziraphale folded his hands, turning that soft smile on Crowley. “I don’t know why anyone would give you up, I don’t know what it’s like to be unable to afford basic things, but I’m glad they placed you somewhere safe. They had to have cared about you to do that.”

“That’s the conclusion I eventually came to as well but it still hurts sometimes.”

Aziraphale thought it would have to. To be left behind by people who were supposed to love him without explanation… “Have you ever wanted to find them?”

Crowley's jaw clenched briefly and he was glad for the way his glasses hid his eyes. “I did,” he said, trying to keep an even tone. “Go looking, that is. Found ‘em. Didn't actually approach or anything just, you know, looked. From afar. They had another kid. Seemed happy.”

Aziraphale stopped short, turning towards Crowley and bringing a hand up to his chest to stop him as well. “They what? Are you sure?”

“Pretty bloody sure. All sitting around the dinner table together.”

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale’s other hand lifted to his cheek, heart breaking for him. For what it could mean to have given away one child only to have another. And to not even seek out the first child… “They didn’t deserve you, and you deserve so much better than them.”

Crowley shrugged and blinked back wetness from his eyes. “It is what it is. Can't change the past.”

“No, unfortunately not.” There were so many things he would change. For himself, his mother… for Crowley, now. “But you can be upset about it. You’re allowed to hurt, but I do hope you know they made a mistake. For them, not for you. You were gifted a family I know you cherish, who raised you to be someone who’s strong and lovely,” and sweet underneath it all. “You shouldn’t settle for less than that. Not anything less than people who want you wholly.”

The words sounded familiar, like a half-forgotten dream. He'd heard something similar before, he was sure, but they struck deep and Crowley took in a quivering breath. “Thanks. I think- I've hurt over this enough for this lifetime. Maybe someday it won't hurt as much.”

“I hope so as well, my dear.” Aziraphale drew him in, arms winding around his neck and their cheeks pressed together. It had the sunglasses digging uncomfortably into Aziraphale’s temple, but that was alright. It was momentary. “In the meantime, whenever it does hurt, I’m here.”

“N-ngk-” Crowley didn't know what to do with his hands, what was safe. Of course what his instincts wanted was to sink into the embrace, to maybe even pull Aziraphale down to the ground below them and not let him back up again. He was able to resist it for the most part but was only able to hesitate for a moment before he let his fists clench in the sides of Aziraphale's shirt and his head fall to Aziraphale's shoulder. It was nice to be held, nice to be comforted. “Bloody angel.”

“It seems to me you could use one of those in your life,” Aziraphale murmured, nuzzling into his hair and letting soothing purrs rumble.

That was worse but also better and Crowley’s hands trembled where they held on. “You know, never thought someone like you’d be so affectionate.”

There was something, a wisp of a scent. Like when they’d first met, something Aziraphale couldn’t identity or even get a full breath of. He’d been sure then that Crowley had some sort of amulet to hide his own scent. That it was more likely someone else’s had instinct and pulse alike scrambling in a confused jumble, but his voice stayed low and soothing. “Due to the nobility or being an alpha?”

“Little of column A, little of column B,” Crowley croaked and lifted his head. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” Aziraphale admitted, “but I’m very glad to prove you wrong.”

“As am I.” Even if the affection was likely to drive him mad. “You’ve been a pleasant surprise in a lot of ways.”

“As have you, though I wasn’t sure what to expect from the handsome ginger speaking to Raphael when I first saw you. You had the air of wealth, yet not at all at the same time.” Like someone else he’d met that week. “A fascinating contrast among many.”

“Handsome ginger,” Crowley repeated with a quirk of his lips. It would be far too easy to let himself get drawn back into Aziraphale's embrace. He had to step back, put some modicum of distance between them. “Only look like I have money because of all the black.”

Smiling even while he wished Crowley hadn’t moved, Aziraphale folded his hands and began to walk again. “Yes. Now you also look like it because of your new boots,” he chuckled. “And are still handsome. Now here’s where Dog startled Courage into fleeing. They went this way.”

Crowley looked down the road. It winded past the Youngs fields and disappeared into the trees. There was no telling how far Courage had ran from the tiny little… “Dog? Why’re you sayin’ it like that?”

“Saying what like… what?”

“Like Dog is its name.”

“Oh, yes, well, that’s because it is. His name.” Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Adam is either very clever with names or he very much isn’t. I haven’t yet decided.”

It didn't seem clever at all to Crowley. “I suppose Dog is a hard name to forget…”

“His future partner won't let him name their children,” Aziraphale laughed.

Crowley made a quiet little snort but sobered quickly. Adam was a mage. It wasn't easy for a mage to find a partner, hell it wasn't easy to make simple long-term friends. There was always a danger that they may turn on you, decide your presence was too dangerous. “Maybe he'll grow out of it.”

“Perhaps, but I think I would always be wary.”

That pulled another little laugh from him. “Yeah, wouldn't want kids called ‘Boy’ or ‘Human’. That'd just be embarrassing.”

“You know I have heard the name Guy before. I'm sure that was begun by someone just like Adam.”

“Guy? What kind of name is that?”

“I’m sure some like it. I recall it from my youth.” Aziraphale laughed as they entered the forest together, the path of a frightened horse not terribly hard to follow. “One of mother's many quickly dismissed suitors had it. A friend of my uncle's, naturally.”

“Naturally,” Crowley agreed. The poor frightened Courage had kicked up deep gouges in the dirt road and where he'd veered off into the forest was a clear path of destruction. “Honestly I can't blame her for staying a widow. Losing a life-long partner like that… it's heartbreaking.”

“Debilitating for her,” Aziraphale murmured. “If losing her was only a taste of that, I'm no longer confused by her choices.” Not all of them, anyway. Some things he was sure would always be what-ifs.

“Yeah, I can only imagine.” And he was supposed to be just a simple beta. “I heard mate-bonds could be strong, but I suppose it's even more so when you love one another.”

“They were very lucky in that regard.” It was all Aziraphale wanted for his own future, a love that lasted beyond this life. “I’m told my grandparents’ marriage - on both sides - were conveniently arranged.”

Crowley's nose wrinkled. “Urgh. That just sounds awful.”

“It does.” Aziraphale looked around, the trees reminding him of the trail to Berwick’s cliffs. “I was... Well. I had plans to flee to Noreir after my sister's coronation to avoid my own. My uncle's spent as much effort trying to convince mother to marry as he has me.”

“Being picky, are you?”

Aziraphale grimaced. “He keeps sending the most awful persons to me. Close-minded or pompous or both.” Often both.

Crowley made another disgusted noise. “I might've contemplated running away too if I had to put up with that.”

“Mmhm. And I've heard that Noreir is the most welcoming for... people.” Magic. “I wasn't able to visit it for my peacekeeping tour, and I was very upset to not go.”

Crowley glanced sideways at him. “It… is. I've been there a few times. In a few of the most northern towns, mages live openly and without fear.”

Aziraphale sighed. “That sounds lovely. I'm glad I'll have support there.”

“You definitely would have Noreir support for striking down the magic ban. Hasn't that been why they keep trying to leave the kingdom altogether?”

“It was, yes.” Until his parents. There were some, he knew, who had knowledge of his father's gifts. Who wouldn't be surprised by his own. It might be nice to walk about openly. “People tend to only give mother the credit - our Warrior Queen - but she and father worked hard to bring Noreir back.”

Crowley nodded, thinking. “They weren't brought back with war but with diplomacy.”

“Oh, there were a few physical battles. A few people who were... Mother said they were afraid, and I don't blame them for it. Nor did she.” Aziraphale lifted his eyes skyward, finding the sun's rays through the leaves. “She and father were able to sway people, though, and soothe leaders. I've always been told my father detested bloodshed, so battles were last resorts. There weren't nearly as many as people say now, however. He would've been very disappointed in her had there been. But people do love their grand tales of battle.”

“They sure do.” Crowley watched him and the way the leaf-filtered illuminated his face. He truly did look so much like the woven likeness of his father. “Better to talk people into it, anyway. Bloodshed and fighting usually just leads to resentment.”

“And more fear,” Aziraphale agreed, lips curving as he angled his head to meet Crowley's gaze. “I think I am very much like my father when it comes to bloodshed. I'll do all that I can to avoid it, so I hope Noreir will come to trust me.”

If he was as tolerant of magic as he claimed… they just might. “I guess we'll just have to see.”

They would indeed.

Chapter Text

Adam was far from the only child in Tadfield. The farm his parents owned was tended to by most of the townsfolk, second only to the orchards owned by the Tyler family. But as they were childless and getting on in years, their lands were slowly being absorbed by the Youngs and tended to just as thoroughly.

It left Adam with little to do but get into mischief with his four friends. Them, townsfolk would say as they rushed by, often with a fond headshake. Look at them go.

And so the four had adopted this label, finding they liked being Them. Liked being a unit people didn't bother to parse out. Adam, being that he thought of the best games and had magic, was their de facto leader, but all four voices had equal say.

Pepper, dark hair pulled up, curls springing free to rest against dark, sparsely freckled skin, had a lot to say. “Why would a king be sleeping in your barn?”

Adam shrugged, feet kicking beneath the thick branch he sat upon. The woods west of his family's farm was also theirs, just not cleared for farming, and the Them had seized the entire area for their games. “Dunno. Mum says it's a quest but she doesn't like to talk about it.”

“Why not?” asked Brian, a rather tall and skinny boy hanging from the same branch by his knees. He had a messy mop of dark hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in weeks and whos trousers and shirt were covered in various stains that were only hidden by the dirt atop it all. “If a king was staying in my barn my parents probably wouldn't shut up about it.”

“Actually, it probably has something to do with Adam’s magic.” When three sets of eyes turned on him, the smallest and youngest pushed up round glasses. His name may have been Jeremy, but his friends preferred his second name and Wensleydale had found he did too. “His mum came ‘round asking my mum if he could stay with us a few days, but it’s time for taxes and planting. Mum and dad are too busy to watch somebody else.”

“They watch you,” Pepper pointed out.

“But I don’t need much watching, actually. I’m very well-mannered.”

Even Brian, the least well-mannered of all of them, had to nod. “And Adam’s a handful. I've heard his dad tell my dad that all the time.”

Adam pouted. “Mum says I'm an angel.”

“Mums have to say that,” Pepper scoffed. “And besides, even if magic is illegal, it shouldn’t be. Adam hasn’t done anything wrong, so the king can’t punish him anyway.”

“But he's the king,” Adam argued. “Kings get to do whatever they want. It's in the job description.”

Her chin lifted with all the defiance a ten-year-old could muster. “King’s can be overthrown.”

A chorus of ‘ooohhh’s sounded from the other boys and Adam pursed his lips. “He hasn't done anything that needs overthrowing - that we know of yet,” Adam amended when Pepper opened her mouth. “He has to actually do something bad first.”

“I say killing anybody just because they can do a few fancy tricks would be something bad.”

“Yes, but he hasn’t actually done that,” Wensleydale reminded her. “And my dad says no one’s been killed in the whole capital since before the new king’s parents. He said the last regime seemed almost nice about it.”

“Can you kill someone nicely?” Adam asked with a thoughtful frown.

“If you say sorry before you do it,” offered Brian, his face gradually turning redder.

“No, they - Queen Frances and her mate before he died - were nice about magic since they wanted Noreir back and didn’t kill anybody. I bet their son won’t kill anybody either, nicely or not.”

“Maybe,” Adam allowed. The king had seemed pretty nice, almost not like royalty at all. “Besides, mum said mister- er, Sir Crowley helped deliver me and that he travels all around helping people. He wouldn't be guarding the king if he didn't think he was nice.”