Work Text:
Before the Beginning
The battlefield had long since been abandoned.
Bodies were strewn, the shadows of wings burnt into the unholy ground between Heaven and Hell. It was hauntingly silent, the quiet moans and grunts of pain having long since died away with their owners. There were few demons left, and no angels.
Except him. He still counted as an angel, even if only barely.
He could remember the flash of light, marking the retreat of Heaven and Hell from that particular corner of the universe. Crowley supposed it was meant to symbolise peace, an ending to the bloodshed, yet from his perspective, the bloodshed hadn’t stopped. Just because no new wounds were being created didn’t stop grace from leaking out of the ones already made.
He couldn’t give a timeframe for how long he’d been there, but then again, he couldn’t exactly give a timeframe for how long the war had been going on for. Heck, it was unclear if She’d even created time yet, and if she had, whether it was a coveted secret amongst the highest, most trusted Angels.
Crowley had never been one of those, despite everything. The seeds of mistrust had always been there, the creeping doubt that maybe he wasn’t fully on their side. He asked too many questions for that, and even when he never verbalised such things, he was certain it showed on his face, in his actions, in everything he did.
Crowley considered the whole sides thing somewhat odd. The whole concept of sides never sat right with him, not from the moment Lucifer first declared opposition to Heaven - why should they force every celestial being into one of two ideologies? It seemed crude to reduce free thought to such bipartisanship when thus far they were the only deities to have been granted such a gift.
He’d tried to voice that once, and the panicked look the Angel he was talking to about it had quickly shut him up, and shoved that thought as far back in his mind as he could.
Now, he was alone with nothing but thoughts, and he hated how much that scared him.
There shouldn’t be anything to fear about thoughts, Crowley rationalised. Thoughts meant nothing without accompanying action, as far as he was concerned, and it would be cruel for Her to punish based on thoughts alone. God was many things, but She wasn’t cruel.
He had to believe She wasn’t cruel. There was nothing else conceivable, and all the cruelty that existed in war and conflict was simply a reflection of Her love. To fight Lucifer was an act of love from Heaven, trying to save his soul and those of all the Fallen.
Crowley stared at the bodies on the battlefield and didn't know that he could blame it on love.
With nothing to see other than torn wings and pooling blood, Crowley really couldn't figure out where love was meant to fit into this.
His head spun the first time he tried to stand up, finally able to see where he'd been left. A broken wing, detached - his broken wing, he supposed. Blood marred with black, remnants of Hell’s latest weapon, fragments of grace choking amongst the red. Nothing felt real, and amongst that dissociation it hit Crowley that he should've died.
It wasn't survivor's guilt, or suicidal regret. It was a simple, hollowing realisation immediately succeeded by the fact that he wasn't dead.
But he was here. Left for dead, yet clinging onto life so desperately that somehow, he remained. Once, he would've called it miraculous, but nothing felt holy about his situation. Nothing felt holy about him, with bloodstained hands and the scent of rotting corpses.
Heaven had left him, and now he was stuck in the limbo between celestial and dead. He would take either option at this point.
Heaven had left him to die, and nothing about that could ever feel loving in Crowley's mind.
He wandered, stepping between the corpses of those he knew and those he didn't. It seemed endless, the air slowly beginning to still as no more life seemed to fill the air, no more movement seemed to displace it. Blood and grace trailed behind him with every step, dulling as soon as it hit the floor. If he lost much more, Crowley considered dimly, he might not count as angelic anymore.
That thought didn't distress him nearly as much as it once would've.
His one remaining wing seemed to be rotting, with nowhere near enough holiness to keep it alive. It hadn't been pure white in a long time, but now it was black, crumbling, imperfect. Almost demonic.
It took days until Crowley finally sank to his knees, flesh hitting against ashes and mud. He sank to his knees, but he couldn't tell where the battlefield ended and he began. The air was even worse down low, thick with the taste of death until Crowley was near goddamn choking on it.
It hurt to speak, but he was unsure if any words were coming out. His thoughts were loud enough to blur the line between what was audible and what wasn't, and maybe it didn't matter when She could hear both anyway.
All that ran through Crowley’s mind was doubts. It burnt, like a fire he couldn't douse, this uncertainty threading through every thought, inescapable, something Crowley couldn't retreat from, an endless stream of questions.
Why did Heaven leave him? Why did they fight this war? Why did God want them to fight, was this even what She wanted? Who had last heard from her, what was Her goal with this, what was the point of Creation when it would never last, was this her plan? Why would she plan like this, why, why, why, why, why-
He was screaming, and the sound of his voice was foreign to his ears. It was unholy, and it felt as though every ounce of grace had left him as he kneeled in that pile of shit and mud and death.
Everything holy seemed to be gone.
Crowley's knees fell through the ground, and it should've been unsettling as darkness enveloped his vision.
Instead, there was something akin to peace as his soul tore apart, as finally, Crowley realised he was Falling.