#now unto my regular scheduled beatling

[seromreven]

title: in nomine vocis venit claritas, (the light comes in the name of the voice).

summary: an angel bears witness to the death to a champion of God; his sense of the world falters.

warnings: execution by burning at the stake. death. angst. all the fun stuff.

author’s note: not sure if there’s an interest for it here but i’m posting it regardless.

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“One life is all we have and we live it as we believe in living it. But to sacrifice what you are and to live without belief, that is a fate more terrible than dying.” 

-  Jeanne d’Arc.

1431, Rouen, Normandy.

The smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air and the darkened skies. A young woman, a girl, was tied to a pillar on top of a small hill of lumber and sticks. A cross necklace dangled and swayed in the wind hanging from her neck as she stood looking to the sky, eyes wide and filled with tragedy. Her mouth was ever so slightly moving and a trained ear would be able to hear the small whisperings of Latin prayers of hope and forgiveness. The flames licked her tear-stained cheeks and hair matted and dirty from a years capture as the fire grew larger around her.

The bells of the church behind the barbaric scene had played ever since the young girl had been torn from her prison tower of solitude, marched to the plaza turned graveyard and continued to do so as the air was filled with the smell of burning hair and flesh. She didn’t scream. She had accepted her martyrdom as God’s ending to her story.

An angel watched in silence in the midst of the large crowd. His chest hurt in a way that shouldn’t be possible for an immortal being such as he. His breathing was difficult, a mix of the smoke-filled air and pure raw grief. He legs were locked in place. He wanted to look away, run away, but was finding it difficult to do anything but look at the young woman as he wished her peace in the afterlife. But the acceptance she had felt wash over her as she had been lead to the hill of death didn’t come as easily to him. It was his people. His side that was responsible for this. The cardinal that stood, watching her with glee and a toothy grin, was of his side. He wasn't supposed to do this! Surely not. She was just a child!

A man appeared next to the angel; eyes covered by dark circles of glass as he looked at the scene in front of them with disgust. Eyebrow raised as he scowled at the priests not too far from them. The angel cast a glance to his side; quickly recognising the man to be the demon Crowley. He swallowed harshly, feeling a sharp pain of anger and betrayal as he whispered to the demon in a hushed voice;

“Is this your side’s doing? How dare you. She is just a child.”

It was denial. He knew the demon had no hand in this but he found it increasingly harder to believe that there was anything holy part of this. The demon grunted with a raised brow as he looked, studied the frazzled angel, before finally answering with a sigh.

“No,” the vowels of the word elongated, “the humans did this all on their own... And frankly, I’m offended you’ll think that of me.”

He crossed his arms as he returned covered eyes to the fiery scene in front of them. The girl was still alive. A pitiful sight that even Crowley couldn’t help but feel a sense of… well, he wasn't sure of what it was. Not something good or anything light-hearted the typical demon would feel while watching a champion of God burn.

“I’m not one to hurt children or… teens... Holy or not.”

The angel, Aziraphale, shivered. He could feel her pain as if it was his own. He could sense the mixture of emotions of the crowd. Hatred being the strongest amongst them. He was torn. He desperately wanted to intervene. Painfully wanted to. But it was too late. And not in his place to do so. Duty to Heaven outweighed duty to protect the young and the innocent and the realisation of it burned him deeply. 

“She’s in such pain,” he said in a broken whisper, shaking from the pain that translated from her to him. He could feel it in the veins and joints of his human form. He trembled but dared not to look or walk away as the flames rose higher. He heard Crowley mutter something but couldn’t pay attention to what it had been about. He felt the demon’s arm come up around his shoulder and he finally broke the trance he had been in to glance at his old friend. He was about to say something when he was interrupted with a loud sound of something passing through the air. The familiar sound of an arrow flying fast through the wind and over the cheering crowd. It landed firmly right in the centre of the warrior girls heart; killing her instantly. Sparing her the pain of choking to death on the toxic smoke and the torturous death of slowly burning alive; her flesh melting, exposing the white bone.

Peace rolled over her as her body relaxed and slumped against the large pillar of wood as death overtook her. Her eyes turned to the single beam of light that had fought its way through the blackened clouds.

Aziraphale’s breath hitched and got stuck in his throat, (though he was an immortal being of light and stars; he had caught on to the habit of breathing). He coughed into his fist as yelling erupted throughout the crowd. Guards and priests alike yelled accusations and commandments to find the archer. The delivery of what they thought was an untimely death. The arm on his shoulder tucked him free of his entrapment on the stone pavement; pulling him away from the screaming crowd, and with a snap, teleporting them away as the people were far too busy noticing the pair disperse into thin air.

They reappeared again in what Aziraphale recognised as the demon’s Scottish townhouse. His residence for the decade. It laid in a town that always was, by some miracle, undisturbed by the wars and battles that raised hell around it. Crowley guided him down unto a hard, but comfortable, chair in front of a dark wooden table. Within a blink of an eye; a hot steaming cup of tea appeared in front of him. He blinked, still shellshocked from what he had seen in France seconds prior. His hands were shaking as he reached for the cup; he realised it was a battle he would lose and settled to rest his hands on the cold wood. Tanned hands carefully placed themselves on top of Aziraphale’s own pale ones and he looked up to see Crowley, glassless, with a pitying look in his eyes.

“Oh,” Aziraphale swallowed deeply his own spit and nerves, “Michael liked her so much. Michael never liked anyone, you know. Can’t imagine what this will do to… Michael.”

Michael was a diverging thought. It was easier to think about how the execution of the Maiden of Orléans affected someone else than… himself. His head was buzzing madly with loud thoughts, interrupting and contradicting each other. The path she had been sent on… the visits by Michael and the two saints had been the doing of God… so didn’t this mean that her capture… her burning at the stake was too? Oh! Surely this line of thinking was blasphemous but the thoughts wouldn’t stop. Jehanne, Jeanne, Joan; whatever people would come to call her only ever did what she was told was the Lord’s will and it had led straight to her death. His ranting thoughts were interrupted by the soft squeeze of his hands; thankfully so, Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was ever going to end.

Crowley’s look in his eyes hadn’t changed; still pitying, if not on the verge of full-on worrying. If the angel had any more sense at that moment he would’ve seen that it wasn’t just on the edge of worry. It had taken a nosedive right into the large open sea of it the moment he hadn’t picked up the cup of sweet tea that the demon knew his angel loved ever so much.

“I don’t… know how to make this any better or… easier for you,” Crowley said with a sigh; trying his best, really. “She’s not the first or will she ever be the last to… well, y’know.” 

He winched at his own words and leaned away from the angel; hand not moving, still a blanket of comfort on Aziraphale’s slowly relaxing soul. The angel nodded; though it hadn’t… properly been expressed, he knew what the demon tried to convey. And, despite it all, Aziraphale felt himself ever so slightly relax in the quiet comfort of Crowley. He mustered the strength to pick up the ceramic cup, one he recognised to be given to Crowley by him once upon a time. It tasted of local berries, of a saccharine and bitter taste.

He could overcome this. And the inevitable next one; though he hated just the thought of it. He could overcome it and as long as he had Crowley by his side; he was sure he could overcome just about everything.