Ignoring History - Ranger's Apprentice Fanfiction

Chapter 39

~☕Crowley☕~ 

Crowley didn't know what was worse: that Tiller wasn't talking or that it had been over a week since he had heard any news about the revolution. Rationally, he knew that a week was no time at all for anything major to have happened, especially if the only thing the townspeople had to gossip over was a rat living in the attic. He still worried though. With only a waiting game to play, there was nothing to do but sit and think. And by then, Crowley had thought about anything that could possibly need thinking over—and even things that didn't need thinking over.

Crowley found that his thoughts continuously went back to the ones they had lost: Farrel, Egon, Pritchard, the lot of them. People—his friends—had given their lives up to a revolution that hadn't been certain up until a couple weeks ago. They had died, and more would die, while he was doing nothing within the safe confines of a castle. Simply put, Crowley was restless. He could do nothing as a sitting duck.

Pacing the floor in front of the throne room, Crowley looked up when the door creaked open. The tiniest sliver of hope bloomed in his chest, but it was extinguished before he had a chance to open his mouth. Duncan shook his head as he stepped out of the room.

"Any luck?" Crowley said even though he already knew the answer.

Duncan sighed. "No. His lips are sealed."

Crowley couldn't help but laugh, but it was more pained than anything. Tiller's perseverance would have been impressive, admiring even if not for the man he served. In a different world, Crowley would have respected the loyalty, but he loathed it now. Despise was the only thing he felt for Tiller. Gritting his teeth, he looked back towards the door. Annoyance pricked at his skin until he bristled. Despite the hours he had spent pacing back and forth, he wasn't tired at all. If anything, he was more irritated.

And Crowley was never one to be patient.

"Berrigan's in there now?"

There was something like nervousness in Duncan's eyes as he regarded Crowley, a glimmer of uncertainty as a hard frown replaced the tired lines on his face. "Yes," he said but not before the pause had drawn out too long.

Crowley was moving before his brain had even processed Duncan's response. He barely had time to think when he shoved the doors open.

"Crowley?"

His eyes immediately zeroed in on Tiller, who sat, hands bound, behind a wooden table. The chair across from him was empty, and Berrigan straightened from where he had been leaning against the table. A couple of Stanley's men, as well as Stanley himself, had been standing and chattering to themselves next to a pillar, but all conversation ceased as Crowley marched inside.

It was eerily silent as his boots echoed against the marble tiles. Taking the chair by its back, a loud, high-pitched squeak reverberated across the chamber as he dragged it against the floor. He slammed it onto the ground beside Tiller.

"That's enough."

Straddling the chair, he rested his arms on the back of it. In his hand, his saxe knife appeared out of thin air. He pointed it at Tiller without so much of a thought. "Did you," he said, voice low, "or did you not impersonate Prince Duncan in Picta?"

Tiller glared defiantly back at Crowley. His lips were zipped tighter than ever.

Crowley's knuckles were ghostly. He leaned forward, hand scarily steady as he held the blade underneath Tiller's chin.