The Ashes of Eden

Only the good die young

"Fuck!" he yelled, through gritted teeth. Meanwhile, his numb hands slumped onto the floor beside him.

This was all his fault. Why had he over-estimated his own abilities? Especially since that was one of the traits, he had always critiqued the most about either heaven or hell. Here he sat now. Useless. Humiliated. Just like all of them. A tool for the higher purpose of another party.

All of their principalities had let them down. Left them here to croak. Those bastards. If his rage hadn't filled out the whole inside of his chest, he would have already curled up on the floor crying. This was all so unreal.

Not even in his darkest nightmares he could have imagined ending up under the force of a bunch of Nazi pigs. The name of his best... no... the name of the love of his life carved into his soul with holy water, mixed with guilt. "For satan's sake, why him?" he mumbled, not caring about the fact he was talking to himself.

His nerves were shivering due to the boiling rage inside of him. He felt like a caged-up animal. His "claws" dug into the fabric off his sleeves, his knuckles turning white. By now his jaw was so tensed, he felt like his teeth were extracted with a rusty pair of pillars. He tried relaxing only causing a suffocated sob to escape his petrified body. A panting breath followed. Apparently, he had forgotten to inhale for the past minutes.

Blankly he stared at the wall across the room. Due to the missing daylight in the room, the white tiles appeared grey. Yet the blood stains stuck out extremely.

Blood stains... Blood stains who weren't supposed to be there. Blood stains who had no permission to even exist. They were mocking him. Witnessed his failure. Stared back at him like thousand blood-red eyes. They ate through his flesh, directly into his guts. None of them blinked. He was hypnotized, at the same time disgusted by them. A testimony for his angel's suffering.

He couldn't take it. Suddenly he snapped out of the rigidity induced by shock, causing his hands to shoot up to his face. The sharp pain of his nails digging into his skin didn't bother him. As long as he could cover his eyes. Hot blood dwelled out of the scratches his fingernails left on his skin.

Maybe if he tore off the skin from his face, the pressure inside of him would escape from his head. The chains of the handcuffs burnt into his skin as well. Branded him with the marks of defeat.

If he had been in control of his body, he would have screamed. Just screamed. Cried. Sobbed for forgiveness. Pointless attempts to prevent himself from slipping into insanity.

His breathing turned into uncontrolled gasping, causing his lungs to fill with needles instead of oxygen. Immediately his hands scratched down to his neck, trying to fight off the invisible hands that were choking him.

The battle with himself turned into a fight of agony.

Inside of his mind the pressure increased with every thought. Every evidence of his failure. Choirs of mockery echoed in his mind. Maniac snickers. The accusations were the worst. "STOP IT!" he yelled out; his voice was hoarse, close to cracking. A violent sob followed.

"I AM SORRY..." he whimpered over and over, trying to ease their anger. "I am so sorry..." his muscles gave out in that extreme state of panic and despair, causing him to fall to the cold ground. There he curled up.

He didn't know how long he laid there. How often he had yelled at the imaginary judges. How much he had cried... Never before he had failed like this... All these centuries he had never lost so overwhelmingly. From now, since back then in Eden...

Eden...

All of sudden, his demons were banished by one sentence. A few words, yet so powerful to silence the rampage inside of his body.

"Until the Ashes of Eden fall..." slipped from his bruised lips, like the last prayer of a wounded soldier.

Finally, the control over his body returned. Eventually, he managed to relax his tired muscles. Fatigue was trying to take over him now, but he resisted the urge to flee into sleep. Instead, he forced his shivering hands to push him up from the cold ground.

"Until the Ashes of Eden fall." He repeated, this time a little more confident. During the past hours his body had gotten used to the pain. So, the unbearable torture had turned into a terribly painful, constant throbbing of every nerve in his body. After a few calming breaths, he managed to lean with his back against the cold wall. Eyes closed so he could focus on his own thoughts. The few that weren't completely insane yet.

He needed getting them out of here. Or at least Aziraphale. Long ago he had sworn himself he wouldn't stop fighting against him until the Ashes of Eden fell... Here and now he wouldn't stop fighting for him until the Ashes of Eden fell...

Fell... Fallen... FALLING! That was it! That was the key... He didn't know if this idea was a brainwave or pure madness. A wince shot through his body when he thought about the pain off falling. Still, it couldn't be worse than dying after weeks of being tortured alive. On every other day in his life, he would have done everything to prevent the angel from falling.

Right now, it was their only hope. Apparently, the only way out of this hell, was marching through the real hell. If he could convince Aziraphale to fall from his belief, he'd fall. Afterwards, all the restraints would be useless. They'd make it out of here... alive...

A strange mixture out of hope and despair caused a new shot of adrenalin to rush through his veins. He'd stay by his side while falling... take care of him afterwards. This was their only chance. A hoarse snicker escaped him.

Afterwards, he'd be the reason why the Ashes of Eden would fall... It would bury the heinous Nazi regime and soak up their blood. If he had had them with him, he'd put his sunglasses back on.

It must have been around midnight. At least Crowley's sense of time told him that. Silence filled the air of the cell, only interrupted by the demon's heavy breath from time to time. His head shot up, when he heard heavy footsteps approaching. Immediately his thoughts were silenced.

With all the concentration he had left, he tried to figure out how many soldiers were approaching. The crunching of the gravel made it difficult to count the number of people. One... two... three... four... he counted. Their steps were too weighty. Maybe they carried something? Now his interest was awoken fully.

Like a bug he crawled towards the bars of his cell, staring into the darkness, where the door was supposed to be. Of course, he made sure not to touch them. "Come on... Come on... Be with them..." he mumbled to himself. Yellow eyes shot through the darkness impatiently. A metallic screeching ripped the silence like a bullet, followed by the sound of the keys being turned in the lock.

The darkness outside was a whole different kind than the one inside the dungeon. It was lighter, less heavy. Quickly it fought back the despair-soaked darkness inside. Nearly Crowley's face would have touched the bars, while he unintentionally crawled closer. The tension inside of him build up more and more. Almost ripping his muscles.

"Aufpassen!" (Watch out!) one of the guards ordered, while stepping inside first. His strong back was facing him, blocking the view. Two other hulking men entered the room. They were carrying something on a stretcher covered under a white, blood stained fabric.

Crowley's heartbeat stopped, only for starting again three times as fast as before. His entire body was shivering again. By now his guts were cramping so much, he was close to vomiting. "Aziraphale..." he whispered in pure defeat. None of the horror scenarios in his mind could have prepared him for that terrible sight.

"Verdammt, wieso ist der Bastard so schwer? Sie haben ihn doch seit Wochen ausgehungert?" (Damn it, why is this bastard so heavy? I thought they had starved him for weeks now?) one of the soldiers complained.

An angry growl slipped past Crowley's lips. He wanted to rip them into pieces, shove their hearts up their asses... Humans were simply disgusting creatures. For him they truly were the reflection of god.

They sat down the stretcher in the middle of the other cell but did not remove the fabric. What had they done to him, so they needed covering him like this? Crowley was dying to find out. At the same times dying to not look at this horrible sight. It would burn itself into his memory forever... "leave..." he hissed towards them. Luckily, they didn't speak a single word English apparently and just ignored him.

Finally, they slammed the cell door shut. "Abrücken!" (March off!) The leader of the guards allowed them. The skinheads turned around on their heels. Years of training paid off. They didn't even dare to look any other way than right outside the door. Crowley was glad, they didn't.

His attention was glued to the white silhouette on the opposite side of the room. "Aziraphale...?" he whispered, barely audible. The fear of what was about to be revealed made him hesitate. Could he face him now? In this state? Would he be angry? Sad? Even able to talk? There was no other way than finding it out himself. "Aziraphale..." he called out once again.

His entire body refused to move. He was frozen in place. Not even the painful throbbing inside of his body caused him to shiver. Neither the collar, nor his panting breath, nor his chains were torturing him anymore. Only the uncertainty if his angel was still alive.

"AZIRAPHLE!" he called out in pure despair; his voice cracked halfway. Hot tears dwelled up again, nearly blinding him. "Please..." he whimpered. Something he had never done before... Beg... "Please... It's me. Crowley! Crawley! I don't care... Aziraphale." He continued pleading, slithering closer to the dangerous bars. "This is all my fault..." he burst out. "I am so sorry..." he sobbed harder, being grateful for not needing oxygen.

He felt like crippled vermin. Suddenly his knees gave out. He fell to the ground in front of the bars, that separated them. Blurry eyesight tried catching a single sign of life. "For god's sake... please." He whispered in agony. With his last strength the tried to reach out for him.

His arms ached, while the chains ripped open the wounds around his wrists. He didn't care. Without paying attention to his own pain, he stretched his entire body. The chain between the left and right handcuff got stuck at the bars. A hissing sound echoed through the cell, followed by the smell of burnt flesh. "Argh!! Fuck!" he swore, when his palm of his right hand got burnt by the steel.

Still he didn't give up. With his index finger he tried getting a hold of the clothing that hid his friend from. His breath panted harder. He gritted his teeth, biting his tongue. A few swears slipped from his lips. With two fingers he managed to get a hold of the surprisingly heavy fabric.

"I am here..." he whispered, hoping to spend his angel a bit of comfort, even though he still wasn't sure if he was still alive. He took a deep breath and tried to rip away the cover. Due to his weak state, he couldn't remove it. Instead, it slipped a bit to the side. Defeated Crowley fell to the floor, his face resting on the cold floor. Rock bottom.

He was about to give up. Simply give in. When an invisible movement caught his attention. At first, he couldn't believe his eyes. But he forced them to focus. They were fixed onto the top ending of the stretcher and... there it was... it raised up and down nearly unnoticeably. It was there... he was there... "alive..." the demon breathed out in relief.

Even though he couldn't have been happier about this realization, he couldn't bare starring at him all the time. It only reminded him off all the torture, the pain... the misery. His head turned to the side. Now he was staring at the wall opposite to Aziraphale's cell.

There on the ground laid something, that was valiantly curbing the darkness around it. A white spot. Like a star in the night sky. A shimmer off hope. The longer he looked at it the sharper he could see it. It was feather... An angel's feather. He felt the lump in his throat grow.

Over there in a puddle of dirty water laid one of Aziraphale's feathers. Soaked with mud... and... blood. The symbolism in this was so crushing, Crowley felt like going insane once again. The feather over there had been plugged by these monsters... stained with blood and dirt... broken... besmeared with their terrible intentions. Yet it was still glowing. Spending hope...

He would reform Aziraphale's innocence.