Ignoring History - Ranger's Apprentice Fanfiction

Chapter 23

~☕Crowley☕~

Faking a death was harder than Crowley had anticipated. It was a good idea, but there were so many layers behind it that it quickly became complicated. For one, they couldn't really make it a bloody death. No one liked the idea of wounding the baron; it would have created several problems, and it could have easily ended with actual death.

That was why they had chosen poison.

Of course, the baron wouldn't actually be consuming the poison. He would fake it. It was a faked death for a reason, after all.

Leaning against a wall, Crowley held tightly onto a vial. He stroked the glass with his thumb. It was cold in his hand, almost burning. Even with the poison on the other side of a wall, Crowley couldn't help but to be a little nervous.

He didn't show it though. His cloak was wrapped tightly around him, and he stood like a statue. From underneath his cowl, he watched the shadows move with the sun. And in his head, he counted.

Two eighty-seven. Two eighty-eight. Two eighty-nine.

The corridor was silent, but Crowley didn't move. His head rested against the wall, ear beside a door. He continued to wait.

Two ninety-two. Two ninety-three. Two ninety-four.

He gripped tighter onto the vial. With any more force, the glass would have shattered.

Two ninety-seven. Two ninety-eight. Two ninety-nine.

Crack!

Pain exploded in Crowley's face. He bit back a gasp, hot liquid running from his nose. Tears blurred his vision, and he could just about make out the two servants that had emerged from the kitchens as the door bounced off his face.

Using his free hand to cover his bloody nose, Crowley wedged his foot against the door before it could slam shut. He allowed his eyes to close for a moment, drawing in a breath. Then, he slipped inside.

There were only two chefs on duty, leaving the kitchens quieter than normal. Master Chubb had given the apprentices a day off, and the others were on lunch break.

Crowley crept forward. His boots made no noise as he placed each of his steps down, careful and vigilant. Pressure weighed down his shoulders, and Crowley restarted his counting. It wouldn't have been long until a few servants came back. Someone needed to serve Baron Arald lunch.

His eyes found a group of silver platters sitting on the edge of a table. To his relief, they were all labeled. Crowley quickly found the baron's, which was situated next to Lady Pauline and Nigel's. It made sense, considering that they would be the ones dining with him.

Crowley glanced at the chefs, who had their backs facing him, before reaching out a hand to lift the lid off the platter. He suddenly froze, fingers less than an inch away from the lid, and he stepped back. But not before a drop of blood had fallen, tainting the flawless metal.

He had forgotten about his bloody nose.

Looking around the kitchen, Crowley searched for a napkin or towel. It should have been easy with it being the kitchen and all, but it wasn't. Such was the case with missions.

Counting forgotten, he pressed his back against a wall. His eyes focused on a towel, which laid on a windowsill. It sat right in the line of the sun, a bit too close to the chefs for his liking.

Crowley prowled forward, careful as to not let any more blood spill. He stepped into the light, resisting a flinch when the shadows changed. He quickly grabbed the towel and crouched down. 

The sweet scent of honey drifted into his nose, and Crowley looked back at the windowsill. Beside where the towel had been was a plate of sweetcakes. His mouth watered, and his eyes widened when he sensed a growl coming from his stomach. Cringing, he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself.

When his stomach growled, Crowley pushed down the temptation to escape through the open window. He clenched his fists, the cold glass of the vial now hot. Sweat hung from the tips of his hair, brushing against his skin. He held his breath.

"Didn't you already have lunch?" One of the chefs said.

The other turned to him in surprise. "You mean that wasn't your stomach?"

They eyed each other suspiciously before spinning around. Crowley forced his body to relax. Trust the cloak, he told himself. He had to trust the cloak. It should have been second nature by now, but Crowley didn't think he would ever get used to the feeling of unease that would hit him.

When the chefs finally turned back, Crowley hurried across the room back to the table. Thankfully, they hadn't spotted the speckle of blood that he had left behind.

Lifting up the lid for real this time, Crowley stepped back at the steam that bellowed out. He waved it away, blinking out the moisture. He popped open the vial and tipped it over. The poison slowly dripped out, melting into the chicken and dissolving in the rice. Crowley looked up when the doorknob turned, dropping the lid back down.

He pocketed the empty vial, diving into a corner. The shelf next to him offered a sense of security as he shrunk himself down, making his body as small as possible. He watched the servants walk toward the table, offering the chefs a greeting. They took the silver platters, and like a dream, they left.

Left to deliver Baron Arald's final meal.

Standing, Crowley's shoulders slumped in relief. He nodded approval to himself, patting himself on the back. As he made his way to leave, his eye caught the sweetcakes again. He grinned to himself.

Crowley walked towards the window and stared down at the sweetcakes. The chefs wouldn't mind if he took one, right? Or two? He grabbed a nearby basket and began piling the cakes in them. It didn't take long for him to have nicked all the cakes.

It was only when he was halfway out the door he was finally caught.

"Hey!" came one voice. And then another.

This time, Crowley bolted down the hall. His boots made the loudest noise it had in years. Cloak flying behind him, Crowley slid around the corner. Adrenaline pumped in his veins, and he laughed to himself.

Soon, Crowley found himself on the parapets. He hooked his leg over the wall, sliding down onto the soil, outside of the castle boundaries. Running, he bumped straight into Egon, who had been waiting. He would be joining him, Duncan, Pauline, and Berrigan to Araluen.

"What are you doing?" he hissed when Crowley shoved the basket of sweetcakes into his hands.

"Maybe they'll think it was Halt," Crowley muttered. He dragged Egon out to where Berrigan had prepared the horses.

"Did you steal these?"

"Of course not!" Crowley exclaimed. "I repurposed them."

Berrigan looked up as they approached, already on his horse. He frowned. "Halt's not with you?" 

Crowley froze in his tracks. "I thought he was already here."

"He's not—"

Pauline's scream shattered the air. She and Duncan would be out soon.

Turning, Crowley looked back in the direction of the castle. He frowned. "He'll be here," he said.

"How do you know for sure?"

"Because..." Crowley bit down on his lip. His eyebrows knitted together. Why did he know? He wasn't anywhere near close to Halt. The most they had interacted was at the meeting, and even then, there was something about him that he wanted to trust. It was strange, considering the dark air around him. Sighing, he climbed onto Cropper.

"Because I trust him," he said. "Or, at least, I trust him to do the right thing. He'll be here."