CLOSED, QUEST; this party's just another haunted house

[atreefull]

WHO: Aziraphale + NPCs
WHAT: Aziraphale travels to the manor in the Western Isles in search for answers and, of course, a book.
WHERE: The Western Isles.
WHEN: The end of October/Early November.
WARNINGS: Blood, murder.


Travel to the manor in the Western Isles alone. Step only in the library. What you seek will be waiting.


Aziraphale would be the first to admit that he is slow to adapt, that he likes what's comfortable, and that Fellden is directly challenging him in so many ways that he deeply dislikes. Humanity has made him feel helpless before — they're good at that, at finding new ways to be cruel to each other, and little miracles only help so much — but everyone is suffering at the hands of something he doesn't know. He cannot help in the way that he wants to, in the ways that he should be able to; so when all is clear and done and everyone is left picking up the pieces, Aziraphale makes sure to keep the bookshop open. It's a little thing, a small thing, but if he can offer one place as a safe haven it will have to be enough.

It's hard to shake the idea that the cards are stacked against them, against this world. Unlike Earth, where he knew and dwelled secure in the knowledge that the Almighty was watching over them all.

He doesn't expect the letter, or the person who brings it. Crowley wouldn't bother sending something like that when they have their compasses or when he could simply swing by in person. The letter is short, to the point, and when he looks up to find the courier to send a reply, they're simply not there anymore. His eyes drift back to the words — The Western Isles; a place he hasn't been to yet, having no reason to. Well, there's a first time for everything.

Tucking the letter into his coat, Aziraphale makes his excuses to the shop owner of why he's leaving early in the day. They're kind, kind enough to give him the time off without pressing further — something Aziraphale appreciates, considering he's nervous enough as it is. Traveling back home had always come with a sort of understanding that he has seen quite a lot, and that there aren't many places he hasn't been. A quick stop in Auckland, a nip on over to Santiago after — it's nothing new, he knows what to expect from every corner of the world almost. And delights in each part of it, of course. It's Earth, created by Her hand and Her will, and filled with impossible, wonderful things.

Fellden…. well, Aziraphale still doesn't really know what to make of Fellden. He can only assume that he was meant to be here, for some reason. Some ineffable reason; why else would he and Crowley have arrived at the same time? That he's taken it upon himself to find the truth, to find a way to save all worlds, to save the things he loves, well. That would have been a given. He's done a lot within the past, oh, year, to do exactly that. To save books, good food, and the potential of holding Crowley's hand once more. That much, at least, hasn't changed.

So Aziraphale makes his way to the Western Isles, to the dwarves and their lands. The mirrors are hardly his favorite choice of transportation, but teleporting still only seems to work with any measure of success in short distances. It doesn't remind him of anything else on Earth or Upstairs — they always simply traveled up stairs and there he was, surrounded by white and emptiness. Earth had always felt, well. Better. Just the right amount of crowded and busy and full of life instead of empty. He'd always, in his heart of hearts, felt more at home there than Heaven itself — a secret he's kept wrapped up inside of him.

Traveling amongst the dwarves gives him the same feeling, as if he's out of place amongst their grand inventions — dressed in his cremes and tartan — and the looks they send his way do nothing to soothe his nerves. Twisting in his anxious way, he makes the sort of empty pleasantries that humans expect before catching a glimpse of his destination.

It is unlike anything he's seen on Earth except for those images captured by the imaginations of humans, and it makes him so curious the feeling burns in his chest bright and aching. Fellden, at least, has done its best to teach him that nothing is impossible.

Abandoned, perhaps? Or perhaps not — he can't say for certain even as he knocks and gets no response from anyone inside. But it doesn't feel as if it has been left alone. And when he steps inside that feeling only grows stronger; there is something here. He takes a step off to a side room, curious, only the moment that he tries there is a resounding everything that seems to tell him that he shouldn't. A force so powerful and overwhelming that for a moment Aziraphale thinks it might be Her.

Perhaps it is.

It's enough that he heeds it and keeps on his path to the library. Opening the door, he cannot imagine what might be there — or how much time he might need to spend in it to find all that he wants to know.

It isn't what he expected.

Mostly because there aren't any books, and he looks around, dismayed. Did the letter writer intend to send him on a wild goose chase? It wouldn't be the first time, he admits, but he'd hoped for… well, for anything but this. Wandering to a shelf, Aziraphale drags a finger through the dust — it's been ages, surely, but where did they all go?

He wanders around the library, looking in nooks and crannies for some sort of hint if he's missed something, anything. Nothing, and he's about to turn and take his leave when he feels the rush of displaced wind of something just materializing in thin air, displacing it. Ah, he thinks, and reaches for the book in front of him. This, this is what he's been looking for.

Excitement takes over and Aziraphale simply flips it open then and there, eager to read as much as he can as quickly as he can. Nothing, however, seems as easy as it should be — there's nothing he can read on the pages; not in any language he's ever known to exist. And oh, he knows them all. He blinks, flipping to the front again, and sighs at the first line: Our story begins in Caph. It's something, it's more than he thought, and he tucks the book under his arm — the rest will take some time to figure out and, well. Better to take it with him so that he can take care of it rather than leave it here in the library to rot.

The day seems to be full of surprises, however, because he does not expect to find himself face to face with something that no longer has a body. Surprise runs through him, as well as a resurgence of his nerves, and he shifts from foot to foot before hazarding a greeting.

"Ah, hello? Hello. Sorry to intrude, I was just— it was this letter, you see, and—" Oh no, that won't do at all. Aziraphale sighs, and tries this again. "Hello. Might I ask, and pardon me if this seems indelicate, but… who are you?"

( 1204 )

Comments

[felldennpc]

There is no answer from the Entity. What could be arguably called its "face" is blank, devoid of all features let alone any expression, it seems to watch Aziraphale as the angel speaks. Magic sloughs off it like smoke, disappearing into the air in thin wisps.

Who are you? Aziraphale asks, and the only answer the Entity gives him is a flood of malevolent energy that fills the room with crushing pressure. It's thick like salt water, covering every inch of Aziraphale's body and even with the Divine Light of God to protect him, this Entity seems able to reach right through it.

It's danger, and Aziraphale's in its home.

[atreefull]

For a moment Aziraphale is glad he cannot breathe -- it threatens to choke him, to drown him, the overwhelming pressure of something malevolent that cuts to the quick in a way nothing has. He would argue that he's had more exposure to evil as Heaven would describe it than most of the heavenly host but this is something else. It's not brimstone in the way that he associates with Hell, nor the smell of a wood fire that he associates with Crowley. This is different, and it's chilling.

He takes a step backwards under the force of it, quietly telling himself not to panic. He's seen Satan himself rise up from the tarmac, for goodness sake. He can do this. His eyes dart from side to side; if only he'd brought the sword, if only Crowley was here.

Swallowing thickly, Aziraphale attempts to shuffle the feeling aside and continue on with the conversation. "I didn't mean to intrude. Well, I suppose I did, but there was a letter that said I might find answers here. If I had known--" Known what? Aziraphale sighs, clutching the book a little tighter to his chest.

( 192 )

[felldennpc]

The magic of this malevolent energy has a signature similar to Lucifer as he created his home down in the Pit, but there is no flame to come with this evil. It's the exact opposite: a damp chill one would find in a British winter, right before the snow hit. It sticks to every surface, seeps down into Aziraphale's bones, and the Entity reaches for the book in his arms.

Sparks jump between forming fingers, and in a guttural, beastly voice, it says: Prin... ci... pal... ity...., drawing out each syllable as if it's cursing the very creature Aziraphale is.

[atreefull]

Oh that's not good. The cold has him shivering; if it hadn't been the cold it would have been the familiarity that strikes him. He is a soldier of God, yes, but it has been thousands of years since he had marched with the heavenly host, smiting down Her enemies. One might never really forget how to bring flame to a sword blade, how it feels in one's hand, the divine call to fight in her name, but Aziraphale has always used violence as a last resort.

(And it's shameful, that sometimes his gut instinct is to harm rather than help, when his back is up against the wall and he can see no other way. He remembers lowering the gun at Adam, how ready he was if it meant saving the world.)

That the thing knows what he is only makes him take a step further back, clutching the book tighter now. It's this thing's, he can feel that, but he needs it. It could be something, it could save them all. His mind whirls, spins, lands on desperation.

"Please-- I know it's yours, I'm sorry, but I was told to come here. I-- I think it might help everyone. And I can't-- I can't just let that chance go." The dislike he can feel rattling in his head with the echoes of the voice makes him shudder again; only Hell caries such menace in their voices, in their being -- he doesn't know who, or what, this thing is, he just knows that he is in grave, grave danger.

He hadn't even told anyone where he'd gone. And who was going to fill out all the paperwork if he got, well. If something happened to him?

( 289 )

[felldennpc]

It might help everyone.

The statement cuts through that evil, and that extended hand pauses. Withdraws. The lighting bolts still crackle and pop along its quickly deteriorating form, but the Entity seems to be considering that. As it stands there, the chill that had seeped into every crevice starts to receed.

The Entity says, in that same guttural growl: Help.... me...

[atreefull]

For a moment Aziraphale wavers. He knows what he felt, he knows what he feels, but the pause is... it's something, perhaps. The fact that the hand pauses in reaching for him is a relief; one that shows on his face the moment it happens, and with the coldness curling back away from him his panic recedes a little. This break might be what he needs to figure out how to get out of there in one piece, with the book--

And then the Entity speaks, that growl sending him nearly shaking and having the panic and nervousness rise up in him until the words actually register. There is so much that must be hurting about the Entity's existence, the lighting, the fact that now that he looks closer he can see that it is practically falling apart.

The malevolence, that familiar evil -- he's ignored perhaps not identical, but similar before out of friendship and, well. Suffice to say it hasn't made that much of a difference in all of his life on Earth. And if this individual needs his help, is asking for his help, well. Aziraphale couldn't possibly deny him.

So, still clutching the book, he nods. "Yes," and then, a little louder and stronger. "I will, although-- although I'll need a nudge in the right direction." It can't be wrong to want to help this person, this Entity. Aziraphale refuses to believe that -- knows that it might change.

But he'll deal with that when it happens.

( 251 )

[felldennpc]

Such enthusiasm this Entity has not seen in who knows how long, and even though it cannot speak there's a feeling of gratitude that emanates from it.

With no small amount of concentration on its behalf, the Entity forms a hand and extends it once more toward Aziraphale. This time, not to harm. The low growl comes in the form of the word Promise, the deep timbre causing the floorboards beneath their feet to vibrate.

[atreefull]

Be it the rattling floorboards, the gratitude, or the simple weight of the word promise itself, Aziraphale knows this isn't undertaken lightly. But he'd already given his word, and his heart has already been touched and moved. That such hostility might hide a human emotion such as want and helplessness -- he's far better off extending his hand in peace and healing than continue to bear ill-will to this thing -- this being -- he doesn't understand.

What good would denying the Entity help do? As far as Aziraphale can tell, there's more to be gained in this promise, this agreement, than he'd ever get by denying it. So he reaches for the hand, aiming to grasp it with his in a firm but yielding grip.

"I promise to help, however I can."

The fact that he doesn't know what, exactly, he's promising or to who doesn't really occur in that moment.

( 150 )

[felldennpc]

The moment their hands meet, Aziraphale will feel a burn somewhere on his person: a slim line, as though it was drawn by a weak hand. Slender branches fan out for an inch before coming to a halt and dissipating into Aziraphale's skin. In all, it takes only a few seconds for the tattoo to write itself — and the Entity lets its form completely disintegrate.

That feeling of gratitude around the angel lingers for as long as he stays in the Manor, a stark contrast to the powerful force he had felt before. He'll also feel an ambient urge for the book to be protected more than any other. Treat it kindly, and it will return the favor.

The Entity has allowed him to leave. Aziraphale has proved himself worthy of the knowledge.

[atreefull]

His forearm burns, but Aziraphale doesn't blink or try and wrench his arm back — the shape of the tattoo gives him pause; a tree? Or perhaps something else. He will look later now that the Entity is gone and he is… free to leave? He must be. There's nothing hostile in the manor here now, just a lingering sense that he's done something that brought relief to someone that seeps into him. It's enough to bring a small smile to his face, standing there, looking rather foolish to eyes that don't exist.

Looking down at the book he's still clutching to his chest, Aziraphale runs a hand down the spine almost reverently. "You and I shall become closely aquatinted, I think." This is the first thing he has that isn't censored heavily, that promises to reveal something he desperately wants to know. The beginning. A beginning, and perhaps The Beginning.

Aziraphale hums contentedly — a half hymn as he makes his return to Kyst to put the book somewhere safe. The bookshop he works at will do nicely, he thinks, so long as it's buried and not found by eager customers. That had been the hardest part; letting them just pick up anything and buy it before he'd even gotten the chance to see what it was.

This, however — he wasn't going to let just anyone touch this. Surely Aulesia will understand why he wants to keep it in the back. They had a quiet understanding, the two of them, one Aziraphale found himself grateful for over the time he's worked in their shop.

Traveling back through the mirrors, Aziraphale makes note of what to do next: ask about the script he doesn't understand, tell Crowley he's finally found something, and see where to go from there. He knows that other people have been itching for answers that Aziraphale can't give, that the Emperor and the High Priestess won't out of pride — if he could help them, too, then this quest would have been worth it. Whatever may come of his promise.

(Although Aziraphale doesn't think anything bad will come of it, as strangely naive as it might be.)

His thoughts are broken the closer he gets to the shop, however. Someone runs by him, calling for someone behind her: come look, now!, before disappearing into a worryingly large crowd around the shop — the window he'd just fixed has been broken once more, and he sighs; it's not enough to account for the crowd, but really.

He'll have to talk to Aulesia about that, Aziraphale thinks. Only — the crowd parts around him, whispering to themselves without him having to use any miracle to get the to clear. Something starts in his chest, heavy and full of dread: a lead balloon, if one will.

Upon reaching the doorway, Aziraphale stands stock-still, shock running across his face along with aching sadness and horrible, gutwrenching guilt. There have been few times where he has ever directly been responsible for death, beyond the first heavenly war, of course. But this — this is done for him. Because of him. Directed at him.

The shop is in disarray, shelves toppled and books ruined, but even though there's a part of him that cries out at the mistreatment, it's not what has his attention. Aulesia lies dead on the ground, their head bashed in and deep cuts across the body — someone wanted blood, and got plenty of it. The arms are bent at unnatural angles; Aziraphale's stomach churns terribly at the violence of it, at the intent of it all.

Of the intent of the words left on the floor: DIGGING MAKES YOU DEAD.

He did this, he's responsible for it, all because he'd wanted answers — guilt wells up within his chest, and it's with an extremely forceful miracle that he clears the crowd around the shop, shutting the door with a soft click until it's just him, the corpse, the message.

"Oh Lord," he whispers, wishing that She could answer him here, that the grace in his chest would alleviate some of the guilt. "What have I done?"

Aziraphale stays like that for some time after, clutching the book to his chest.

( 704; total: 2790 )