Happy Holidays, irisbleufic!

[goe_mod]

Title: Party like it's 1344
Recipient Name: irisbleufic
Rating: T
Pairings: Aziraphale/Crowley
Warnings: none
Brief summary: It's the fourteenth century. Crowley's having a hell of a time.

1301

My dear Crowley,
I have to admit, I don't like the pope. He only got into office after intrigues, and he's constantly challenging and fighting fair Philip. That's no behaviour for a proper pope!
Be a dear and don't mention anything written in this letter to anyone. I'm sure Gabriel wouldn't be too fond of hearing it. After all, as an angel, I should always be on the pope's side, even though I'm personally with the king this time.
In love,
Aziraphale

Angel,
I'm not sure how mentioning the matter is different from writing it down. If you're concerned that Gabriel is constantly spying on you, wouldn't he be reading your correspondence, too? Then why did you write me?
Yours,
The Adversary

My dear Snake,
You're funny. Concerned about my worries, and yet you signed your letter as ‘The Adversary.’ Or was this meant to be a bad joke?
Do you know what exactly is going on between Philip and Bonifatius right now? Humans and their affairs are so confusing, but it seems important!
With kind regards,
The Angel of the Eastern Gate

Dear Former Cherub,
It's all about the money. The big shepherd needs it because he doesn't have any after the Crusades; the Iron King wants it because he's highly indebted, too. Wait until he goes after the Knights Templar and anyone else to whom he owes money — I'm calling it. It's also a matter of power over the clergy. The usual. They're basically indirectly calling each other the bane of humanity and the root of all evil.
I'm loving it. I just have to be in the same city as the pope and enjoy life, and I earn point`s with Down Below — who think that I'm behind all this. Influencing a pope gets bonus points. What more could I want?
Yours,
Tempter of Humanity
P.S. Is Gabriel even able to read? Maybe we should switch to a language he doesn’t know.

Low blow, Crowley.
Aziraphale

Dear Crowley,
I don't think Gabriel cares about my correspondence or else I would have already received a strongly worded letter from him or a personal visit, especially after your last letter.
Did you happen to read what is written down in the bull?
Sincerely,
Aziraphale

Aziraphale,
The pope wrote, “Therefore, of the one and only Church there is one body and one head, not two heads like a monster.” I don't see his problem with having two heads. At least like that, you would always have someone available for good conversation or discourse. If we were to fuse and become a two-headed monster, would you rather be the right head or the left head? A dumb question, I know. As a former Cherub you’d have nothing against having several heads; you’re rather used to it. That reminds me: How many heads do you have now, as a former-Cherub-gone-Principality? And if it's only one, what happened to the other three? Are there three other Aziraphales running around in Heaven? Is that why Gabriel is always so annoyed with you? Because there's too many of you around him already, and he doesn't want to deal with the last one? And how will I ever know which Aziraphale I'm talking to?
I have to disagree with the bull. The pope should not be absolute ruler over the church. It's much more fun the way it is.
Yours,
Crowley

Dear friend,
Philip is excommunicated, while Bonifatius is facing accusations of heresy, simony, idolatry, magic, the death of the pope prior to him, and probably some other things. Isn't sodomy always a common accusation? Nothing wrong with sodomy, I think, as long as both partners are consenting. I should check Heaven's official stance on this matter...
I'm sure Bonifatius is guilty at very least of the events leading to the death of his predecessor. That poor man wasn't cut out to be pope; he should have remained a hermit.
Such a man shouldn't be pope. I'm referring to both of them here, if that isn't clear.
On a personal note, I'm thinking about living the life of a hermit myself. It sounds rather appealing.
These times are exciting. Whatever happens now, it could change the history of Europe altogether!
In love,
Aziraphale
P.S. My heads are none of your business.

Dear Aziraphale,
Believe me when I tell you that you wouldn't like being a hermit. There are certain amenities you’d sorely miss. We'll talk about this in person.
Some people have attacked the pope and I just want to say that it wasn’t because of my influence! They did it on their own!
Crowley

Aziraphale,
The pope is dead! Long live the pope!
Crowley

My dear Crowley,
What is that supposed to mean?
We've got a new pope. I heard they demanded one not so hostile towards dear Philip. He's called Benedict XI, and his first order was to reverse Philip’s excommunication. I daresay that the secular powers have won this conflict.
In love,
Aziraphale

Aziraphale,
Just something that crossed my mind. It might sound better in French.
AC

Dear Crowley,
And once again we have need of a new pope! That was fast!
In love,
Aziraphale

My dearest Crowley!
It took them long enough, but the new pope is finally elected! Clement V doesn't want his coronation in Rome! He's staying in Lyon!
With appreciation,
Aziraphale

A.,
The new pope fell off his horse and doesn't feel like getting on again. He won't be moving to Rome at all.
C.

My dear Crowley,
I've heard he wants to stay in Poitiers for a while. He should stop being such a pansy. Riding a horse is not that hard — if you fall off, you have to get back on or you're never going to ride again. This is especially important if you're the pope. If one event happens that causes you to doubt Him for a minute, do you lose all your beliefs? No. It makes you stronger and you go on.
In love,
Aziraphale

Aziraphale,
Did I mention that he fell off because his horse saw a snake in the grass? That snake was me. The pope won't leave Poitiers because of me. Maybe you should come here to teach him that not every horse is alike, while I should leave this city and do my bad deeds somewhere else.
I understand, though, why he doesn't want to ride again. You know what kind of monsters the horses I have to ride are. I'm certain that horses for humans are descended from those hell horses.
There are probably political reasons that he's staying in France and not in Italy.
Anthony

I called it about the Templars Knights, didn't I?
C.

My dear Crowley,
I'm coming down to Avignon. I'd be pleased to meet you there.
Looking forward to seeing you,
Aziraphale

1323

“It's hard to believe that they grew wine grapes in England until just recently, and now it's so cold, isn't it?” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grunted in reply. He hadn’t had a chance yet to taste English wine. Maybe later today with Aziraphale.

Today had been a bad idea. It was beyond him why he’d agreed to Aziraphale's suggestion to go ice skating for their first in-person meeting this decade, since he hadn't been able to make it to their meeting in Avignon. Hell had officially ordered him to go somewhere else. It had been a shame; he had quite looked forward to seeing Aziraphale again.

But now this! Crowley wasn't even able to skate! He just clung to Aziraphale's cloak, hoping that the thick wool wouldn’t be harmed by him hanging there, getting dragged around.

He hoped that the ice under his feet^[1] didn't decide that the weight of two beings on it was too much, with them both ending up in the water.

(^[1] Properly equipped with a pair of skates!)

Crowley enjoyed a good bath as much as the next demon, but a bath in the freezing Baltic Sea in winter? He’d pass. Yes, he would be able to walk on water if the ice suddenly vanished, but in that first moment he'd still get wet feet. He certainly didn't want that. The water was cold; so cold that much of it was frozen solid, solid enough that more than just the two human-shaped beings were able to walk or skate on it.

“It's beautiful, this cold weather,” Aziraphale continued. “There's a stillness to the world when everything is white that's indescribable. Up There will never know what it’s missing.”

“Very beautiful,” Crowley repeated. His teeth started to chatter. He was a snake. He wasn't made for cold weather. He was made for long, warm days in Spain or Mesopotamia, ending with a good and heavy meal, not this.

“I've heard that wolves were able to walk down all the way down from Scandinavia to Eastern Europe,” Aziraphale said, just as a third pair of pants and a fourth shirt appeared on Crowley. “As if the dears down there didn't have enough problems already.”

“I’m thinking about going south these days, too. Somewhere warm. Maybe somewhere in Africa. Egypt sounds nice — I haven’t been to Egypt in a while.” Not since the death of Cleopatra. Oh, sweet Cleopatra. She had been such a smart woman, had always been up for a nice chat, and yet, she had died like anyone else. Humans, right?

“That sounds lovely, my dear. Is anything important happening down there these days? I haven’t heard anything from them for a while.” Not since a certain library had fallen, as Crowley knew. Aziraphale had told him about it one drunken night around 900.

“I have no idea,” Crowley admitted. “I haven’t been in touch with them at all. But as long as the Nile doesn’t get all bloody again, it can’t be worse than here.^[2]I’m freezing in places where I didn’t know it was possible to freeze.”

(^[2] He’d leave Egypt again in late 1324 to settle down in Milan for a while, after Mansa Musa had visited Egypt on his way to Mecca. There, Mansa Musa had inflated the whole country with tons of gold which he used to buy more useless souvenirs than a twenty-first century European tourist in a cheap market during their first visit in Istanbul. Crowley received his commendation for this just as he was debating whether or not he should buy some dates. He didn’t. He always lost his appetite when he heard the voice of Mammon.)

“Which places?”

“What?”

“Where are you freezing?”

That was a very personal question! “The soles of my feet, for example.”

“That’s your own fault, Crowley. You should just wear shoes like a human, instead of having that weird mix of shoes and your snake form. It’s always disturbing when I look at them.”

“You think these are my feet?”

Aziraphale stopped skating immediately and turned towards Crowley. He looked embarrassed. “They aren’t?”

“No. You mean just because they’re scaled? I can’t help it, every pair of shoes I wear automatically gets scales.”

“That’s quite strange.”

“I know.” It was a curse, he was sure. Crowley had been able to reduce the scales on his body to a minimum, but as soon as he wore shoes, the scales automatically took over. It was his punishment for that business with the apple. Everyone always had be reminded that he was the Serpent, bane and blessing of humanity. It was the same with his eyes. He just wasn't able to change them. He'd love to have a different eye colour, maybe grey, maybe a blue with which to stare deep into another’s eyes, but even more, he'd love to have normal, round pupils. He didn't want to wear sunglasses all the time.

“It’s just that way, and I can’t change it,” he continued, ready to drop the topic. “Now, can we move on? I don’t like being in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’re not in the middle of nowhere, you’re with me on the Baltic Sea,” Aziraphale said, continuing their way over the ice. “You’re going to love the little pub I’ve picked out for later this evening. They’ve got some quite nice fish dishes.” Aziraphale started to tell Crowley everything about the pub, whether he wanted to know or not.

Crowley didn’t mind. It was nice to be quiet and listen to the angel’s voice while trying to ignore the cold, and maintaining his grip on the cloak.

Aziraphale had ordered wine in the pub but immediately changed it into his favourite wine from England. It tasted lovely, really fresh. How would a person with knowledge of wine describe it? Fruity, maybe? Crowley had no idea.^[3]

(^[3] And neither does the author.)

“It's good wine,” he said to Aziraphale. He was greatly enjoying being in the pub. He didn't have to wear seven layers of clothes anymore, nor the warm cloak Aziraphale had lent him on their short walk from the sea to the pub,^[4]and thanks to a cheerful fire in the hearth, he was able to feel his fingers again. Life was much more enjoyable when you could feel the dirt under your feet, or, in this case, the wood under your shoes. “It’s even better than the wine I had with Dante, and that was the best I’d had in this century.”

(^[4] Which was a shame, really. He had liked wearing it — the fur collar was so fluffy and it smelled just like Aziraphale.)

“Oh, you've met Dante? Did you visit him to complain about his picture of Down There in his Commedia? It's a lovely book, I dare to say. And the fact that it's written in Italian; that's so outrageous!” The angel shivered in excitement.

“No, actually I visited him to talk about another piece he had written, La Vita Nuova. It happened like this:”

It was a dark and warm night in the summer of 1306 in Treviso, Italy. Crowley was dressed all in black, creeping through the night, invisible to everyone. He was on a mission. A mission to meet with a man.

When he finally reached the palazzo, unseen by anyone but a small snake that he’d surprised by suddenly stepping out of an alley, he knocked at the door.

It didn't take long for the door to open. It wasn't Dante himself, of course — he was but a guest here too — but only a servant.

Crowley ordered him to take him to his master.

“Ordered?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, I told him, ‘I'm a guest of Dante's and that he's expecting me,’” Crowley answered.

“That's hardly anything I'd define as ‘ordering.’”

“Hush. Do you want me to continue or not?”

Aziraphale smiled into his cup and didn't say anything.

Dante was sitting in a chair next to his host, Gerardo da Camina, drinking some wine after they had eaten a large, but late dinner.

Both men stared at Crowley who gave them a little wave. “I'm here to meet you, Dante,” he said. “I'm a big fan. My name's Anthony Crowley, and I've come a long way to see you. It would be a pleasure if you'd welcome me as your guest.”

“That's not my decision to make,” Dante answered, voice deep and smooth like velvet on naked skin. “I'm only a guest myself.”

“I am aware, so I ask you, Gerardo da Camina, would you allow me, humble Anthony Crowley, to be your guest for the night?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “‘Humble Anthony Crowley?’”

“You sound like a smart man, Anthony Crowley. You may stay the night. Sit down and enjoy the wine,” Gerardo said and gave a servant a signal to bring an additional cup for Crowley.

“You're too kind,” Crowley hummed as he sat down next to Dante. He gave both the author and their host a dashing smile. “I've known of your works for a while now. I was in Florence when they first got published. I happened to read them not too long after. Your words deeply moved me. I felt a sting in my heart I haven't felt in a while.”

“Now, as nice as this sounds, what's the truth, young man?” Dante asked. “La Vita Nuova was published eleven years ago. You would have been a small child at this time. I highly doubt that you were able to read it by then.”

“Maybe I was a smart child?” Crowley teased. “But no, in fact, I never was a child at all. I am, in fact, not even human. I'm immortal. A demon. I wander timelessly about, meeting and greeting the brightest minds in the history of humanity. Aristotle. Confucius. Homer. Alexander the Great. Boudicca. Archimedes. Cicero. Ramses the Great. Sappho. Ying Zheng. Buddha. Even Jesus himself, and the parents of humanity, Eve and Adam, to name a few.”

If Dante wasn't impressed by now, Crowley didn't know how else to impress him. This speech had always worked on smart people.

“Did you know Vergil?” Dante asked after a moment of consideration.

Crowley blinked. “What?”

“Did you know Vergil?”

“Vergil? No, not in person. He was a friend of Aziraphale’s, though he’s told me quite a bit about him.”

“‘A friend of Aziraphale’s?’ What does that mean?” Aziraphale asked, angry spots appearing on his truly angelic face.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, I don’t!” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley didn’t bother to explain, but Aziraphale had always attracted a certain kind of person to him. It would be obvious to anyone what he meant if they just took a moment to think about it.

“Who’s Aziraphale?” Gerardo asked.

“He’s...” Crowley hesitated. If Crowley was Dante, then Aziraphale was Beatrice, but he wouldn’t have mentioned this out loud. “He’s someone I’ve known for a long time. Since the beginning. An angel.”

“So angels are real?” Dante asked leaning toward Crowley in interest.

Wow. That was what had piqued his interest? Not Cicero or Eve, but that blessed angel?

“They are. In fact, angels and demons were once the same. We just had a disagreement over certain practices, after a while, and we left. I can tell you more about that, if you’d like to know.”

“That would be interesting, but tell me more about Vergil. I’ve happened to come to like him and his works quite a bit.”[5]

([5] Crowley would instead tell that story years later to another author who would, just like Dante, take Crowley's words, twist them, remove the best parts and alter them to suit his own ideas, write them down, and get the whole thing published. Crowley didn't mind though, in a way, it was flattering.)

“Being a friend of Aziraphale didn’t help him, though. Vergil still ended up in Hell.”

“Why’s that?” Dante asked.

“Give me more wine, and I’ll explain everything.”

Without further ado, Crowley’s cup was filled again, and he started to talk about heaven, hell, and old men like Vergil. The more he talked, the more he drank.

He ended up in bed, not knowing how he got there, with a really bad hangover. He wasn’t the only one with that malady this morning. But unlike the other two men, Crowley was able to miracle his hangover away.

“So, the Commedia is not as much a piece of fiction as I thought,” Aziraphale said. He and Crowley had never before discussed how things were in Hell and what was different from Heaven and what was just the same.

“It kind of is. Dante has a wonderful imagination. I told him quite a bit, but he took it further and expanded it. I certainly didn’t tell him that everyone who’s not a Christian ends up with us. That would be a great loss for you guys. That would make me almost question Him. Why make so many humans when you don’t even accept most of them for something they have no influence over?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “Crowley, you’ve already questioned Him, that’s why you Fell.”

“That’s not exactly why I’ve fallen, and you know that. But it makes me question everything even more.”

“It’s ineffable.”

“It’s bullshit.”

Aziraphale gasped. “It is not! It’s His plan!”

“That isn't even what we were talking about right now,” Crowley said wagging his pointer finger right under Aziraphale's nose. “I just said that not every heathen is Down Below.”

Aziraphale's eyes slowly followed Crowley's finger like a cat ready to catch its prey. “Isn't ‘Down Below’ what Australia is being called?” The angel was starting to be affected by the alcohol.

“Australia isn't being called anything; the people here haven’t discovered it yet.”

“It's Down Under,” Aziraphale corrected himself. “I don't like Australia. I almost hate it, but hate is such a strong word. Too hot, too many spiders, too many snakes, and don't even get me started on the birds! And the seasons are all turned around! It's so confusing!”

Since when does Aziraphale have anything against snakes? Crowley thought. “You're confusing,” he said out loud.

“No, my dear,” the angel mused and snatched Crowley's finger which was still wandering around in front of Aziraphale's face, “not even you would like it there. It's not fancy enough for you. And the people, well, they're something else. They’re unique. That's what happens when you're living on your own continent. Just look at the people of America. Some are worshipping winged snakes!”

“What is it with you and snakes right now?” Crowley asked quietly, eyes fixed on their hands. Aziraphale had moved them down to the table where Aziraphale was pressing Crowley's hand onto the wood plate with gentle force while stroking the palm of Crowley’s hand softly with his thumb.

“Nothing's with me and snakes, I like them just the right amount.”

Only the right amount, Crowley thought, and felt his stomach clench.

“You're a lovely snake, dear boy, but you remember the time when they started to worship goddesses in the form of snakes? It was in Babylon, I think. Cuneiform had just been developed. It was around 4500 years ago, I guess.”

Oh, how he remembered. He had tried to use this for his own purposes, influencing the humans again as a snake, only to get discorporated quite soon after. It had taken years for his superiors to stop laughing every time they’d seen him, because he had gotten beheaded by a shovel.

“So we agree that snake idols are no good,” Aziraphale decided for them both, and ordered a second jug of wine. He had refilled the first one during the story, but they had to keep their cover in public.

“Apparently we agree, yes,” Crowley confirmed after the waiter had left their table again.

“Be a dear and tell me, what exactly are the differences between what Hell is like and what Dante wrote down, will you?”

Crowley shrugged. “Sure. If you're interested.”

“I certainly am.”

So Crowley started to tell him, once again getting more and more drunk in the process of this hellish description.

1345

At least once every century, Crowley wanted to visit his English and Scottish towns to see how they had developed in recent years. He knew there was war between France and England, which was why he didn't sail from French territory. It was why he had boarded a ship in Bruges.
That, and the fact that this was the only way to get to England nowadays, since all other nearby haven cities were under French rule.

He had taken so much care to board the perfect ship, one that would bring him as quickly as possible to London.

He wasn’t concerned when he spotted the black ship with the blood red sails nearby.

Yet soon, that ship was revealed to be a pirate vessel. For reasons unexplained to Crowley it had taken them prisoner and messed up his plans. Since Crowley liked being alive, he’d surrendered peacefully.

Currently, Crowley was sitting in chains under deck in the dark and rolling his eyes at the cries of the person nearest to him - a man like a bear, equally tall and equally hairy and grim. And yet, he was crying for help and mercy like a sinner in hell. It annoyed him.

That man wasn't from his ship, though. There were many men here, and some women, from many different ships. The pirates apparently took only one or two people from each ship as prisoner. The others… well. They’d probably had long and meaningful conversations with Crowley's colleagues at the reception desk Downstairs by now. Bureaucracy, right?

Crowley’d had enough. He was sure he'd been in the dark for over half a day now. Not that it was of concern; he could see perfectly fine in the dark, after all, and he didn't get hungry, but the company was so annoying and unwashed.

He overheard some of the men mumble about a Pirate Queen. He could hear some of the men whispering about a She-Devil, a demon straight from hell. He heard mention of the words “The Lioness of Brittany.”

He miracled himself free of the chains and left the room in which he’d been held, stepping onto the deck into the fresh air.

Crowley took a deep breath. Ah, the fresh air of the sea. So unlike the stagnant air underdeck, smelling like stressed human bodies who hadn't felt water in days or even weeks.

Out here, the world was clean and you could feel as free as the seagulls above you. It would be easy for Crowley to spread his wings and join then, finishing his journey on his own without the help of humans.

But he enjoyed being on a ship, despite the annoying smell of unwashed humans.

But who cared about all that when you could be a pirate? He imagined it, owning his own ship, with a crew of his own, sailing on the seas, not caring for anyone or anything. That sounded like a good life. Maybe he should think about a career change.

Freeing chickens from their pens? Goodbye! Commanding a ship in order to steal every piece of human belongings? Hello!

Someone grabbed Crowley by the collar and pulled him over.

“Who are you, lad?” A middle-aged woman^[6] asked. For a second, Crowley thought she was War, beautiful and deadly.

(^[6] Middle-aged by modern standards, not the standards of 1345)

She wasn't War, she was but a simple human woman. The sun reflecting off her auburn hair had made it shine like blood on a battlefield.

Her grip tightened while her other hand wandered down towards an axe hanging from her belt.

“My name's Anthony Crowley,” he answered quickly.

“Never heard of you, Anthony Crowley. You're one of the people from the Hope. How has it come to be that you're not in chains and below deck with the rest of your lot?”

“That's a fair question, dear lady. I happen to have quick fingers. No lock is safe from me, no chest untouched, no door closed, if I want it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don't believe you. Yet you're here, and not below deck. Where are you from, Anthony Quickfinger?”

This needed a delicate answer, Crowley knew. If he didn't tell her what she wanted to hear, she would most likely throw him overboard, if not worse. He tried the truth. “Why, it's not important where I'm from, my lady. I lost my home a long time ago. Currently, I'm heading over from Bruges to London, and Manchester, to visit Glasgow in the territory of the Scotsmen.”

“You look French.”

That sounded like a threat.

“I can assure you that I'm not French. I’ve spent some time there, but in recent years, I’ve come to disagree with them more and more,” he answered quickly. “Just like you, it seems.”

The woman let go of his collar.

“Come with me to my cabin,” she said, turning around.

To Crowley's surprise, there were several children in the cabin. Three to be exact. Too many children for Crowley's liking.

The woman sat down in a chair by the table, pulling the little girl onto her lap.

“I'm Jeanne de Clisson,” she finally introduced herself. “These are my children, Olivier, Guillaume, and Jeanne. After Philip of France killed my husband, we threw our support to the English crown.”

“Was your husband a pirate, too?”

“Oh no.” She smiled. “That's only me.”

“You do a fabulous job, my lady, if I might say so. The ‘Lioness of Britain,’ if I remember correctly?” It was a good thing that Crowley had listened to the cries of his fellow prisoners.

“That's what some people call me,” Jeanne said proudly.

“My mom's the strongest and everyone fears her,” little Jeanne said.

“She is,” Crowley confirmed. “The fiercest pirate between here and there.”

Little Jeanne beamed.

“I have my standards,” Jeanne said.

“Like attacking peaceful merchants?”

“I only attack French ships.”

“So why did you attack the Hope? She was only going from Bruges to London, and not anywhere else.” He hoped it was the truth. Of course, he hadn't checked that beforehand. He had just booked passage for the next good ship going straight to London, not caring about anything else.

“This, I have to admit painfully, was an honest mistake we didn't discover until later.”

“Then where did the crew go? Why am I the only person alive?”

“I only found out the truth about right… now.”

“Oh.”

So she had lied. She would attack any ship, not caring about good or bad.

“You didn't sail under the English flag.”

“Of course not. It's a Flemish ship, as I've said.”

“You never know with people where their loyalty lies. You have to attack them before they attack you. You have to build up a reputation. That's why there are always survivors on the ships I attack. To tell the tale. To make Philip tremble in fear.”

“Believe me, my lady, if I want to, I'm quite good at finding out where people stand and what they desire.”

“Prove it. Show me that you're as good with your words as with your fingers.”

Crowley wasn't the tempter of humanity by chance. Of course he knew what people wanted. So he told her.

“You want your husband, who was falsely accused by the King of France of being a spy, back. You want revenge for his death.”

Jeanne rolled her eyes. “That is common knowledge. My flagship is even called My Revenge.”

“Of course.” Crowley had not known that before. “You want your husband back, but you don't want to go back to your old life. You know that your children are old enough to send them away, to get the proper education they deserve as sons of a noble, but you fear parting with them, fear losing them. Which I understand; they are lovely children.”

They weren't. They were as snooty little brats as they come.

“Olivier here wants nothing more than to become a pirate like his mother, and like Red Robert, your first mate,” Crowley continued. “He wants to follow in your steps to punish those who deserve it, those who make his mother cry at night, when she thinks her children are asleep and don't hear. His mother, who isn't sure if she will ever be able to go back to the peaceful life of a noble woman. Who would want to be lady of some boring lands when they currently have three ships under their command? Do you want me to continue?”

“No,” Jeanne said, voice softer and quieter than before. “You really are good with people, Anthony Crowley.”

Good? He was made for this. He was the best.

Absentmindedly, Jeanne stroked her daughter’s hair, watching her sons.

“I have business in London,” she answered after a moment of consideration. “I can take you there.”

“That would be lovely, dear lady.”

“Let's go on deck. I'll introduce you to our cook. You must be hungry.”

Ah. Yes, food. “Of course I am. I haven't eaten since you wrecked my ship.”

Jeanne put her daughter on the floor again. “You can come too, children. Don't play in here all day.”

“Yes, mother,” Olivier said and left the room with his brother, glancing at Crowley when he thought he wouldn't notice.

Little Jeanne ran after her brothers.

“And while you're eating, you're going to tell me how you did all of that.”

“All of what?”

“First you get out of chains of solid steel, now you know things you should have no knowledge of.”

“Sure,” Crowley said. “I'll teach you all my tricks if you teach me yours.”

Together they left the Captain's quarters.

That's when the first cannonball hit the ship.

Jeanne shouted for her children to come back to her, and to stay by Crowley's side. Crowley, whom she’d known for only a few minutes, but who already knew things about her she didn't want to accept herself.

Crowley didn't want to play babysitter.

He did it anyways, not able to help in any other way.

People were running around, Jeanne was shouting orders. Her children stayed by Crowley's side — even Olivier, who tried to argue that he should go and fight too, waving around his little sword. Little Jeanne cried, burying her face in Crowley's clothes.

He hated children, especially crying ones. With soft words, he tried to soothe her; tried to calm her down.

It almost worked until the mast fell. Jeanne, the mother, came running towards them, shouting more orders at her men.

It didn't help.

The enemies were too strong with their four ships surrounding them. They were clearly outnumbered. Not even Crowley was able to help with a miracle.

Before Crowley realized it, the ship started to sink, with Jeanne throwing her children and herself into the only lifeboat.

There was no space for Crowley, but that was okay. He'd survive; it was just water. This certainly wasn't the first (nor the last) shipwreck he’d endure.

And with a little help from Crowley, no person who had been on that ship died that day.

He didn't owe them this, but it felt like the right thing to do. There were already enough people dying in this war. These pirates should survive another day.

After the French ships had sailed away, Crowley clung to a piece of wood, all alone. It looked like his pirate life was already over. He sighed deeply. Fiiine. He'd go to England on his own! Luckily the English Channel wasn't that broad.^[7]

(^[7] He'd later hear that Jeanne and her children had also survived the attack. She'd recovered and continued to live as a pirate for some more years, bringing fear upon the French, until she eventually retired and remarried, once again living a peaceful life.)

Next - Part 2!

Comments

[(Anonymous)]

"can’t help it, every pair of shoes I wear automatically gets scales.” ooh so that's why! :)

“It’s ineffable.”
“It’s bullshit.”
A good summary of Crowley and Aziraphale's conversations.

Oh! The Lioness of Britain? Cool!

There's a lot of historical content in your fic, Secret Author, I liked it!

[secret_kraken]

Thank you :) I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[staubengel]

"Yours,
The Adversary
-
My dear Snake,
-
With kind regards,
The Angel of the Eastern Gate
-
Dear Former Cherub,
-
Yours,
Tempter of Humanity
-
Low blow, Crowley."
>> Okay, this is starting off AWESOME! X'D

"If we were to fuse and become a two-headed monster, would you rather be the right head or the left head?"
>> A VERY important question! Since Crowley drives and Aziraphale is in the passenger seat, Aziraphale is used to Crowley to his right, so I'd say he's the left head. Though, of course, at this point in time, this is not established yet.

Also omg, Crowley, you don't just ask people how many heads they have!

"I should check Heaven's official stance on this matter... "
>> Yeah, you should, it's gonna be important for you to know at some point ;D

"P.S. My heads are none of your business."
>> There you have it! But he still signs with "in love" :3

OMG, CROWLEY, YOU DON'T MAKE POPES FALL OFF THEIR HORSES!!

Aaaaaaw, Crowley looked forward to seeing Aziraphale again :3 But now he clings to his cloak instead, getting dragged over the ice XD Poor snake.

"just as a third pair of pants and a fourth shirt appeared on Crowley."
>> oh NO! XD

"Humans, right?"
>> Yeah, buggers

Ooooh! I like the idea of Crowley's shoes turning into scales because of the Curse!

"the fur collar was so fluffy and it smelled just like Aziraphale."
>> aaaaw :3

"Both men stared at Crowley who gave them a little wave."
>> :> I love Crowley waving at people

"and don't even get me started on the birds!"
>> XD no space-ship birds in Australia, huh, Aziraphale?

"For reasons unexplained to Crowley it had taken them prisoner"
>> rude

Oh my God, Crowley, don't free the chickens! What is wrong with you!

"Middle-aged by modern standards, not the standards of 1345"
>> Good to know :'D

Aaaaw, Crowley with kids is always so lovely! :3

"And with a little help from Crowley, no person who had been on that ship died that day."
>> he's such a good one <3

This is such a lovely fic!
SO many historical details, so many names and persons!
And Crowley and Aziraphale being all lovely! <3
I can't wait to read part two tomorrow! :)

[secret_kraken]

Thank you for your long and wonderful comment <3

[dwarvenbeardspores]

This is such fun! I love how many interesting historical aspects you're weaving in. And I'm always a sucker for Crowley bundled in a ridiculous number of layers to stay warm ^^

I think my FAVORITE part was Crowley reading the captain and her family so well, and then immediately being trusted with the kids. Crowley's skill with children is something I've become super into all of a sudden and this was so lovely!

[secret_kraken]

Yeah, Crowley and many clothes and Crowley and children are such good concepts :)

[maniacalmole]

IN LOVE
Aziraphale you are NOT being subtle
(I DO love the subtle changes in their addresses to each other though, especially aziraphale's getting cooler when Crowley is TOO rude and Crowley's being all mocking and stuff, and the one time he finally calls aziraphale 'dear')

The whole thing about the multiple heads XD

Ice skating XD The idea of Crowley walking on water is so interesting and cool.
And him miracling more clothes onto himself XD

At first I was disappointed to hear those weren't Crowley's feet (although Aziraphale's embarrassment at thinking they were was funny) but I love the headcanon that his shoes grow scales automatically too!!

"And neither does the author" PFFT SAME

The snake conversation :)

:O PIRATES! I love Crowley contemplating leading a pirate life :)

[secret_kraken]

Yeah, their relationship is sooo obvious and yet they still both don't realize a thing ;D
Thank you for your comment :)

[notaspacealien]

"Humans, right?" at the death of Cleopatra made me snort, as did the letters of their exchange at the beginning.*Very* in character! And the way Crowley blundered through ice-skating, excellent job!

[alumi]

their letters are hilarious! but they both need to work on their sense of personal boundaries, like "how many heads do you have?" "are those not your feet?" are questions you don't just ask someone. not while sober, anyway, if you hope for an answer XD
also, Crowley's account of the pope and the horses is (a) very funny and (b) something that reminds me of the Storytime! vines. Kind of like... "Storytime! The Pope won't leave Poitiers because he fell off when his horse saw a snake in the grass. That snake was me, the horses were fine" :)

and i love how many places you've already taken them! The Pope, the Baltic sea, Dante, a pub, a pirate ship - amazing! And wow, for some reason I'm super happy with the things i think reference the Little ice age!