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go_exchange2024-12-01 05:29 am
Happy Holidays, Tossukka!
Recipient: Tossukka
Characters: Aziraphale & Crowley, assorted Welsh villagers
Pairing: Aziraphale x Crowley
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The village has a dragon problem, so they come to the Wizard Aziraphale for help.
A/N: I was so happy to get this prompt, I hope you enjoy the story!
A Plea for Help
Aziraphale carefully emptied a small bowl of powdered lime into the beaker that contained the remaining ingredient of his potion, and muttered a curse when the powder immediately caused the whole thing to bubble over onto his wooden worktable. Again.
He wiped some of the foam away with a rag and checked the notes he’d scribbled on a slate. He had measured the wrong amount. Again.
He was obviously being distracted by the incessant ringing of his door-bells.
There were times when Aziraphale regretted having the series of bells attached to a pull-chain next to the front door of his tower. He had to admit they were well made and discreetly placed on each floor, designed to be just loud enough to let him know that a visitor or customer was at the door.
Not that he really wanted visitors. Or customers, for that matter. But since neither he nor his fellow wizards had ever successfully conjured food, and since he found alchemy too bothersome as a means to make money, Aziraphale relied on supplying the local village with remedies, chemicals, and the occasional charm. It provided him with a comfortable income, as well as the affection and respect of the villagers.
It was a general rule that he was Not To Be Disturbed in the afternoons, so Aziraphale was puzzled as to who was ringing the bells so enthusiastically. They’d been at it for at least a quarter of an hour.
This was definitely one of those times he regretted the bells, and today he specifically regretted letting Hywell the builder talk him into putting a bell in his top-floor study.
Aziraphale sighed. “Well, we might as well see who it is,” he said to the tabby cat who was trying to bat at the foam. “No point in working with all this racket. Myrddin, stop playing with that.”
The cat shook the foam off its paw and followed him down the worn stone steps of the spiral stairs.
When Aziraphale made it to the ground floor he popped off a quick lux spell to light the lanterns in the sitting-room; while his mage-sight let him see perfectly well in all light levels, it tended to unsettle the locals to come into a dark room.
He undid the latch on the door and heaved it open. “I sincerely hope you have a good reason—”
He stopped, gaping at the crowd of villagers that stood in front of him.
A man wearing the silver brooch that marked him as the village steward pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Great Wizard Aziraphale,” he said, “we need your help.”
“Obviously,” Aziraphale replied tartly, “since you’ve been ringing these bells like lunatics. And please just call me Aziraphale. It's a fine spring morning, shouldn't you all be growing beans or something? Whatever is the matter?”
“THERE’S A DRAGON!” the crowd responded in unison.
Aziraphale blinked. “A dragon?”
“A great, red, crawly thing,” said one of the farmers.
“Well, we are in Wales,” Aziraphale remarked. “I should hope it would be red.”
“It et one of my sheep this morning!” the farmer shouted. “And it et one of Daffyd’s goats last week, right, Daff?”
The farmer Aziraphale presumed to be Daffyd nodded.
Another farmer waved his hand. “It took one of my best cows two weeks ago. I've had a few animals go missing over the past couple of months, but I saw the dragon take this one.”
The other men murmured in agreement.
Aziraphale did some quick mental math. “So… this dragon is stealing an animal about once a week.”
Two dozen heads nodded vigorously.
“And… it steals from a different farm each time? And has only harmed animals?”
More nods.
“Canny,” Aziraphale said. “I assume this is why you haven’t come to see me sooner?”
“Yes,” the steward replied. “I was collecting the rents this morning, and found out about what happened to Owain, Daffyd, and Tomos. So I gathered everyone together to come see you. Please help us, Great Wizard!”
“Please!” shouted another farmer. “We found out where its lair is. Kill it, Great Wizard!”
Aziraphale frowned. “I shall do no such thing,” he said. “First of all, I am no dragon-slayer. If what you tell me is true, this creature is hunting for food.”
“But they’re our animals!” another farmer cried.
“Yes,” Aziraphale replied, “but the dragon has not harmed your families or homes. I will go and speak with it, and see if we can come to an agreement.”
The crowd stared at him, mouths agape.
“S-speak with it?” the steward stammered.
“Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Dragons are quite intelligent. And believe me, there are far worse things to have near the village.” He flapped his hands at the crowd. “Now, everyone, go home. I will handle this in the morning. And unless anyone needs something urgently, all of tomorrow’s appointments will be canceled.”
There was a burst of chatter as everyone tried to protest at once.
“The dragon has obviously already found its weekly meal, and won’t be hunting again for at least the next five or six days,” Aziraphale said, raising his voice above the din. “Please, just go home. Go grow something.”
The crowd began to grumpily disperse, and Aziraphale put a hand on the steward’s wool-clad shoulder as the man turned to leave. “Aled, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Great Wizard.”
Aziraphale sighed. “Just Aziraphale, please. Do you know where the lair is?”
Aled nodded. “Yes, Gr—um, Aziraphale.”
“Splendid,” Aziraphale said. “Would you mind staying behind for a bit? I have a large slate up in my study—why don’t we trudge on upstairs, and you can draw a map for me. I think I may know where it is, but it would help to know for sure.”
So much for getting anything done today, he thought as he guided his guest up the stairs. But the prospect of meeting an apparently local dragon more than made up for it.
>br>
The Meeting
He smelled the human first. This one smelled different from the others who had come the day before; the ones who had crouched behind bushes and boulders, who had whispered Kill it. They stank of animal dung and fear.
This human smelled of herbs and plants, of sandalwood and minerals and power. He did not whisper, either, but hummed an aimless tune as he trudged up the rocky trail that led to the cave.
The dragon was intrigued. He edged closer to the cave’s entrance to get a better look, ignoring the bright jingle of coins slipping down from the top of his treasure pile.
The man was bright with power, it limned his form with a soft white light. He was dressed differently from the other men as well; while he didn’t wear the fine linens and silks of a lord, the cream-colored wool of his tunic was good quality, as was his tan cloak. Definitely not a farmer.
Not a knight, either, unless a sword was very cleverly hidden.
A scholar, then. A wizard, perhaps.
A wizard, yes, with that power embracing him like a lazy lover. The dragon wondered if the wizard had been sent to kill him.
It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time that he was the victor.
“Good morning!”
The unexpected greeting startled the dragon out of his battle-thoughts. Would-be killers usually didn’t sound so cheerful, and they never said good morning. He waited, in the dark of the cave.
The man continued to approach the cave’s entrance. “I hadn’t realized that this cave was no longer empty, I would have visited sooner,” he said. “The dragon who used to live here died a few years ago.” He peered into the darkness before him. “But he was old, and much smaller than you. He only needed to hunt every month or so”
The dragon opened his mouth to ask the man how he knew his size, then snapped it shut. Of course, a wizard could see in the dark. “So you are here about the animals,” he said.
“Yes,” the wizard replied. “And you. They called you a ‘great red crawly thing.’”
A laugh rumbled in the dragon’s throat. “They’re not too far off. My name is Crowley.” He stepped out of the cave onto the large stone ledge that fronted the entrance, partly to see how the wizard would react, and partly—mostly—to take advantage of the lovely patch of morning sun that had just appeared.
Sunlight danced on golden curls as the wizard inclined his head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Crowley. My name is Aziraphale.” He gestured in the direction of the village. “They are just frightened, you know.”
“I know,” Crowley said. “I smelled their fear. And I heard their whispers. ‘Kill it’, they said. Are you here to kill me, Wizard Aziraphale?” He let his jaw drop open, displaying several rows of sharp, pointy teeth.
Aziraphale’s face remained pleasantly impassive. “No, I’d rather come to an agreement with you.”
“An agreement?”
“Yes. Perhaps you could hunt wild game, instead of the village’s livestock. Or perhaps you could pay them for what you take.” Aziraphale pointed at the treasure piled in the back of the cave.
Twin bursts of steam burst from the dragon’s nose as he snorted in amusement. “Pay them.” He swung his head close to where the wizard stood. “Perhaps they should pay me to not burn their village to ashes.”
Aziraphale stood his ground. “Then you would have nothing to feed on. Besides, extortion is beneath a fine Welsh dragon like you.”
Crowley laughed again, a rusty rumble that chased pebbles off the edge of the ledge. “You are either very brave or very foolish to come here, wizard.” He settled down on the patch of sunlight.
“A bit of both, I imagine,” Aziraphale said. “But really, there is a very easy way to handle this. My conversation with the villagers suggests that you need to hunt once a week. Am I correct?”
“Yes,” Crowley replied. “Unless I can only find small things.”
“I won’t be so rude as to go into your lair uninvited, but it looks like you have a sizable pile of coins in the back.” Aziraphale peered into the dark of the cave.
Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “You see a bit too well, wizard. What do you want with my coins?”
Aziraphale calmly met his gaze; no mean feat considering the dragon’s eyes were almost as big as his head. “I’m merely suggesting that if you take an animal for a meal, you give the farmer payment. That sheep you took yesterday, for example, would have sold for two shillings. He’s now lost that money.”
“I don’t know this ‘shillings’, Crowley said.
“Silver coins. The medium-sized ones.”
“Gold is nicer,” he commented. Crowley liked gold quite a bit.
“I agree,” Aziraphale said. “But the farmers don’t need gold, fortunately, just a few of the silver coins. I can help you sort them out, so that you are paying an appropriate amount.”
The dragon’s eye ridges drew together in a frown. “But I have not been giving them coins. Why should I do it now?” Crowley hoped the conversation would end soon; the sun was starting to make him sleepy, and one should never be sleepy around a wizard.
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, it would end all the ‘kill it’ talk, for one thing. You’d become a customer—a local. Part of the village economy. They’d want to keep you around.”
Crowley pondered the idea. It would be nice to not have to worry about an angry mob, or knights with swords hired by angry mobs. He liked his current home, and he had plenty of silver. “No sickly or already dead animals,” he stated. “Or runty ones.”
“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “Perfectly reasonable. It seems that you are already hunting in a rotation, would you mind continuing that so everyone can participate?”
“Yes.” Crowley liked variety in his meals, so that was an easy concession.
Aziraphale beamed at him. “Excellent. I will write up a formal contract, and meet with all the farmers to get them to sign it. I’ll bring it to you in seven days, along with the first animal. I’m sure we can figure out a way for you to mark the contract.”
“I will come to you,” Crowley declared. “You live in the stone tower by the valley’s edge, do you not? It has been my experience that wizards like to live in towers.”
“I do live there,” Aziraphale said, his smile still curving his lips. “I will see you then.”
Crowley watched him leave, and listened while the wizard resumed his humming as he headed down the trail.
The wizard Aziraphale was an interesting fellow. Most of the wizards Crowley had encountered had either tried to kill him, or take his treasure. Or both. Aziraphale seemed to have no interest in either, and Crowley had the distinct impression that Aziraphale had known the previous occupant of his cave.
He looked forward to seeing this unusual man with the golden hair again.
Crowley stretched out on the stone slab, and let the sun and birdsong lull him to sleep.
The Agreement
Much to his relief, the farmers had agreed to his proposal when he’d met with them the day after his visit with Crowley.
Everyone spent the following afternoon gathered in the small village church, shouting suggestions and disagreements, and by the time the sun began to set they’d given Aziraphale enough information to draw up a proper agreement, as well as a rough schedule.
They were unanimous in their thanks, and a few were already referring to Crowley as “their” dragon.
Aziraphale and Aled the steward were the last to leave, and after the Aled finished latching the door shut he turned to Aziraphale and held out a hand. “You truly are a great wizard,” he said. “Our problem has been solved not only without bloodshed, but to our profit as well. Trying to kill the dragon would have been a mistake, I think.”
Aziraphale shook his hand. “It would have been,” he said. “Men would have been gravely injured or killed—he is much larger than the old dragon that lived in that cave years ago.”
Aled blinked at him. “My grand-da used to tell us stories about that dragon. You knew him?”
“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “and I was able to convince him to hunt in the hills, which he could do more easily than our current resident. I’m very glad we were able to come to an agreement this time, because when a cave like that becomes empty, something else will move in.”
Aled shuddered. “I remember you saying that the other day. I would much rather have a village dragon who pays for his meals.”
“Exactly,” Aziraphale said. “So, I will write up a draft of the agreement tonight. If you could stop by my tower tomorrow afternoon, I will read it to you to make sure it is complete and proper, and then I will script the final document on some parchment. If everyone could meet again at the church in two days’ time, I will read it again, and everyone can sign it. This way it will be ready when I meet the dragon again at the end of the week. Once he makes his mark on it I will bring it to you to for safe-keeping.”
“A contract marked by a dragon,” Aled marveled. “This will be something we can show our grandchildren.”
Aziraphale raised a hand in farewell, and headed down the narrow dirt road that led to his tower.
He spent the next two days in his study, writing out the contract and names first on a waxed board, then on a slate with a soapstone scribe. When he was happy with the final layout, he ground up some of his best ink and carefully scripted the words onto a piece of parchment with a freshly sharpened quill.
To his surprise, the villagers made Signing Day quite the event. Everyone wore their best clothes, and had brought their families as well. Aziraphale had dressed for the occasion as well, donning his fancier robes and his scholar’s cap. Everyone listened raptly as he read “The Agreement,” and after he and Aled signed the parchment the farmers came up one by one to make their marks as well.
Once everyone was back outside of the church, the wives brought out massive hampers of food, and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to eating, drinking, and dancing.
Aziraphale sat on a stone bench, sipping a cup of wine while he watched the children play. Throughout the afternoon villagers had come to him, presenting him with various small gifts, and Aziraphale found himself overwhelmed with their generosity. He was glad he’d been able to keep these people from turning to violence, and he was grateful to Crowley as well.
The celebration was still in full swing when Aziraphale made his farewells, and he tottered back to his tower laden with gifts and enough parcels of food to feed him for a week. He was pleased to see that Tomos had already delivered the first animal, a cow that was placidly munching on a cut bale of hay in his walled side-garden.
After carefully setting the rolled-up parchment on the chest in his sitting-room, Aziraphale put the food away and then headed upstairs to bed. He spread the gifts out on the covers and examined them with delight. There were several pairs of knitted fingerless gloves, socks, and scarves, as well as an assortment of small carved animals. Aziraphale laughed as he counted six little red dragons, and he smiled when he found three small cats, each painted in Myrddin’s gray and black stripes with varying levels of skill. He would have to ask Hywell to make him a shelf to display all the treasures. He scooped them up and set them on his chest, then he tugged off his robes and crawled into bed.
The ringing of his door-bells woke Aziraphale the next morning, and he lurched up to a sitting position and gazed blearily at his narrow windows. Late morning!
“Some time-keeper you are,” he chided Myrddin, who was curled up next to his pillow. The cat yawned and twisted to expose a fluffy white belly, which of course Aziraphale was obliged to pet.
The door-bells jangled again.
“Coming, coming!” Aziraphale called as loudly as he could. He dressed quickly, pushed his feet into his boots and hurried down the stairs. He wondered who could be at the door; he had no appointments today except for Crowley, and it was highly unlikely that a dragon would be ringing the bells.
As was his habit, he cast lux at the lanterns in the sitting-room, and then pulled the door open. “Can I help you?”
A stranger stood at his doorstep, clad in black; his tunic was roughly woven wool, over worn linen braies. His fire-red hair tumbled in loose waves over his shoulders, and the gaze that met Aziraphale’s was slitted and golden.
Aziraphale stared at him. It couldn’t be. “C-Crowley?” The man smiled at him, revealing sharper teeth than most humans had. “Bore da, Aziraphale.”
“I… I have so many questions,” Aziraphale said. “Please, do come in.”
The Dragon's Secret
"It's a strange story, but a simple one," Crowley said after they were seated at Aziraphale's kitchen table. He accepted the stoneware mug that Aziraphale offered him, and he watched how the wizard drank his.
He took a cautious sip. Hot and sweet, with hints of berries and spice. "What is this?"
"Tea," Aziraphale replied. He pointed to a plate that held small squares of food. "This is honeycake, made by one of the farmers' wives." He took a piece and nibbled at it.
The wizard was clever, Crowley thought; he'd noticed Crowley watching him. He tried a piece of the cake. It was very sweet but also delicious. "My great-granddam was a mighty wizard," he said. "She was fascinated with dragons, it was her life's work to study them."
"She was a human?"
"Yes, and she befriended many dragons in the course of her studies. She did not have any human friends." Crowley took another sip of the tea.
Aziraphale nodded. "Magic is a jealous mistress," he said. "Most mages have few, if any, friends."
Crowley wondered if Aziraphale had any friends. "She came to love the dragons more than humans, and she eventually learned the spells that let her become one."
"She transformed into a dragon?" Aziraphale flapped his hands. "Oh my goodness, I have heard stories about a wizard that turned herself into a dragon many years ago. That must have been her! She was very powerful indeed, for transformation is extremely difficult magic."
"She lived as a dragon for the rest of her days," Crowley said, "and took another dragon as her mate. But a portion of her human blood remained, and all the hatchlings of her bloodline have a drop of it as well." He ate some more of the honeycake. "She taught her hatchlings how to live with their gift, and each generation after taught the next."
"Fascinating," Aziraphale said. "Does it cause you any pain to change to your human form?"
"No. But I must keep this form in my thoughts. It becomes tiring after too long."
"Thank you for trusting me with this knowledge, Crowley," Aziraphale said. "I will not share it with others."
Crowley nodded. "May I see the contract? I noticed that there is a cow in your yard." He set a small pouch on the table. "I filled this with medium-sized silver, is it the right kind?"
Aziraphale opened the pouch and peered at its contents. "Excellent, these are all shillings." He poured some out on the table and formed a few quick piles. "Six for a cow, three for a pig, two for a sheep."
Crowley poked at the pile of six coins. "Cows cost the most."
"Yes, they are the most valuable animals besides horses."
"Horses don't taste very good," Crowley said.
Aziraphale laughed, and then he cocked his head and looked at Crowley. "There's not any chance that a meal in your human form would suffice, is there?"
Crowley shook his head. "A human meal fills a human stomach. I would still be hungry tomorrow. But I like this food, it tastes good."
Aziraphale rose and picked up a rolled up parchment from a chest in his front room. "Perhaps we can meet like this every week? I'd be happy to make a meal for us." He handed it to Crowley and sat back down.
"I would like that very much," Crowley said. "I thought things would be easier in this form." He unrolled the parchment and looked it over, laughing when he saw what was written at one of the spaces. "'CROWLEY, THE DRAGON, ha!'"
Aziraphale looked startled. "You can read?"
"Yes. My dam taught me, as her sire taught her. I also have some of my great-granddam's books, every one of her blood were given some of her books." He looked more closely at the flowing script. "Your writing is very fancy, though, and so are some of these words. You may read it to me." He handed it over to Aziraphale.
"How wonderful that you were taught to read! I would very much like to see your great-grandmother's books sometime." Aziraphale unrolled the parchment and began to read its contents aloud.
Crowley listened carefully, trying not to be distracted by the wizard's pleasant voice. He pointed at the various marks at the bottom of the parchment when Aziraphale set it down on the table. "These are the farmers?"
"Yes," Aziraphale said. He tapped the two marks above them. "This is my signature, and that of Aled, the steward."
"Steward?"
"The person who is in charge of taking care of the village. He is the one who brought all the farmers to see me." Aziraphale looked down at the contract. "Hmmm. How are we going to have you make a dragon-ish mark? I had thought I would have you dip your claws into some ink, but you don't have claws at the moment."
Crowley laughed again. He was very glad to have met this unusual human. "My nails are still sharp. Bring your ink."
Aziraphale fetched a small bowl and set it on the table.
Crowley splayed out the fingers of one hand, and then curved them as if they were claws. Thinking of them as claws was disorientating, and he briefly felt the pull of his dragon form. He dipped three sharp-tipped fingernails into the ink, then pulled them across the parchment next to his name.
"How clever!" Aziraphale said, and he handed Crowley a cloth to clean the ink from his fingers.
"That felt strange," Crowley said. "I had to think very hard of this form—my dragon form wanted to return when I imagined my hand having talons." He reached for the tea and sipped some more of it; the act of drinking from the mug helped center his concentration.
Aziraphale took another piece of honeycake. "That would have been awkward, you wouldn't have fit in here very well."
"Are all mages like you?" Crowley asked.
"A bit mad, you mean?"
"Well, yes," Crowley said. "You have a man-shaped dragon in your home, and you make tea and jokes." He ate more of his cake. "And instead of trying to kill him, you made a contract with the village and you have a cow in your yard."
"I guess that does sound a bit mad," Aziraphale said. "I take it you've had a few wizards come after you?"
Crowley nodded. "And a few knights. A whole town, once."
"I could say the same for you, you know," Aziraphale said, reaching for his mug. "You haven't attacked the village, nor its men when they spied on your cave."
"I have no desire to kill humans," Crowley said. "Perhaps that is due to the human blood in my veins."
"Perhaps. You also didn't harm the wizard that came to see you, and now you have made an agreement with a village and will be taking home a cow that you paid for." A smile hid behind the rim of Aziraphale's mug, and blue eyes twinkled with amusement.
He was being teased, Crowley realized.
"I like this place," he said. "The land is beautiful, and my cave is dry and comfortable." He rotated the mug in his hands, enjoying the warmth of the pottery against his skin. "And it has a mad wizard who makes tea and jokes."
Aziraphale smiled. "I like this place, too. Oh! I almost forgot!" He took something from a pocket in his tunic and handed it to Crowley. "One of the children wanted me to give this to you."
Crowley stared at the tiny wooden dragon that had been enthusiastically carved and even more enthusiastically stained with the bright red clay that came from the valley.
"I think he made it himself," Aziraphale said. "He said, 'Give this to our dragon.'"
Our dragon. Crowley's throat suddenly felt tight. A gift, made by a child, for him.
How extraordinary.
He tucked the figure into his belt. "Would you show me your tower, wizard? I have been inside ale-houses, but never inside someone's home. I would like to see your books and where you work your magic."
Aziraphale grinned at him. "Come on, then," he said, and he gestured at the alcove that led to the stairs. "I'll give you the grand tour. I'll even introduce you to the cat."
A Friendship Blossoms
The rest of the spring and early summer turned out to be simultaneously the least productive and most enjoyable months of Aziraphale's life.
He still had appointments and orders, although not as many since the villagers were consumed with growing crops and raising livestock. In the past he always looked forward to the summer “slow time,” since it allowed him to spend most of his time holed up in his study practicing old spells and perfecting new ones.
This summer, Aziraphale spent most of his time with Crowley. The dragon had a fierce intellect and a sharp wit, both of which Aziraphale found very appealing.
Their week’s end dinners became a welcome habit, and their time together spilled over to several days during the week as well. Aziraphale and human Crowley explored the village’s hills and dales, and after Aziraphale fashioned a set of smoky quartz spectacles to obscure Crowley’s slitted eyes, their village wanderings soon included a hearty midday meal at the local alehouse.
They took turns surprising each other with gifts; Aziraphale presented Crowley with a new tunic and braies—still black, but made from finely woven local wool. Crowley, in turn, gave Aziraphale a gold goblet from his hoard, and loaned him the books that had belonged to his great-grandmother.
For the most part, Aziraphale enjoyed Crowley’s companionship in either form. Appearing human allowed Crowley to visit the village anonymously and mingle with the people there. Other times, Aziraphale would pack a hamper of food and meet Crowley in a quiet meadow where they would sit together in the warm sun, Aziraphale reading aloud from a book while he leaned against Crowley’s scaled chest. He tried to balance their outings, since he could see that it fatigued Crowley to remain human for more than half a day.
But there were times Aziraphale had to admit he wished Crowley didn’t have that restriction.
There were times he wished Crowley didn’t have to leave after dinner.
There were times, when they dozed in a sunlit meadow together, Aziraphale would think how lovely it would be if they could do the same thing in his home.
In his bed.
There had to be a way.
Aziraphale halted his current research and cleaned up his work table and his study to prepare for his new project. He decided to keep his endeavor a secret, so that he could surprise Crowley with it if he was successful.
In between his adventures with Crowley, Aziraphale spent hours going through every book, every scroll, every scrap in his collection, setting aside anything that could help with his new conundrum. He pored over the ten books that Crowley had lent him, and then he made painstaking copies, hoping that the focus of writing the words would give new insight.
Reading the notes crammed in the margins of those books made Aziraphale wish he could have met their owner. Betrys—he'd spied her name in the inside corner of each volume—truly seemed to have had a dizzying intellect and a hearty thirst for knowledge. That brilliance would have set her apart from the other wizards of her generation, and Aziraphale could see how that would have led to a terrible loneliness.
By midsummer, his research finally began to show some results. Making Crowley’s human transformation permanent would just not be possible; while Aziraphale had a healthy opinion of his power and skills, he knew he was nowhere near as powerful as Betrys had been, and Crowley’s human blood was too diluted after three generations. But he felt confident he could produce something that would reduce Crowley's need to concentrate on his human form and allow him to remain that way for at least a day or so.
Gathering ingredients took the rest of the summer, and Aziraphale felt fortunate that he lived in a part of Wales that was rich in all sorts of natural resources. It was a little trickier to get some “Crowley” ingredients, but a stray hair here and a shed scale there helped round out the list.
The air was beginning to turn crisp when Aziraphale finally perfected his elixir. He decanted the mixture into some vials he’d had the local potter make, and he carefully corked them. There would be some trial and error to determine how long a batch would hold its potency—and how long a dose would last—but Aziraphale was confident he had a very good starting point.
He saved sharing his discovery until their next Sunday dinner. He was spared the chore of cooking by Owain’s wife, who gave him a large crock of mutton stew and some freshly baked bread when she brought a sheep by earlier that morning. Aziraphale gave her an extra shilling as thanks.
He was heating up the stew when Crowley came in.
“Whatever that is, it smells very good,” Crowley said. He took off the woolen cloak that Aziraphale had given him when the weather first turned cold, and draped it over a chair.
“Mutton stew, made by Owain’s wife,” Aziraphale said while he ladled the stew into wooden bowls. “She made bread, too.”
“Owain raises good tasting sheep.” Crowley settled onto one of the kitchen benches. “His sheep taste better than Gareth’s.”
“Fascinating,” Aziraphale said, and he set the steaming bowls onto the table. “You can tell whose farm each animal comes from?”
“Oh, yes.” Crowley was by now well acquainted with using a spoon, and he dug into the stew with obvious enjoyment.
“And other animals taste better than others?” Aziraphale cut some rough slices of bread and handed one to Crowley.
Crowley nodded.
“Well, I think that will be one of my studies in the spring,” Aziraphale said. “I’d be very interested to find out how differently each farmer raises his animals.”
“You study everything,” Crowley said. “I’ve even watched you study clouds when we nap in the meadow.”
“That’s what wizards do,” Aziraphale replied. “Clouds are important, they bring rain. And it’s fun to see shapes in them.”
Crowley laughed.
When they finished their stew Aziraphale brought out spiced apples for pudding, and he poured some mead into a pair of small cups. “This is mead,” he said, “made from honey from the bees I keep in the back.”
Crowley sniffed its contents. “It’s not wine, is it? I don’t do very well with wine, it makes me sleepy. Remember the last time you gave me wine? You almost had a dragon in your sitting-room.”
“It’s not as strong as wine, and it’s a little cup,” Aziraphale said. He decided to take advantage of the opening. “Besides, I’ve come up with a solution to that problem.” He hurried over to the shelf above his stone sink, retrieved the small bottle of elixir, and set it in front of Crowley.
Crowley paused mid-sip and looked at the bottle. “Problem?”
Aziraphale flapped his hands. “The problem of you having to concentrate on your human form. I’ve studied it over the summer and have concocted an elixir that will help you remain human!” He beamed at Crowley.
Crowley frowned at the bottle. “But I am not human,” he said.
“Yes, I know, but—“
Crowley abruptly rose from his seat and set the cup down on the table, mead sloshing out and puddling on the worn wooden top. “I am a dragon,” he said.
This was not the reaction Aziraphale had expected. “Crowley, I—“
“I take this form when it is convenient. It is not a problem to be solved.” He strode out to the sitting-room and opened the door. “Thank you for the meal,” he said, and he shut the door behind him.
As Aziraphale stared at the door in shock, he heard the terrified bleating of the sheep outside, followed by the flap of leathery wings.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he whispered, and he picked up the bottle with a trembling hand. “What have I done?”
Unwanted Solitude, Part 1
Aziraphale found the following weeks to almost unbearable.
For years—decades—he’d been content with his solitary life. While he enjoyed the small interactions with the villagers, he always happier when he’d be by himself again, hurrying back up to his study to work on the latest project.
Magic had been all he needed to be happy.
Until he'd met Crowley.
The villagers knew something had happened, because Crowley had resumed taking animals from the fields. The dragon still kept to the agreement, however; he took from a different farm every week, and left a payment—the proper amount of shillings tied into a scrap of old black wool.
When asked about his red-headed friend, Aziraphale lied and said he’d been called away to help his family.
He’d tried twice to visit Crowley, but on both occasions the dragon’s cave had been empty. The second time, he left a letter, being careful with both his words and his handwriting.
No response.
The unexpected, unwanted plunge back into solitude was like a sucker-punch to the gut, and Aziraphale was totally unprepared for it. In an effort to distract himself, he tidied his study and packed up the elixir bottles and remaining ingredients. Next, he spent some time carefully copying his research from his slates to paper, and binding the final notes into a slim volume that he tucked onto a shelf next to the copies of Betrys’ books.
He tried to resume his earlier studies, but the work didn’t call to him, so the beakers remained empty and the slates stayed clean.
As autumn deepened and shortened the days, Aziraphale decided he at least had to be practical and prepare for winter. He shuttered the windows in his study and covered them with heavy wool drapes, and then he puttered in his gardens, cutting herbs to dry and harvesting any remaining fruits and vegetables.
He left the bees for last, waiting until a sunny, chilly day when all the bees were in the hive. He felt comforted by their humming while he wrapped burlap around the wooden structure and stuffed it with straw.
Aziraphale had just finished tying the burlap when a sudden shadow passed over him, and hope rose inside him as he dashed through his yard out to the rutted road. Could it be—?
A winged creature was flying toward the village. But hope died quickly when Aziraphale saw the flap of yellow wings, and it turned to fear when the creature opened its maw and spewed fire at the ground below.
A wyvern.
Seconds later Aziraphale heard the villagers’ screams.
“Oh, no,” he breathed, and he hurried into the tower to fetch some supplies before running to the village as fast as he could.
Unwanted Solitude, Part 2
Crowley was bored and lonely, and it was all that silly wizard’s fault.
Basking in the meadow wasn’t nearly as nice without Aziraphale there, resting against him and reading to him with his lovely voice.
Flying in the valley was still enjoyable, but it was more fun to walk along the winding trails and watch the sunlight glint off Aziraphale’s golden hair.
Crowley didn’t want to go into the village on his own, so no more greeting people, and no more listening to all the gossip in the market and the alehouse.
No more Sundays in Aziraphale’s sitting-room, talking about anything and everything, petting the cat while drinking tea.
He missed the cat.
He missed Aziraphale.
Crowley roared his frustration and listened to it echo through the back chambers of his cave. Stupid wizard, why had he wanted to change things? Yes, the limitations of his human form were sometimes frustrating, especially the times when they were sitting by the fire and he wanted nothing more than to lean against Aziraphale and fall asleep. But he could never do that, he had to concentrate—
Wait.
Concentrate.
He mentally replayed their last conversation, searching his memory for the exact words the wizard uttered when setting that bottle on the table.
‘The problem of you having to concentrate on your human form.’
Crowley roared again, but this time the frustration was with himself. Aziraphale wasn’t trying to change him, he was trying to give Crowley control over his transformation. And Crowley had left in a fit of temper, not allowing Aziraphale to explain himself. Then he had flamed the letter that the wizard had left, not bothering to read it.
He huffed steam through his nostrils. The stupid one was him, not the wizard.
Crowley pictured himself in his human form, in his clothes, and shifted. When he walked out of the cave he immediately regretted leaving his cloak behind in Aziraphale’s sitting-room, because the air had a definite nip to it.
But something was wrong. There was smoke in the air—not the kind of smoke from cooking or a fireplace, but of things burning. The air also carried the sounds of screams, from both humans and animals. A bone-piercing screech echoed across the rolling hills, and a yellow creature rose in the sky and belched a large stream of fire.
All thoughts of stupid misunderstandings fled Crowley’s mind, and he ran, transforming as he did so, until he was flying toward the village.
His village.
The Battle
The middle of the market square was perhaps not the best place to draw out an array of power, but Aziraphale wanted to work as close as he could to the areas that were burning.
Chaos was all around him; a crowd of men were trying their best to pass buckets of water to put out the fires that were blazing on the thatched roofs of the buildings, while others tried to lure the wyvern out onto the moors, away from their homes. Aziraphale had instructed a few of the wives to take the children to his tower, where they would be safe behind its stone walls. A dozen women remained with him, standing arm in arm at the front of the square, shielding him from the turmoil and protecting the integrity of the circle.
It was dangerous, working a rain spell this quickly, but he couldn’t afford the time to do a proper job of it. He had the most important bits etched out in the hard-packed dirt; the outer circle of Limitation, the intervals of Strength and Duration hatched between the outer and inner circles, and the intersecting triangles that marked out the Location of the (hopefully) coming storm. In the center of the circle of Working he placed a hastily-drawn bucket of water.
Careful not to step outside of the outer circle, Aziraphale allowed himself a minute to double-check the work, to make sure he was not going to cause a devastating flood. He adjusted a mark here, an interval there, and pronounced it good enough.
“Pluvia, imbre, nimbiferum.” He pulled a pinch of ash and powdered moss from a bag at his belt and raised his fingers up, blowing the ash towards the sky. He repeated the words and the actions as he walked around between the inner and outer circles, careful not to step on the hatched marks he’d made earlier. When he reached his starting point he did the same in each of the triangles, then he stood in the center, blew another pinch skyward, and sat down on the ground.
Aziraphale settled himself as best he could, and then he dumped the remaining mixture into the bucket, along with a piece of willow wood and a river stone. He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and began softly chanting the words, repeating them in a litany as he sent his power into the array. He let the words drown out the smoke, the screams, and the cold hard ground beneath him.
“Pluvia, imbre, nimbiferum.” He imagined the ash and moss floating up into the sky, and he beckoned to the nearby lakes and rivers, asking for their moisture. In his mind he pictured the sort of rain he wanted, asked it to come and water the flaming buildings instead of the grass and crops.
“Pluvia, imbre, nimbiferum.” At the very edge of his senses, Aziraphale could feel moisture beginning to build in the air. He directed it up, up to the sky, where the ash and moss could help gather it into clouds. He thanked the rivers and lakes, and asked if they could give him more for the village they served.
“Pluvia, imbre, nimbiferum.” A raindrop landed on his nose. One of the women cried out “Rain!” and was immediately shushed by the woman next to her.
More drops of rain fell, until there was a steady downpour. The thatched roofs made hissing noises as the rain extinguished the flames. Aziraphale heard the villagers cheering and he sighed with relief. “Tempore pluviarum, tempore imbreum, tempore nimbiferum.” He thanked the clouds for gathering, and thanked the rivers and lakes for their aid. He imagined the rain continuing through the night, and asked it to end when Sol rose in the morning.
He reached out and gathered the power back from the circle and opened his eyes. The buildings were a mess, but no longer burning. It had worked!
“Thank you, ladies, for your service,” Aziraphale said. “You aided me immensely. Could someone help me up, please?”
They crowded around him, raising him up and hugging him at the same time. “What will we do about the wyvern, Great Wizard?” one woman asked.
“I’m not sure,” Aziraphale replied. “We are mighty, but we are not knights and soldiers. If we can get him to the ground—“
He was interrupted by the roar of a dragon, and another cheer.
“The dragon! The dragon is here!”
Crowley! Aziraphale looked to the sky, not caring that the rain pelted his face. The women pulled him along down the muddy road until they reached the alehouse, where they huddled under the singed wood and thatch overhang.
“Look how much bigger our dragon is!” one of them said. “We’ll be cooking wyvern for dinner, you’ll see.”
Aziraphale smiled at hearing ‘our dragon.’ He shook his head. “Its meat would make you ill,” he said. “We’ll want to burn it as soon as we can.”
They all turned their attention to the battle in the sky above them.
It had been many, many years since Aziraphale had seen a dragon fight another creature in the air, and back then it had been both frightening and exhilarating. Now, as he watched Crowley spew jets of flame at the wyvern, he felt a mixture of pride and fear. Yes, Crowley was bigger, but wyverns were more agile and he couldn’t help but worry for his friend.
“Look! Look! He’s got him!”
Indeed, Crowley had managed to out-maneuver the wyvern and had clamped his massive jaws on the wyvern’s neck. He slashed at the yellow wings with his talons.
The wyvern screeched with pain and rage, and as it buckled in its death throes it lashed out at Crowley with its barbed tail. Crowley roared in pain, and the two creatures spiraled briefly before crashing to the ground.
“NO!” Aziraphale cried out, and he ran toward the field where they had fallen. The village men ran with him, carrying scythes and whatever other blades they had gathered.
The wyvern was dead, its neck broken by Crowley’s powerful jaws. “Don’t touch it,” Aziraphale told them as he tried to catch his breath. “Poisonous. Burn it when you can.”
He ran over to where Crowley lay. The dragon had some deep scratches on his wings, but Aziraphale was most worried about where the wyvern had struck him with its tail. He quickly found the wound, and his worst fears were confirmed when he saw the green sheen of venom on one of Crowley’s rear legs.
“Aziraphale.” Crowley said his name with a weary rumble.
Aziraphale stood by Crowley’s head and rested a hand on his forehead ridge. “Crowley, the wyvern hit you with its stinger, and it’s poisonous.”
“Is it dead?” Crowley’s eyes were glazed with pain and exhaustion.
“Yes, you saved us.”
“Hnn. There was rain. It was sunny before the wyvern came. You?”
“I told you those clouds were important, remember?” Aziraphale leaned closer. “Crowley, I need you to take your human form. I have ingredients at home that will work against the venom, but there’s not enough for you if you remain this size.”
“Too… tired to change.”
“Please, Crowley.” Aziraphale pressed his forehead against the side of Crowley’s snout as the rain pelted them both. “Please, my dear. I can save you if you change. I’ve missed you so much. Please try.”
“Missed… you too. Sorry I was… angry.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Please, Crowley, we’re running out of time. Please try, my dear.”
The dragon sighed, and there was suddenly an iridescent shimmer that surrounded them both. The dragon became part of the shimmer, then it shrank and faded, revealing Crowley’s human form.
The men near them gasped and cried out in surprise. Aled, the steward, approached them, followed closely by the others. “Your friend… is the dragon?”
Aziraphale gathered Crowley into his arms. “Yes,” he said, “the dragon is my friend. Please, help me get him back to my tower as quickly as possible, and help me keep him conscious.”
Beds are Splendid
Everything was so soft.
Crowley opened his eyes and was puzzled to see wood above him, not stone. With a little effort he raised his head and took a look around. He was in a room, and the pale light streaming through the narrow windows suggested it was just past dawn.
He was in a bed.
Panic rising, he pulled his front legs out from under the blankets.
They weren't legs. They were arms.
Crowley swept his hands over himself and confirmed that yes, he was in his human form, clad in a long linen shirt that he assumed were nightclothes. He sank back against the soft, plump pillows that had been beneath his head, and considered his current situation.
There was a dull, throbbing pain in his left leg. Ah yes, the wyvern. He remembered Aziraphale begging him to transform, and the effort it had taken him to do so. There were vague memories of being carried, of people talking to him, patting his cheeks and urging him to stay awake. Crowley wrinkled his nose in distaste, remembering the foul-tasting liquid that came from the little bottle that Aziraphale had held to his lips.
The same bottle that Aziraphale had shown him on that Sunday weeks ago.
It had obviously worked. Crowley could sense his dragon form, and knew that he could summon it at any time, but it no longer constantly pressed against his awareness like a wet, heavy blanket.
A soft thud and a purry meow told him he was in Aziraphale's bedchamber. "Hello, Myrddin," he said, holding out a hand. The cat thrust its head against his hand and rubbed its cheek against his wrist. It then hopped off the bed and trotted over to where Aziraphale slept in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. The cat tapped Aziraphale's knee, and when the wizard didn't respond it tapped again, this time with claws.
"Ow!" Aziraphale jerked awake, and blinked blearily at the cat. "Crowley, you're awake!" He lurched out of the chair and shuffled over to sit on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"
"Better, I think," Crowley said. "My leg hurts, but not horribly so."
"May I check it, please?"
Crowley submitted to the examination, gritting his teeth when Aziraphale poked at the wound on his thigh. He was glad to have the blankets back. Myrddin hopped back up on the bed and started kneading the top blanket with his paws.
Aziraphale sat back down on the bed’s edge. "The tincture and powders I used seems to have successfully drawn off the remaining venom," he said. "Your leg is warm, but not hot, so it looks like it will heal well. I'll re-dress it later and will put some honey on it; that will help."
Crowley raised an arm and waved his hand. "It looks like that elixir of yours worked as well."
Aziraphale smiled. "It did. I'm so grateful it was still effective. I'm sorry that I explained it so badly that day. I wasn't trying to change you, I just wanted it to be easier for you to stay in this form however long you might choose."
"I know that now," Crowley said. "I reacted before listening to your words."
"I enjoy our times in the meadow," Aziraphale said, "but I also like sitting by the fire with you, and enjoying a meal with you. You are my friend, no matter what form you take."
“You should work on making it taste better,” Crowley said. “It was horrible.”
Aziraphale laughed. “All right, that will be my first project of the winter.” He stood up. “Are you hungry? Can I make breakfast for you?”
Crowley leaned back against the pillows. “It’s too early. I’m still tired,” he said. “Why don’t we just go back to sleep?”
“Sounds good to me,” Aziraphale said, and he settled back in his chair.
Crowley scooted over to one side of the bed, grunting when he bumped his leg. “Come here and let’s nap like we do in the meadow. I have never napped in my human form.” He saw something flicker in the wizard’s eyes, something he couldn’t quite decipher. Something to figure out, after their nap.
“Very well,” Aziraphale said. “It is my bed, after all.” He shed his robe and slid under the covers. Myrddin promptly curled up between them.
Crowley lay there in the drowsy quiet, listening to Aziraphale’s breathing and the cat’s purrs. Then Aziraphale shifted to curl up next to him, and Crowley felt the warmth of Aziraphale’s arm across his waist.
Beds were so much better than caves, he decided. Especially beds that came with mad wizards in them. He would drink that elixir every day if he had to, to be able to enjoy this delicious warmth, with this remarkable human. Crowley rested his cheek against soft golden curls, breathed in the soap-and-sandalwood of Aziraphale’s scent, and let himself drift off to sleep.
-fin
Wonderful!
Re: Wonderful!
Brilliant!
Re: Brilliant!
Absolutely charming!
Re: Absolutely charming!
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And it's so tender and warm, and very comforting, so kudos to you and thank you!
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comicgeekery
(Anonymous) 2024-12-02 03:25 am (UTC)(link)Re: comicgeekery
So sweet!
(Anonymous) 2024-12-02 04:29 pm (UTC)(link)-The Ineffable Zephyr
Re: So sweet!
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Delightful!
“Well, we are in Wales,” Aziraphale remarked. “I should hope it would be red.”
Yesss! Wales mentioned!
A wizard, yes, with that power embracing him like a lazy lover.
I really liked this image of his power wrapping around him like a lazy lover. Wonderful.
Our dragon. Crowley's throat suddenly felt tight. A gift, made by a child, for him.
Awww, this is so cute! Crowley likes kids.
All thoughts of stupid misunderstandings fled Crowley’s mind, and he ran, transforming as he did so, until he was flying toward the village.
His village.
HIS VILLAGE! <3
He protects it and he's welcome there and they get to cuddle and there's a cat. There's so much to love about this.
Re: Delightful!
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Aziraphale is being himself, even though he is slightly annoyed about sudden visitors, he is genuinely caring about the villagers and touched by their gifts:')
The image of Crowley-The-Welsh-Dragon now lives in my heart *_*
This story left me with such a warm feeling <3
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Author, this is an amazing fic. THANK YOU SO MUCH for writing it. I’m so honoured that my prompt inspired you to write this.
It was a general rule that he was Not To Be Disturbed in the afternoons, so Aziraphale was puzzled as to who was ringing the bells so enthusiastically. They’d been at it for at least a quarter of an hour.
I love that Aziraphale has listened to the bell ringing for fifteen minutes and instead of opening the door just keeps doing his thing and thinking how the bells were an awful idea. Such Aziraphale behaviour honestly. :D
It's a fine spring morning, shouldn't you all be growing beans or something?
You crack me up, author! xD
“Well, we are in Wales,” Aziraphale remarked. “I should hope it would be red.”
Well naturally a Welsh dragon needs to be red. I love this so much. And I can just hear the accents in my mind.
“Well, it would end all the ‘kill it’ talk, for one thing. You’d become a customer—a local. Part of the village economy. They’d want to keep you around.”
This logic really makes sense.
Crowley’s background and his family lore about the woman becoming a dragon was so fascinating! Also Crowley taking human form by focusing on it was clever. Very nice parallels with canon and Crowley's snake form.
"You have a man-shaped dragon in your home, and you make tea and jokes." He ate more of his cake. "And instead of trying to kill him, you made a contract with the village and you have a cow in your yard."
I love them.
When Aziraphale began researching how Crowley could stay as a human for a little longer, I just knew it was going to end in a misunderstanding but it will still painful. Understandable from both sides but painful. Again, the canon parallels! You two just need to talk to each other!!
All thoughts of stupid misunderstandings fled Crowley’s mind, and he ran, transforming as he did so, until he was flying toward the village.
His village.
His village! His village! His village! He is their dragon and it's his village!
“Please, Crowley.” Aziraphale pressed his forehead against the side of Crowley’s snout as the rain pelted them both. “Please, my dear. I can save you if you change. I’ve missed you so much. Please try.”
I may have cried here. Just a bit.
What a delightful, lovely story! Thank you for creating this. I couldn’t have hoped for a better gift. I will be reccing this to everyone I know. <3
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(So in other words, you would have gotten this story even if I hadn't been assigned your prompt! It demanded to be written.)
Thanks so much for the inspiration and all your lovely comments!