Chapter Text
886 C.E. Somewhere along the border of English Mercia and Danish Mercia.
A loud pop broke the silence as a log was split by the fire, crackling and sending little sparks of burning ash to briefly fly and die in the early autumn night's sky.
Aziraphale gingerly plucked the stick from the dry soil where Crowley had planted it between them some minutes ago, after Aziraphale had chastised the demon for repeatedly misplacing it. He then used it to once again stoke the fire — less because it actually needed any intervention and more because it gave him something to do with his hands.
Cruel is what Crowley had called it.
Cruel that they should be able to keep a fire in open air, while the days were getting shorter and colder, and the villagers below were living in darkness and shivering, afraid to even light their lamps.
During this summer's drought, it had only taken one small Danish child sneaking into the grain stores of a wattled barn to meet her equally small Mercian friend by candlelight to make one small mistake. It had only taken one mere moment of one tiny bulb of candle flame meeting one slender stalk of straw to set the fire that would consume two years of grain, the barn, the adjoining home of the elder Eadfrid, then Eadfrid himself, and over the next days nearly three hectares of forest, field, and village.
Three months had passed since, and still no rains had come.
It was rather cruel as well that Aziraphale and Crowley should be here, shielded in on three sides by the outcrop of ancient volcanic rock jutting from the earth of the hills above the forest, where just beyond the battles and raids continued to rage. Unlike in the surrounding villages, here all was still. No insects, no birds, no people, no wind. Just the occasional crackle and whoosh of the firewood and flames. Just the silent warmth that comes from both fire and the comfort of familiar company.
"So the girl…" Crowley began, resuming a conversation that had trailed off into silence who knows how many minutes ago. "Did she…ah… at least seem like she liked him?" He shifted where he lay sprawled out on the grass, the back of his head cradled on his hands as he watched the ashes burn up against the moonless backdrop.
At this point in their rendezvous, it was undeniable that this was no longer just a business meeting. They had already discussed the serious matters that brought them together that evening. There was no point in lingering. Yet here they continued to sit.
There was something in the illusion of changes to the shape of the demon made by the shifting firelight dancing and twisting and casting uneven shadows along his sharp features that made a strange feeling grow in Aziraphale's chest.
At Crowley’s question, Aziraphale realized he'd been staring, and tore his eyes away.
Smiling sombrely, he sighed. "Enough to marry him."
Crowley turned and lifted his head to level Aziraphale with a look from behind his glasses. The golden orange hues of curling licks of flame reflected there were not dissimilar to the amber of the eyes that they obscured. "Angel. Liking someone is hardly a requisite for marriage."
"I know that!" Aziraphale snapped, though his tone was one far more of dismay than annoyance. He sighed again, carefully wording his answer. "Both parties appeared amenable, and there was every indication that this will be a successful alliance."
"Successful alliance," Crowley muttered, the words audibly unpalatable. "How fucking romantic."
Aziraphale warily eyed the bottle in Crowley's hand as he lifted it to take another drink.