Sometimes if Crowley thought about it long enough and hard enough, he could remember what he was like before he fell. He was big- sort of? The clearest thing he could remember was the light- the over whelming light that extended out into space out to the farthest and coldest stars.
He’d had a different name, too. A name before Anthony J. Crowley, a name even before he was called Crawley. It was an important name, a powerful name he could just barely recall the sound of it in God’s soothing voice. The way his brothers used to tease him as they flew through the universe breathing stars and life into creation as they had been ordered. The name itself was gone, stripped away from him when Lucifer pulled him down out of heaven to join in his rebellion.
Crowley hadn’t thought much about it at the time, that nothing truly bad could happen if he was with his big brother. Then he burned and his glorious white wings stung and burned, the ash of his skin darkening his wings until they were black as soot.
Lucifer, in his outrage for loosing, or maybe just to punish Crowley for whatever he’d done wrong (cried from the pain, perhaps?) had looked into his head and taken out the name God had given him.
So, he could remember that the name as said by God or Michael or Gabriel or Lucifer had been a comfort to him but not the name itself.
Crowley had never bothered to ask Aziraphale though he was certain the angel could remember it. The question of his old name had come to mind while he’d been following around Aziraphale at the Tate Museum. They had some special exhibition on an older less-well known artist Xenophilius Reknowned. Ironically, he wasn’t very reknown until well after his death.
Xenophilius Reknowned, born 1900, died 1945 in Dresden. Only through a miracle, so to speak, that while he burned away in Allied Firebombings his paintings did not. The exactly 13 (and 1 complete sketch book) paintings that remained in storage until being found in 2010 when a couple was looking for a place to fool around.
Anyway, it took nearly a decade for the artwork to find its way over to the London Tate Museum of Art. If one were in London and fancied a walk around, it would take approximately 12 minutes to go from the Tate to St. Paul’s Cathedral. From which, if going to the very top, you could see over the Thames and back onto the Tate.
But that isn’t important, aside from the slight bit of irony.
In the lightly colored hallway, set aside for exhibitions such as this, Xenophilius’ paintings were on display. Three of them depicted Michael, Gabriel and Lucifer. Michael’s with his great sword, Gabriel and his horn and Lucifer’s fall. Several depicted the rebellion which led to the fall and the last one was a set piece of sorts. The painting depicted a figure, looking quite at ease with the world as he fell through the sky head first, his leg at an odd angle with one wing bright white and the other black. It was the oddest thing to look at as if you starred long enough at it, you’d swear the white wing was shimmering. Or that if you looked at it again, you would swear that it had been the other wing which was white and the other that was black.
As Aziraphale flitted about the room, studying the paintings Crowley found himself in front of this last painting. There was something about it that made Crowley feel uncomfortable, sort of tense. In his head was a mix of radio static and burning.
It’s title was “Truth will out by Caesar’s 6th: 24-7-22-14-7-11-18.”
“Well that’s odd,” Crowley muttered, jumping a bit when a pair of hands wrapped around his arm, Aziraphale’s head resting against his shoulder.
Ever since the Armagedidn’t and both Heaven and Hell had left them alone, Zira had felt more comfortable in public embraces of affection. Hand-holding, hugging, an occasional peck. Crowley found himself very much enjoying it.
“This painting- doesn’t it just feel weird?”
“Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured, standing up straight to study the portrait. He was quiet for a moment before releasing a surprised “huh.”
Crowley was watching his companion intently, waiting for the angel to continue.
“It was painted with holy water, I think? I think the artist was a seer of sorts? Perhaps he saw this angel falling and was inspired?”
The fallen angel was quiet for a moment, his next words tentative and unsure.
“Angel, I think that’s me.”
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