Nine Inch Scales Chapter 13 - Ghosts V: Together
Cover art by @and-his-hands-were-24-crows Thank you so much, Crows! Please show them some support by checking out their work on Instagram and ao3!
And a huge thank you to my beta harem, who have been with me on this journey for over six months now: @totheendtimes, @Nightshiftcaffeine, @ineffable-xenanigans, @nosferatini, @moderndayklutz, @Savyl and @TansyOgg
Additional in story art by Demented_DeMeown and @avadoingart-imus
CW/TW for this chapter: Major character death, grief, depression
In the wake of Crowleyâs sacrifice, Aziraphale is left behind with a grief so vast it hollows him out and diminishes his divinity. In the aching silence of loneliness, he clings to the remnants of the life they once had: the Bentley faithfully navigating them around the great scars carved into the Earth, memories shared with Newt and Anathema, and Crowleyâs music drifting softly through empty rooms.
Crowley doesnât just remain present in memory however. He has left a permanent mark. The world is now scarred; continents split open by the terrible effort of his final song, humanity forever changed by the sound of his suffering. As society struggles to rebuild, something unexpected begins to emerge from the wreckage: compassion, reverence for the Earth, and the fragile hope that from destruction there can be rebirth.
Excerpt:
The Bentley waited for him, parked outside the bookshop exactly where Crowley used to leave her. Her black paint gleamed faintly under the amber glow, and condensation beaded along her windows like tears. The headlights flickered once as he approached, in quiet acknowledgement.
âHello, my dear,â Aziraphale murmured, pressing an unsteady hand to her bonnet. The metal was warm and comforting under his palm. âThank you for staying up for me.â
The Bentley responded with a low, gentle rumble. It reminded Aziraphale of the throat noises Crowley used to make when he was thinking, or when he was swallowing back words he couldnât bring himself to say. The sound reverberated through Aziraphaleâs fingers, up his arms, and into the hollow ache in his chest.
âI know,â he whispered. âThe city feels emptier without him.â
The Bentley revved her engine once, and her radio crackled for a moment. Aziraphale half expected to hear Crowleyâs voice, or at least one of his songs, but there was no melody to be found. Just static followed by silence.
Aziraphaleâs throat tightened. He leaned against the driver's side door, half embracing the car, as absurd as it was. âIâll look after you,â he promised.
The Bentley gave one final rumble, a low, tender sound, before her lights dimmed.
Aziraphale straightened up and looked towards the bookshop. It seemed unfamiliar now, too dark beyond the windows, too empty. Inside, the smell of paper and beeswax engulfed him like a shroud.Â
He hung up his damp coat, stood in the centre of the shop, and listened. Rain pattered on the windows. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed and faded.
He tried to read. He tried to eat. He tried to find some comfort in the familiar clutter of his bookshelves, but every gesture felt hollow. The world had slipped off its axis, and no miracle could set it right.
When he finally clambered upstairs to bed, he didnât bother undressing. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the city outside: the hiss of tyres on wet pavement, the occasional murmur of late night voices. Life went on. Humanity went on.
Aziraphale waited for sleep, but none came. Each time he closed his eyes, he heard the echo of that final scream.Â
The sound of music itself tearing apart.
Read the rest here on ao3.
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@goodomensafterdark
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In memory, always, of xenanigans.
GNU, Exus.
