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A small flame hisses to life when he strikes the match. He lowers it slowly, feeds it to the last candle that is yet to be set alight. There are eight of them, little specks flickering in the damp mist surrounding him. They form a strange shape, placed along the edges of a scribble scratched into soft soil.
You will need a sigil, Anathema explained. Something that incorporates him. And you. Both of you.
He swallows past a tight throat and does not think about how she has helped him finding the perfect shape. Her gentle smile. Her heavy eyes. You should do it on All Hallow's Eve. It's when the veil is the thinnest… She knows that the doesn't believe. Never has. He has always grounded his reality on facts, has held endlessly fascinating discussions with her about her way of seeing the world. Anathema has always been happy to chat with him, about anything. You're respectful. Not like others. She used to grin and wink at Crowley.
Crowley…
He swallows again, the lump in his throat expanding as he presses the dying match into the clammy earth beneath him. His hands are shaking, he realises. At least they didn't earlier, when he drew the incomprehensible shape of lines and patterns into the ground. He looks up and watches the reflections of eight tiny flames dancing merrily across the surface of a polished stele of Nero Portoro.
A. J. Crowley
Great souls die and our reality, bound to them, takes leave of us.
No dates. Aziraphale was very insistent on there being no dates. Crowley never shared his birth date and the other… the other he does not want to see. Refuses having to face it every time he will be coming here.
Eight pinpricks of flames that twirl and sputter and he knows that he must push on before the night wind might steal their light.
Are you really sure… Anathema asked, understanding and an unwelcome gentleness thick in her voice. There are so many factors. It probably won't work, she didn't say. Even if her world existed, why would the ritual heed the call of one who doesn't believe? He knows this, knows that it is madness. A senseless endeavour, unworthy of him. Or maybe it is him who is not worthy.
I have to try. His throat was tight back then, too. The words scraping past his tongue with a taste of iron. I have to try. You don't understand. I couldn't even… There wasn't even a goodbye. I couldn't even.. Strong fingers on his shoulder, but they weren't strong enough. They weren't long enough.
He couldn't even tell him that he loved him one last time. An accident, the sombre officer said, sympathy lining every blurry information. An oncoming driver had lost control. Ice on the road, nobody's fault. Completely unexpected, that early in the season. The other driver in the ER, results pending, not looking good. Anthony – Crowley… Crowley! – was not even brought there. Gone before the ambulance could arrive. It must have been fast.
Gone, gone, gone…
"I couldn't even tell you –" he chokes into the silent night, tasting salt on his lips.
He knew, Anathema told him. Crowley knew. He always knew. She drew him into a tight embrace and whispered instructions into his ear. It was ridiculous, of course it was. But the chance… only the notion of a chance. To hear his voice again. Just one last time. They didn't want me to see him. Wanted to spare him the sight. I didn't even see him, he croaked into the soft fabric of her dress.
He draws his left hand across his face to gather wetness from his eyes. Blood is most often used, but any essence of you will do. The deeper the meaning, the better. The earth covering the grave is soft and cold against his palm when he presses his hand into it. Still fresh, so fresh. And down there, deep, deep down there… A vice grips his chest and squeezes, leaving him breathless.
He has done as advised. Say these words while drawing the sigil. Is trying against hopeless hope. Be honest and open in your wishes.
"I never told you… Never said how much… How much you mean to me. Meant to me." His throat is sore, hoarse words wrenched past his lips spilling into the night. "I just… I just wish I could see you. One more time. To tell you." I love you was freely shared between them. Only after Crowley was taken from him, he started to wonder whether he ever told it right. Whether Crowley ever knew the whole scale of it. The whole depth of it.
"I just want to tell you. To see you. Feel you. One last time." His voice is drowning, turning liquid. With a weird sense that doesn't seem to belong to him, he realises that stillness is surrounding him. The breeze that has been relentlessly tugging at his scarf and coat has vanished, the flames in front of him are standing to silent attention. He draws a shaky breath.
"I just wish…"
Angel, often said with laughter, sometimes mirthful, sometimes like a teasing reprimand. Or in surprise. Or exasperation. Or in hushed tones, whispered against his skin as he was held close. Crowley's voice. Oh, Crowley's voice. Whatever cadence it would take, there was always warmth in it. Sometimes, when he comes home from his strolls that feel so meaningless now, there is a greeting straining at the tip of his tongue. He wants to call out into the empty space of his flat, aches to hear an answer. Angel. But there isn't any. There will never be an answer again.
Think of him. Of what you want.
"I just want… I didn't even see you." He shivers and draws one arm across himself, his left palm still buried in loose soil. It's getting colder now, the night progressing with an icy clamber. There might be an impression, a familiar aura you can pick up. You will know if he's present. Not all of them have a voice. There is a rustle behind him, animals in a bush. The sound scratches through the stillness like a claw before the night falls silent again. He closes his eyes. Tries once again to swallow past the tightness in his throat and forces it to give voice to what he knows must be nothing but empty words. "I just wish to feel you."
The lights go out.
He sucks in a breath and straightens up. Stares at the dead candles. His hand clenches into a fist around a lump of warming earth. Behind him there is a rustle again. The wind, he thinks, it must be the wind. The same breeze that carried away the tiny flames. Only because you can't feel it, doesn't mean it isn't there. He stares at the grave. Keeps his eyes on where he can't see candles, where the darkness hides a twisted symbol and loathsome lines carved into black stone. A hushed voice beyond the borders of his consciousness is screaming about street lights. About why there is only the echo of a full moon glinting across the tombstone in front of him. Something cold is slithering up his spine.
"I just… I just wanted to hear your voice one more time."
There is a crunching sound. Like a heavy boot grinding down on the gravel path behind him.
"Hello angel."