Chapter Text
This harvest is heavy and bitter it seems
In tainted soil it has grown
Naglfar – Harvest
***
The crate arrives on a mild spring’s evening, rough wood tainted copper by the setting sun. It offers no postal address nor any indication as to who has sent it. The small piece of printed paper stapled to the lid only holds two lines.
For Mr A. Z. Fell
Enjoy
The men who have brought it to Aziraphale’s door navigate the large, unwieldy box on a strangely wheeled skid. They stop in the middle of his bookshop to ask him where he wants it placed.
There is no answer as to whom it is from. What it contains. They only repeat that they have been hired to deliver it. It is heavy, they insist, and wait for him to direct them towards where they are to deposit it so they can finally clock off for the night.
He suspects his study will be the most suitable.
To his final question – whether they need payment on reception – they shake their heads and hand him an envelope, then leave the slowly dimming room and its proprietor behind.
Aziraphale locks up and flicks the sign to Closed before heading for the backroom that serves as his study. He hurries to switch on all the lamps he has filled his quiet refuge with. Something about this incident has him craving light, artificial as it may be. The warm, bright glow that usually witnesses him poring over heavy tomes or scratching delicate sigils into wood or skin or metal is enveloping the crate, glinting off the metal bands that keep the lumber boards in place.
He approaches cautiously, runs his fingertips along what he suspects to be iron. They prick with the realisation that there are runes engraved into the bands.
Something is inside this box. Something the unknown sender wanted to arrive safely. Or keep others safe from. Aziraphale thinks he should recognise some of the symbols. They ring of old memories and older stories, things he has read in books but never dabbled with himself. Things that came with warnings.
He knows where to look and glean their meaning from. Which volumes to draw out from his private bookshelves that he never allows any customer to set their eyes upon. But the thought of turning his back towards the crate sits wrong with him in a way that is deeply disconcerting.
Once again, he stares at the note and the envelope he has set down beside it, neither granting him any hint as to what is kept within the wood and binding metal.
He grabs a brass bowl and some salts, arranges it all above a smouldering pile of charcoal. As the vapours start to rise, he collects a few orbs, their faint gleam smooth and peaceful in his outstretched palm.
Nothing that poses a direct threat then, nothing that is ready to burst from its containment. He sprinkles a few herbs into the bowl and breathes in the smoke. Allows it to calm and reassure him as it wafts across the room and alights on dark iron and bright planks.
Aziraphale picks up the envelope, turns it in his fingers and feels the bulge of something small and hard. He slices the thick paper open, careful not to potentially damage whatever it might hold. When he peers inside, there is nothing but a single, tiny key. He frowns at the crate. The lid is nailed on, the bands bear no lock. Whatever the key may open, it must be inside.
The shape of the runes tickle at something in the depth of his mind. He glances at the orbs which are shimmering peacefully, then picks one up to take along as he leaves to collect some chosen literature.
Fae
The word dances in front of his eyes, a suspicion that has been building with every turned page confirmed at last.
It is a fae that he has been sent, and the runes cut into iron imply that it isn’t a corpse. Simple remains, no matter the potency of their components, do not necessitate that sort of protection. No, he has received a living, breathing creature.
He lets the tome fall close and contemplates the crate, steepled fingers tapping lightly at his lips. It is reasonably secure to lift the lid, he is sure. The three iron bands that span the sides of the container will hold their spell for as long as they stay in place.
His fingers itch to pry away the nails that attach the lid to the crate. He wants to see, but it isn’t wise to rush into this. He still does not know who has granted him this gift nor why. And so he rummages for a piece of chalk, goes over to crouch down in front of the bulky object and begins to draw.
The circle forms in decisive strokes, the squeal and crunch of chalk disrupting the peaceful calm as Aziraphale works. Patterns bloom across the floor, encircling the eerily silent box. Sometimes he thinks his ears catch a faint jingle, but he suspects it to be mere fancy.
Three rings he casts around the crate, three circles that shall protect him from evil. He can’t be sure whether they work. If they hold against a fae. The adjustments he has made to what originally was meant to bind demons are his own creation, and while he might surpass all his peers in knowledge, this is the first time he has cause to apply it.
He inhales deeply, breathes in courage along with the heavy scent of lavender and thyme. This is all that can be done. Oh, he could wait and reach out to one of his contacts, ask about further precautions. But who knows which of them has sent him the creature and therefore would see his inquiry as weakness. Or would try to get their cut.
With a dull ache in his knees, he rises and wipes his hands on dusty trousers, ignoring the white smudges they leave on the beige fabric. There really is no reason to dilly-dally any further, he tells himself and steps towards the crate, curiosity and apprehension warring in his chest.
The flat chisel fits barely between the walls and the lid, but the nails yield easily at the slightest pressure. Not meant to shut close then, only to keep the cover in place. He follows their row and watches them rise one by one. Tries to steady himself with each of them coming loose. When he draws the last one out and lets it fall into a little cup standing on a nearby table, he takes another deep breath.
The continuous silence unnerves him. Maybe the creature didn’t survive its travel after all. With a dull twinge of regret, he braces himself and reaches for the large, wooden square.
The first thing he sees is a flash of crimson. For a blurry second, he thinks it is blood, but the texture is all wrong.
Hair, he realises. A flood of garnet red, framing something that looks like a small but wide barrel hoop encircling the creature’s head to blind its eyes. His gaze follows the tumble of strands down to bare shoulders, along an equally bare chest, and… oh.
The fae is naked, nothing touching the stretch of tender-looking skin. Nothing aside a series of restraints.
Iron. It must be iron. And so much of it. Beneath the hoop around his eyes, there is a wide plate covering his mouth and chin. Something that looks like a collar is fast around the long neck and another hoop is fixing the arms to the torso. The wrists and ankles are encased in manacles and fetters.
So the jingle had not been his imagination.
The inside of the crate is lined with an ivory fabric. Nothing much to provide the creature comfort, but possibly an attempt to dull the sound of the chains.
The fae does not move and Aziraphale stares at the chest, feels his own breath leave him with relief when he sees a gentle rise and fall.
“Are you awake?” he whispers, his voice cracking through the stillness of the room. A stillness that feels almost tangible, as if taking life within the confines of his study. He wonders whether the fae will acknowledge him at all or if maybe he is unconscious – but then the creature shifts.
The head turns towards him, tentatively, with a miniscule tilt that has an air of inquisitive wariness. There is a rattle of chains as the figure draws in on himself, knees pulling up to either hide the nakedness or shield the vulnerable parts of the fae’s body.
“I won’t harm you,” Aziraphale tries to reassure, though he is not sure whether it is the truth. This mere predicament might be harmful to the creature. His eyes glide along all the metal adorning him, denting the slightly luminous skin.
He fights against a flare of aesthetic appreciation, and something else. Something he doesn’t want to give a name to, doesn’t want to consider. It is natural, he tells himself, to be fascinated by such a gift. By being in the presence of a creature he has only ever read of. That he knows the use of, were it dead, and the very real challenge it poses by being alive.
One cannot trust the fae. Neither the fair nor the dark folk are known for their dependability, and he feels the burden of having one of them here, in his sanctuary, very acutely. He isn’t sure what to do with the creature, how to set him free without inviting danger. If not by the fae himself, then potentially by whomever has sent him here. He does not want to spurn anyone’s generosity, knows all too well that while the fae are fickle, his brethren can be unreasonably cruel – even towards each other.
No, this needs to be approached with deliberate care. There are still books he can consult, texts that might bear some hints as to how to control the creature long enough to find out all he knows before releasing him in a way that will keep Aziraphale out of harm’s reach.
He tries to convince himself that this is all there is to it. It is his safety he is looking out for. The opportunity to study a fae and maybe even converse with him is but a side effect.
“I’ll find you something to cover yourself with,” he promises the creature, “but for now…” Taking hold of the crate’s lining, he pulls at the silky material, tears it loose from the splinters of wood and lets it fall to the bottom of the container. It pools around slender calves, hiding the fetters at the end of them. The pearlescent shimmer of it seems to reflect the odd sheen of the fae’s skin.
Heading upstairs in search for a suitable cloth to wrap the newest addition to his household in, he wills his thoughts to focus on the tasks at hand. Finding out all there is to know about this strange occurrence. Making use of the exceptional opportunity to learn. Figuring out what to do about the fae once he has concluded his studies. That will be his course of action.
The night after receiving the unusual delivery, Aziraphale finds no rest.
He has hammered the lid back into place, wincing at each blow and his tongue heavy with an apology he did not voice. Empty words would not change anything about this situation, surely the fae was aware of that.
It was one thing to leave his study for a short while, he told himself as his fingers traced the edge where wood met wood, a complete other to spend the night in bed while the crate stood open for hours on end. If what his first perusal of his tomes has yielded is true, then the lid did not matter. The fae will not be able to leave the crate, closed or not, as long as the iron bands with their runes stay in place.
Still, until he could confirm this with further texts, he felt it safer this way. Made him hope it would enable him to settle enough for a sleep which keeps on avoiding him.
When he closes his eyes, he sees spindly fingers sliding through cuffs and fetters crumbling into dust.
It is ludicrous, he knows it is. Even if the creature could escape the crate and Aziraphale's circles didn’t hold him back, even if the wards he placed around them would fail to alert him, the fae poses no real threat. All that iron alone is enough to keep him subdued. Aziraphale knows this, and yet his mind refuses to let him slip into a well–needed slumber.
Nestled up against the headrest of his bed, he takes to the books instead, leafing through them between sips of hot cocoa. The rum he added in an attempt to dampen the flutter in his stomach prickles along his tongue and he hums, sinking into the pleasure of the warm drink for a moment before setting the cup down on the bedside table.
Another scroll, another confirmation that the combined forces of runes and iron make it impossible for the fae to escape the crate. Their spell casts a clear enough picture: As long as the fae is carrying one piece of iron against his skin, he will not be able to leave the space bands enclose.
He thinks of the iron restraints the fae is wearing. From what he has seen, they are nothing but metal, no rune nor sigil carved into them. He will have to make sure, should have made sure before retiring for the night. But when he returned to the crate earlier, a tartan throw blanket in his arms that felt inexplicably unsuited to dress the fae in, something stalled him from taking too close a look.
The creature hadn’t moved much. Was still huddled up against a corner, the loose lining drawn up to his chest. He didn’t react when the blanket was dropped to his feet and Aziraphale did not want to antagonise him unnecessarily.
Tomorrow. He will have a look at the restraints tomorrow. Will have to peel the fabrics away from the naked body…
Brittle parchment rustles in the peaceful silence as he turns the page he has been staring at for far too long. He focuses on words and ignores the images his mind is trying to conjure up for him.
Images of hair like spilled wine and dark iron biting into naked skin.
Aziraphale awakes into a new day with a crick in his neck and a book on his knees. Rolling his shoulders, he clambers out of the bed and heads towards the bathroom. He must have fallen asleep somewhen during the early hours of the morning, the position he has been sitting in leaving him slightly dizzy and with a jabbing pain in the small of his back.
When he enters his shop, it still lies in slumber. Warm morning light trickles in through the windows, sneaking past piles of books stacked to turrets and painting golden flecks across the floor. After some consideration, he decides against opening for business and heads to his study instead. There are more pressing matters to attend to.
Wood creaks in protest when he wrenches off the lid to peek into the crate. The fae is curled up at the bottom, face turned away and the blanket wrapped tightly around him. Aziraphale follows the lines of the fabric, reassures himself that the creature is breathing. The woven pattern of creme and pastel blue looks wrong. He should be shrouded in dark hues. Black or the deepest shades of rubies and emeralds.
Shaking off the incongruous urge to adorn the creature, Aziraphale picks up his phone. While he can’t weave strings of gems into the wildness of the fae’s hair, he knows a tailor who will have the perfect thing to cover him with on stock.
Once the order is placed and delivery promised for the afternoon, he returns to glance over the edge of the crate. The fae must be awake by now, even though he does not show it. His kind is keen and alert, not easily to be sneaked up on.
He wants to be able to see his eyes, Aziraphale decides. Right after he will have made sure that the restraints indeed bear no spell of their own. He needs to be sure that it is safe for him to remove some of them. Once he is, the hoop blinding the creature will be the first to go.
Ready to lean into the shadows of the crate, he realises how much its current position would put him at a disadvantage. There should be a crowbar and a few bricks lying about in the cellar… Little remnants from when he had one of the partition walls torn down.
“Listen,” he aims for a calm and reassuring tone, “I’ll tip this box over, alright? Be right back, just get prepared to be bumped about a bit.”
He leaves in search for the tools, convincing himself that it will be fine. That whichever side the crate lies on has no influence on the effectiveness of the spell.
When he returns, the creature is still huddled up in the same spot.
“This would be easier for you, if you were to sit against the wall in front of you.”
Aziraphale waits, staring at the motionless figure. Were it not for the continuous signs of breathing, he would be sure the creature had expired. Just when he is ready to give it up as a lost cause, the fae stirs.
There is a shuffle, the melodic jingle of chains, and then the fae scoots over to cower against the sidewall that will soon hit the ground.
Aziraphale feels a smile breaking across his face at this first true interaction. This is promising, the fae obviously understands him. Aziraphale may even get to converse with him, if he deems it safe to remove what is effectively a muzzle.
With a slight shiver that he can’t explain to himself, he steps around a corner of the crate and puts the brick and crowbar into place.
“Careful now,” he calls out. “On the count of three. One, two, three– “
There is a lurch and sway. Worry that something might go wrong flashes across Aziraphale. If the lumber was to burst into pieces and the bands slipped off… But then the crate tilts and lands on the intended side. He runs his hands along the metal framing the planks, confirming that everything is still in place. The edges and curves of the runes are a grounding reminder that he is in control.
He steps towards the opening, which is looking out into his study now. The line of vision provides the fae with the vista of a corner containing a dainty Louis XIV table and a standard lamp. This is fine, nothing in sight that could be misused.
Slowly, Aziraphale hunches down.
There is a sliver of light falling in from the room, illuminating half of the cramped space. He spots slender feet that end in delicate ankles crowned by the shackles' broad cuffs. His eyes trace the lines of sharp shin bones until they reach the hem of the makeshift covering he has provided the fae with. The light fabrics drawn around the body look almost ghostly in the dimness within the crate.
“Just a moment,” Aziraphale mutters, more to himself than the creature who has withdrawn to what is now the back wall.
He collects an electric torch from within the cabinet behind his desk and picks up the ornate lamp standing on top of it. The extension lead is just about long enough to plug it into a nearby socket and place it in front of the crate. Sheer luck, a quiet voice nags inside his mind, causing Aziraphale to feel woefully unprepared.
Though how can he not be, nobody having informed him of the creature's arrival beforehand.
He tells himself sternly that he is doing rather well, all things considered, and switches on the lamp.
The soft light glides across the figure inside the crate. Aziraphale’s gaze follows the spill of heavy-looking hair and his fingers twitch with an urge to move. He closes his eyes for a second, then lets them wander over the narrow face, most of it hidden by waves of crimson and grey metal. He takes in the stretch of a long neck, the slope of bare shoulders.
The fae’s hands lie crossed against his chest, iron cuff on iron cuff, their grip looks strained where they keep the blanket and lining wrapped around him.
“I–“ Aziraphale’s voice sounds feeble. He clears his throat, gathers firmness into his tone. “I’m going to have a look at those restraints.”
There might be a tilt of the head. A hint at a movement indicating understanding. Aziraphale is not sure whether he really saw it or if he merely wished so. He props himself on his knees and for a cloying moment a vision assaults his mind. Him creeping into the crate and the fae lifting his hands… Slinging that chain between them around his throat to pull…
He takes a calming breath, eyes firmly on the hoop that fixes the fae’s upper arms against the sides of his torso. No, the creature has but limited use of his forearms and hands. In no way does he have enough range to attempt something like that, even if he were inclined to do so. Aziraphale’s fingers clench around the handle of the torch and he flicks it on.
He passes the edge of the crate, slowly pushes in, his eyes never leaving the curled up figure.
“I need them uncovered.” His voice breaks calm and steady from his dry throat. He thinks he sees the creature tense, but it might be yet another trick of his mind.
The blanket and lining are a confusing combination of warmth and silk against his fingers as he grabs for them where they are drawn around an exquisitely toned upper arm. His knuckles brush against cool skin when he pulls the fabrics down. Soft, it feels so soft. He doesn’t think of it, instead forces his mind to take in the way the fae’s hands reluctantly let go.
Aziraphale allows the fabrics to pool around the fae’s hips and hide the lower part of his body. Nothing much to investigate there, after all, and he can push it out of the way once he reaches the ankles.
He starts with the hoops encircling the head. Shines his torch along them to confirm his assumption. Nothing but immaculate iron, no scratch or etching in sight. He reaches towards where the fae is leaning against the wall of the crate, raises his hand to take hold of the gentle curve of a shoulder, then stills. His palm is hovering close enough to the shimmering skin that he thinks he feels a biting cold emanating from it. He clears his throat.
“If you would move forward a bit, I have to be able to see your back.”
A long stretch of motionless silence has him wondering whether he will have to lay a hand on the fae, but then the creature shifts and shuffles away from the boards behind him with another jingle of chains.
The harsh light of the torch follows the blindfold until it loses itself in the array of wine-red hair and Aziraphale’s breath catches at the realisation that he needs to touch it after all. His fingers twitch and tingle. This is necessary for his safety. He has to make sure he knows the full extent of the influence the restraints have on the fae.
Slowly reaching out, he lets his fingertips graze the sheet of iron against the creature’s temple. The fae doesn’t flinch away from him, but a poorly concealed tension grips his frame. Aziraphale feels his teeth digging into his bottom lip as his fingers glide on, following metal until they feel the first tickle of hair.
“I’ll just…” he whispers while his fingers trail on. Drive into where that beautiful hair becomes full and heavy. He pushes it out of the way to look at the hoops, ignoring the way it spills across the back of his hand. Completely focused on his task, he will not think about how silky those strands feel, nor how his fingers crave to sink in further.
There are no runes here. Not a single symbol is found on the restraints, though the one blinding the fae contains a lock. His thoughts flick towards a drawer in his desk in which lies a piece of paper and an envelope with a key.
One mystery solved, at least.
He moves the hair away from the slender neck to take a closer look at the collar. No lock here, he notices with a frown. Well, it’s not as if he intends to free the fae all too soon. He will have time to figure out whether this may provide an issue once he has to release the creature. Maybe if the bands of the crate were destroyed…
His thoughts trail off, crumble as his gaze slides down the back of the fae’s neck to follow the curve of his spine towards the thinner hoop fixing the arms to the torso. No runes either but another lock.
He supposes it shall be the theme of the restraints. The opportunity to remove them as seen fit by whomever possesses the key. Wondering when it has been the last time that the fae has been freed of any of his shackles, he lets go of the hair. There is a strange pang of regret at the loss of its fullness against his palm that he decides not to linger on. It is of no consequence, an irrelevant flight of fancy.
The manacles are next. They rest on the blanket covering the fae’s lap while he sits with his legs folded under him. The creature raises them calmly at Aziraphale’s request so that he can inspect them, only to confirm his assumption. Nothing but smooth metal and a lock.
Drawing back a little, he eyes the slim form in front of him.
“I need you to see your ankles.”
His voice carries a roughness clashing with his attempt at nonchalance. There should be nothing but nonchalance. He is investigating this strange gift, securing his own safety. It is an entirely sensible procedure.
The fae appears to hesitate. Aziraphale is not sure what he will do if the creature refuses…
When the fae finally moves, there is a strange fluidity to his limbs. A gentle flow to how the legs stretch out, leave the cover of the fabric and bend at the knees. They are long and slender, making him think of a deer, ready to bound into the undergrowth of a hidden forest at the whiff of an intruder.
Aziraphale scolds his thoughts back to the task at hand and leans forward. His fingertips tingle when they land on the metal band cutting into the left calf. The cuffs are broad enough to span a good part of the creature's lower legs.
There is the smallest flinch from the fae, immediately wrestled back into taut composure.
“I’ll just…” Aziraphale starts to explain, but there are no fitting words. The scope of the situation must be abundantly clear to both of them. Still, it strikes him just now that the fae has no chance of knowing what is going on around him. No indication as to where Aziraphale’s touch might land. What it might lead to. He bites his lips, then parts them to speak.
“I’m only examining the restraints. Only want to see–“
He shines his light along the fetters, is diligent at it. As diligent as he deems it necessary, his focus sharp on the iron, not wishing to drag this out.
He needs to get out of the crate, why he is not sure. He just knows he needs to get away and put distance between himself and the creature. He needs to steady is rapid heartbeat that pumps a frayed rush of blood through his veins, and it feels impossible to do so here, in this confined dimness that settles onto him, stealing his breath and heating his skin for no sensible reason.
