Chapter Text
Pohjantähden alla (prepositional phrase)
Under The North Star
Pohjantähti: The North Star (noun)
Pohja: Bottom, but in this case it means North
-n: genitive suffix
Tähti: Star, the -t- becomes a -d- in the genative case "tähden"
Alla: Under (preposition)
Täällä Pohjantähden alla is the name of the most famous book about the Finnish Civil War, pretty much everyone knows about it even if they haven’t read it. It’s basically our Gone With The Wind, but it's a generational epic, not a romantic story.
Pronunciation:
Art by incredibly talented EdosianOrchids901!
January 1918, Lammi, Finland
New Year’s Day was frosty and beautiful. The sky was clear, light blue and the sun made the pearl white snow dazzle. Azirafel squinted against the brightness as he stepped out of his front door, but the light didn’t find its way to his heavy heart.
Crowley followed him, sneezing twice like he often did when adjusting to a sudden light. Azirafel wondered idly if he should try to look for tinted glasses for him. Maybe he could persuade Crowley to travel with him somewhere with a wider selection to choose from. They’d have to wait until this whole ordeal with Finnish independence was over. Right now Azirafel had no idea if his passport was even valid, but after that was sorted… Maybe they could go somewhere special? To St. Petersburg, perhaps. Or Stockholm! Sadly Germany wasn’t an option until the Great War came to a conclusion.
“Well…” Crowley began, interrupting Azirafel’s musings and reminding him of more immediate matters.
Crowley was leaving, again.
“Time’s up then,” Azirafel said, smiling through the ache in his chest. He watched as Crowley pushed a hat on his head. His hair was getting longer, and the unruly tufts peeking from under the hat made him look rather boyish. Azirafel’s fingers itched to brush hair off his forehead, to pull him close and embrace him one more time, but he resisted the urge. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to let go.
Crowley grimaced. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I’ll come back, I promise! Gotta give you more chances to lose at chess.”
Like always, Crowley had the magnificent ability to cheer Azirafel up. “I was drunk,” he huffed, grateful for something lighter to talk about.
“If you say so.”
“Anton Janton Crowley, you—”
“Joukahainen?”1
“No.”
“Jutukka?”
“Jesus, that’s—”
“Anton Jesus Crowley? Never would’ve—”
Crowley burst out laughing. “Absolutely not!”
His laugh was contagious, and soon Azirafel was wiping his eyes as well. “You have to come back so I can keep guessing.”
His words brought the unfortunate truth back into the open, and the laughter soon died on their lips.
“Yeah. I will,” Crowley said, easily, as if it was an obvious truth.
Azirafel looked at him, trying to etch him—this moment—into his memory. The way Crowley’s freckles had faded during the winter, and how the frost made his cheekbones pink.
“Last time you left, I didn’t hear from you for weeks,” Azirafel said quietly.
Crowley grimaced. “Yeah, that’s… Sorry. I was being an idiot,” he sighed. “Not gonna do that again. Like I said, I’ll hand in my notice, do my last shifts, collect the paycheck… And then I’ll be back, and we’ll figure it out together from there.”
“Yes, together,” Azirafel said, and tried to believe in it just as much as he had believed last night when Crowley had first spoken about it. But the fairytale cocoon they had built together during Christmas was crumbling apart, and the difficult questions pushed back to the surface.
“Will you be alright?” Azirafel had to ask.
“’Course,” Crowley answered quickly. “Don’t worry about me. ’s not going to be long.”
Not worrying was easier said than done. For months, Azirafel’s heart had flitted between two separate realities; the safe bubble of their relationship, and the cold world around them with burned barns, armed guards and violent strikes. Crowley didn’t talk much about the latter when they were together, and Azirafel, in a desperate attempt to hold onto the illusion of peace, didn’t dare to ask.
This moment wasn’t an exception. Azirafel gave into the yearning to touch, and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist.
“This week was…” he paused to find words. “A dream. I—”
Azirafel swallowed. They never talked about love, not really, not in words. And it felt wrong to start now, when they were, once again, separating.
“I’ll miss you,” he said instead.
“Yeah,” Crowley said, biting his lip. “I… yeah. Same.”
“Should I come with you to the town?” Azirafel asked. Already dreading the moment he’d had to let go.
“Nah,” Crowley answered, and the grin was back. “Can’t say the proper goodbyes there, can I?”
“Oh, and what’s tha—”
Azirafel’s question was answered before he reached the end of it, as Crowley brushed his ungloved hand against Azirafel’s cheek and into his hair, pulling him into a fierce kiss. Their cool noses brushed against each other, and Azirafel closed his eyes, holding onto the bittersweet echo of the intimacy they’d shared during Christmas time.
It was over all too soon.
“Gotta go,” Crowley said as they finally separated. “Or I’ll take you back to your plush bed and never leave.”
He grinned wickedly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Azirafel swallowed. “Something for me to look forward to when you come back, then,” he said, and let his arms drop to his sides. They looked at each other, hesitating, neither of them wanting to say the final goodbye.
Agnes’ voice interrupted their moment.
“Boys! It’s already half past!” she called over the yard, leading Bentley towards them. She had promised to give Crowley a ride as she was visiting her friend in the town.
Crowley gave a lopsided grin and saluted with his fingers. “Saved by a witch,” he said, and took a step backwards. “See you!”
Azirafel stood in the front yard, watching him and Agnes climb on Bentley’s sleigh, and soon disappear around the corner.
He was alone—once again—and not entirely sure how many farewells like this he could handle.
He returned inside, deep in thought. Crowley was coming back. He had said so. Azirafel tried not to think of any alternatives, but the persistent worry got louder now that there wasn’t any distraction.
Would Crowley truly be happy here with him after his return? They both knew Crowley would have a hard time finding a job at Lammi after the sawmill incident, so if—when—he came back, he would have to rely on Azirafel’s support. Only mere weeks ago Crowley had hated the idea so much that he’d fled to another city to avoid it, and now… Azirafel didn’t know what had changed. He wanted to believe Crowley had just needed some time to think, but he was also painfully aware how much Crowley still left unsaid—they had never talked about that barn, and Azirafel was positive something had happened in Lahti that weighed on Crowley’s shoulders.
And now he was on his way back to face whatever that was, back to his rebellious friends and to the world he didn’t trust to share with Azirafel.
Azirafel rummaged through the kitchen cupboard and found a tin of gingerbreads, which he took with him to the living room and sat on the sofa. The bottle of brandy was already waiting for him next to the book he’d left on the table the night before.
As he filled his glass a metallic glint caught his eye. A misshapen blob of tin2 was lying on the table beside the book. A memento from the last night as he and Crowley had decided to have fun with an old fortune telling tradition. Heating pieces of tin on a ladle and dropping the molten metal into a bucket of cold water used to be Azirafel’s favourite part of New Year when he was a child. The resulting shape and the shadow it cast was supposed to be an omen of the upcoming year.
Azirafel picked the piece up. It felt cool against his touch, but warmed quickly on his palm as he looked at it, smiling wistfully at the memory. He and Crowley had never reached an agreement on what it looked like. Maybe an axe, or a ship.
Apparently, he would either struggle or be happy. Rather unhelpful, as far as predictions went.
***
Crowley stared out of the train window and watched the snowy landscape slide past. The steam and smoke swirled by the glass, occasionally obscuring the view and making the scenery look slightly dreamlike. The train swayed and rattled over the track joints, and Crowley tried to concentrate on the rhythm of that instead of the anguished weight in his heart. His lunch sandwiches were on his lap, still untouched—well, almost. He had given a piece to Bentley as a farewell, before Agnes had driven off with her.
Vappu sat on the bench next to him, quiet, likely going through emotions of her own. Crowley had seen the way she had kissed Lauri before they separated, and he wondered idly if that’s how he and Azirafel had looked in Agnes’ eyes. Like the separation was the end of the world. Thankfully she hadn’t said anything about that, and had spent the whole sleigh ride chatting about the weather and New Year’s omens. Crowley had been grateful for the way she kept the conversation going despite his one-syllable replies.
End of the world was a disgustingly dramatic choice of words—straight out of Azirafel’s romantic books—but poetic rubbish aside, the deep truth was Crowley didn’t want to go back to the factory. He didn’t want to leave the peaceful cocoon of Azirafel’s home and return to the cold reality. Unfortunately there were things he needed to do, so here he was, in a train taking him away from all that with one puff of smoke at a time.
“Crowley?”
Vappu’s voice startled him out of his morose thoughts.
“Hn?” he muttered, straightening up and looking at his travel companion.
“We need to break up.”
Crowley blinked, and it took an embarrassingly long time for him to catch what she was talking about. Their supposed affair was why Lucifer hadn’t questioned Crowley’s decision to spend the Yuletide at Lammi.
“Yeah? No need for a cover romance anymore?” he asked, aiming for a joking tone. One single raised eyebrow told him exactly how badly he failed that.
Vappu didn’t comment on it though.
“Lauri will join us next week,” she said instead, as if it explained everything.
“Join us as in…?”
“The Red Guard,” she said, eyes shining with unmistakable pride.
Crowley’s jaw dropped. “What?!”
He didn’t bother to lower his voice, the seats close to them weren’t occupied, and the rhythmical thrumming and rattling of the train made sure nobody would overhear them. He stared at Vappu, who looked slightly baffled at Crowley’s reaction.
“Yeah, he’ll—”
“He’s the Reverend’s son, he’s—he’s in the fucking Protection Corps!”
“Shh,” Vappu hissed at him. “So is Mr. Fjäll, and yet you sit here sighing like a lost puppy because you miss him already!”
Crowley flushed. “Hey! I’m not—” he began, but Vappu’s victorious smile gave him a pause. The train tilted as the tracks curved, and the lights of the compartment swayed with it. Crowley huffed and continued, stating the obvious: “But Azirafel would never join the Red Guard, that’s ridiculous!”
“Why’s that though?”
Crowley rolled his eyes. “His whole living family and all of his friends are tied to Protection Corps somehow, he won’t—”
“So’s Lauri’s. And yet he’s ready to leave all that to fight for the oppressed people, for us.”
The mental image of Azirafel sitting among the workers, listening to their coarse jokes and eating the lukewarm charity soup was so far from the realm of possibility that Crowley almost laughed.
“You young people are so…” he waved his hand. “...something. Wouldn’t it’ve been easier for you to just marry him and become the Reverend’s daughter in law?”
Vappu glared at him. “You’d be happy living a comfortable life with your lover while your friends and their families suffer?”
Crowley twitched on the seat uncomfortably. Wasn’t that exactly what he was planning? But out of all the bad options.... He was selfish by nature, and he was going to hold on to Azirafel as long as he was allowed. No matter how pathetic that sounded.
“You sound like Lucifer," he deflected. "Speaking of, you think Lucifer will let Lauri in just like that? Our guard is practically a family, he won’t trust—”
“I know, but we have a plan,” Vappu interrupted, lifting her chin confidently. Then her expression softened. "That’s why you and I need to ’break up’. If we do it wisely, Lucifer won’t suspect—is everything alright?"
Crowley realised he was squeezing the poor sandwich in his hand, "Wot? Yes."
"I won’t snitch on you, we already established that," Vappu continued, frowning.
Crowley glanced out of the window as if the snowy forests would offer him some support. They didn’t.
“I’m not worried about that,” he muttered. “But you’re right, we need to break up. I’ll return to Lammi for work anyway.”
Vappu’s eyes widened. “To work for him?” she asked incredulously. “I thought you didn’t want that master-shagging-his-maid dynamic between you?”
“Wha—I’m not—How on earth did you manage to charm a clergyman’s son with that tongue?!”
“You’re deflecting. Did he blackmail you into it?”
“No!” Crowley snapped. “He’d never. He didn’t even ask, we just…sort of agreed.”
Which was true. They hadn’t really talked about it beyond the fact that Crowley would come to live with Azirafel and they’d figure it out from there. Understandably—given the way Crowley had acted the last time—Azirafel hadn’t brought up the farmhand position anymore, so Crowley had to gather his courage (boosted with some alcohol) to suggest it himself. They had agreed to start with that, at least until Crowley found something else.
Vappu didn’t let go. “You’d still be working for him?” she asked.
“Well I can’t just sit on my arse and rely on his money either.”
“I dunno, that’s what well bred wives do, anyway.”
“Do I look like a wife to you?”
“Your hair would look pretty if you grew it longer.”
Crowley grimaced. “Fuck you, kid. That’s just—”
“A joke, sorry,” Vappu amended, and became serious. “What about the guard? Lucifer? You are going to leave us, just like that?”
Crowley swallowed. “Azirafel’s current farmhand rented a croft with his wife and they need some help to get it running,” he said, reciting the quickly crafted plan in his mind. “I’ll just—Lucifer won’t object to me working for the Pulsifers, so I’ll just say… actually, I’ll just tell him you dumped me so I want a bit of a distance. Two stones, one…y’know.”
“Two birds, one stone,” Vappu corrected him automatically, but looked serious. “That doesn’t explain—what are you going to do when the revolution begins?”
“If! If the revolution begins! And Azirafel isn’t against the worker’s rights, he’s not our ene—”
“He’s in the Protection Corps,” Vappu reminded him. “With the rest of the Engels.”
Crowley deflated a bit. “Yeah… yeah, I know. But… He’s a clever man, we’ll work it out. He doesn’t exactly love his cousins.”
Vappu looked sceptical, but thankfully let it go. Crowley didn’t want to think too deeply about that right now. He wouldn’t stop fighting for the worker’s rights, the cause was important to him, but his personal relationships were his own. He would do everything he could to keep Azirafel out of harm’s way, but he couldn’t deny there was a chance that if Azirafel truly had to choose a side, Crowley would lose. That was a fact he couldn’t change, but with any luck there wouldn’t be any direct conflict between their guards. And if Azirafel had chosen a relationship with him, he wouldn’t oppose a more equal society, would he?
“Wanna share my sandwiches?” he asked, desperate to change the topic. “He forced me to take enough for a small army.”
That brought a smile back on Vappu’s face. “Is that the way into your heart? Food?”
Crowley snorted. “No, but it beats hunger, eh?”
Vappu rolled her eyes. “Actually, we still have over a quarter of an hour, and you’ve never told… I’ve always thought Mr. Fjäll is a bit… I dunno, boring? Quiet, distant and… well, old.”
“Hey, watch it kid!” Crowley said, splitting one of the huge sandwiches in two. Crumbs fell on their laps as the train swayed. “I’m not that much younger.”
“I know, fossil,” Vappu laughed, and accepted the food. “Anyway, why him?”
Crowley cleared his throat, trying to get his heart to settle down. Talking openly about Azirafel—or his male interests in general—terrified him, even though Vappu already knew about it. But, at the same time talking made it feel more real.
“Well… he’s…” Crowley swallowed, but kept going. “He’s the opposite of boring actually. Incredibly funny and clever, but also… he’s a right bastard, in a good way, he’s…”
Azirafel knew Crowley better than anyone else, had seen him at his best, and unbelievably, accepted him even at his worst.
“He’s been a constant in my life for a very long time,” Crowley said quietly, and turned to look back outside. It had started snowing.
Vappu smiled and nodded; she seemed to sense his melancholy and didn’t question him further. For the rest of the trip, they ate their sandwiches in silence.
***
The fire crackled in the fireplace, and the light of it danced on the walls and floor of the sitting room. Azirafel crossed his legs and emptied the glass of port wine he’d been nursing for a while. Oskari sat on the rocking chair opposite him, slowly pushing it back and forth.
“So,” Azirafel sighed, refilling his glass. “Guns.”
Oskari nodded. “Quite a lot of them,” he said. “Gabriel really outdid himself with this one.”
Azirafel nodded gloomily. “Let’s hope they’re never needed.”
Oskari’s visit was a welcome distraction to his gloomy, maudlin thoughts after Crowley’s departure, but the joy was soon soured by news of Gabriel finally managing to collect a batch of firearms for their guard.
“They are hidden for now, as an insurance of sorts. Gabriel seemed relieved,” Oskari said. “Maybe this helps him calm down a bit.”
Azirafel could only nod. Having firearms in hand just in case sounded reasonable, and after Alfred Kordelin’s murder nobody could claim it was an overreaction. And yet. It was a provocation. If the word got out that Gabriel was hiding guns… wasn’t that why Kordelin was murdered? Because someone had spread rumours about guns. This time it was no rumour.
“Not much more to tell,” Oskari continued. “We managed to dissuade Gabriel from starting any open training yet, at least. But, enough of that. How was your Christmas?”
Azirafel rolled his eyes and sipped his drink. There it was, the real reason why Oskari had arrived to visit him in person. Curiosity.
“It was good,” he said, earnestly. One of the best he’d ever had. The fond memories eased the ache in his heart a bit.
A knowing grin spread on Oskari’s face. "You didn’t come to visit, and Gabriel said the same—and rumour has it you skipped Christmas Mass! You never skip it! So…”
“I decided to spend the Yuletide peacefully at home.”
“With company?”
“Possibly.”
“You do realise I just have to get you drunk and you’ll tell me everything, right?” Oskari asked, leaning forward in his chair and winking.
Azirafel snorted, the taste of the port pleasant on his tongue.
“You remind me a bit of him sometimes,” he chuckled, twirling the dark red liquid in his glass.
“Yeah, no shit, you really have a type,” Oskari pointed out, leaning back and kicking his chair back into motion.
Azirafel couldn’t help but smile. “I think my type has always been him. I’ve come to realise—and I know this sounds a bit insensitive—all the others were just stand-ins, to an extent.”
Oskari cackled. “You wound me, Asseri! Here I thought it was true love between us.”
"Well, I did love you—to an extent," Azirafel corrected him. “It was just…”
“I know,” Oskari said, smiling. “You’re a domestic soul, need someone to settle down with you.”
Azirafel huffed, but couldn’t dispute the statement. He stared into the fire as the longing washed over him, squeezing his throat. He’d got a week-long taste of how that domesticity could feel, and now Crowley’s absence was a physical ache under his sternum.
“He’s coming back,” he said, not entirely sure if he was trying to convince Oskari or himself. “To stay here, with me.”
Oskari tilted his head and sipped his drink. “Didn’t you say he doesn’t want to do that?” he asked.
Azirafel turned to fill his glass again. He was not getting through the evening sober. “He’s…Something happened in Lahti,” he finally said. “Something changed. Not sure if it’s something he’s done, or if someone has… But, he suggested it himself, so…”
“You didn’t ask him why?”
“No. I didn’t,” Azirafel sighed. “I’ll wait until he’s ready to bring it up himself. I don’t want to make any demands.”
Oskari lifted an eyebrow. “Asking for communication isn’t exactly demanding. Are you... Are you happy?”
“I—”
“Azirafel.”
Azirafel winced at the mention of his Christian name, Oskari rarely used it. “Yes!” He blurted hastily. “It’s just… He’s in the Red Guard! All his friends are, and he plans to lie to them and say that he works for Pulsifer because my relation to the Engels is…” He closed his eyes, trying to find the words to describe his frustration. “And I’m not sure we can let Gabriel know about this either. I don’t know if it’s safe for—I mean being openly in a relationship wouldn’t be possible anyway, but this situation makes it all so…”
“But when you are with him?” Oskari repeated his question, looking serious. “Are you happy? Does he treat you well?”
That paused Azirafel’s train of negative thoughts, and he glanced at the wooden wings on the table. The memories of their Yuletide made him smile despite all the worries overshadowing them. The way Crowley snuggled against him listening to the stories Azirafel read aloud, his insistence on helping with the household tasks, and the way he teased Azirafel about his meticulous sauna heating routine. And the easy, domestic intimacy they—
“Well that smile tells me a lot,” Oskari said, relaxing back on his chair.
Azirafel felt his face flush hot, but he refused to be ashamed. “Well. Quite,” he muttered. “Yes. He does, in fact, treat me well.”
Oskari grinned. “That well, huh? Tell me!”
“Absolutely not.”
“Stingy!”
The gloomy mood lifted slightly, as they both burst out laughing.
“Well, anyway,” Oskari continued after a moment. “It’s good to hear. You deserve someone who makes you smile like that. And keeps your bed warm.”
Azirafel huffed. “It’s just hard to get used to a cold bed after a week of that,” he said.
“I’ll come warm you up!” Oskari snickered.
“Oh darling, that ship has sailed and sunk.”
“Too bad,” Oskari said, shrugging. “Can’t succeed if I don’t try though.”
Azirafel chuckled. “I have no idea how your lady wife tolerates you.”
“Maybe she likes to watch.”
Azirafel choked on his drink. “What?!”
The conversation turned to lighter topics, and the rest of the evening was spent pleasantly by the warmth of the crackling fire. Outside the temperature dropped slowly as the night fell. The frost made the trees crackle and sing in the otherwise silent woods, and the North Star twinkled brightly on the clear, dark sky.