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[treedish]

The stars don't shine, they burn, and boy did Crowley know his stars. And the shine of his favorite star in the sky could never compare to the everyday radiant light of his angel. But stars burned, and being too close to the celestial hurt him in ways he never thought were possible. Except, demons were meant to play with fire; they were meant to burn. So maybe it was okay if he stood just a bit too close to Aziraphale for his own good most days. Or at least, that's what he told himself.

He did worry about his angel though, for stars were lonely and often forgotten in the vast canopy of other stars. Very few humans loved just one star, instead marvelling at them as a whole. Being a star was a solitary existence, and no creature could ever get too close without being blinded or burned. Eventually, even the hottest, brightest stars would burn themselves to a crisp, and then explode in a grand destruction, reduced to dust and colorful matter drifting through space. Sometimes, when Crowley looked too long in his angels eyes, he saw blue giants swelling with love and light and he feared the day they would go nova. He created novas, after all, hell he created every star in the bloody sky and then some.

He was so proud of his celestial lights, and yet even with his joy over his beloved cosmic creations, God had once again outdone him by creating Aziraphale, the brightest celestial light that there ever was.

In a way, Aziraphale was the last thing between Crowley and full demonhood. Because when he Fell, he lost everything. His faith, his grace, his name. And he loathed. He angered. He raged. And he went up to Eden, to look upon God's new creations and tempt them away from Her. And there he was. Crowley had whispered in Eve's ear, tempted her to the apple and watched from the ground as she led Adam to humanity's destruction.

So you can imagine his surprise when mid-exile from the garden, an angel came up to the couple and offered them his flaming sword, to protect them and their unborn child from the dangers of the outside world. But that wasn't right at all. God and Her whole lot were rotten, sanctimonious, unimaginative, and so very apathetic in their holiness. Every angel he had ever known had blindly followed God's will, and Her will right now was to kick the humans out of the garden to fend for themselves as punishment. So why would an angel, an agent of the holy agenda, secretly give away a blessed artifact to the very humans he was meant to be judging right now?

His apologetic smile had been so soft and sincere that Crowley thought for a moment that the being wasnt an angel at all, but rather Grace incarnate. A being more pure and Good than the archangels themselves. But no, there he was, ushering them out of the garden before the storm arrived and blocking up the exit after they were gone.

He couldn't help but go up to the winged creature standing anxiously on the wall. He couldnt resist the temptation to speak with this being, this force of empathy. And he did and there was Aziraphale and Crowley found himself falling all over again. One afternoon, one interaction, one act of kindness, and suddenly all of his anger, all of his disgust, and all of the empty longing at the center of his being vanished. In its place, he found the echo of his Faith.

Somehow in his Fall, the warped core of his inhuman heart had burned to a crisp, but sheltered the tiniest hint of his hope, and it reared its ugly head then in his chest as he stared in amazement at this miraculously Good angel before him. It was as he'd said, by God's rules, he had been the one to do the good thing, and Aziraphale had been the one to do the bad. And the next 6000 years were history.

He may not believe in God or her bloody Plan, but he believed in Aziraphale, and his angel's unfailing ability to always do the right thing regardless of anyones blasted plans, even his own. All he had ever done in his entire existence, his whole relationship with the Almighty, had been to question. It was why he Fell. Why he didnt Fall as far as the others. But he found himself one night, bottle of whiskey in his hands and his twinkling creations above his head, speaking to God again. It was a habit he'd picked up and never been able to shake.

This time was different, however. After 60 centuries on Earth among the humans, this was the first time he didn't scream or beg or curse his questions at the heavens. Instead, he quietly admired his accidental constellations and whispered so quietly that only She would ever hear it.

"If there's one thing You ever got right, it was him. In all of Eternity, You have never made anything else that compares to that angel, not even your beloved whales. So I'm saying this once, now. Thanks. I don't care if You meant to or not, but You gave me the opportunity to live with the embodiment of my stars for the last few millennia, and for that one blasted, blessed thing I'll actually thank You, You bloody autocrat. But if You dare to cast him out, to try to throw him in with my lot, I'll hunt You down. I'll collapse space and time and matter itself until I reach You and I'll rip the blessed essence right out of Your incorporeal grace, do You understand me? He's the one truly Good thing You've ever done, don't You dare muck it up now."

If anyone ever asked him about it later, and of course no one ever did, he would deny thanking God for anything, and he would especially deny ever being grateful for the angel that left him behind.

[treedish]

And it was then that I understood Icarus; blinded by my own hubris and the light of your extravagant beauty. The tantalizing, exciting prospect that I could be lucky enough to possess both without punishment for my avarice. I understood him then, as I understood myself. Drawn to the light, even as it blinded me, only to be greeted by the humid depths of my arrogance rushing to embrace me. Plunging into the frozen abyss of your rejection, knowing my wings had carried me much too near to you, yet again too far. Complacency had twisted my adoration of you into a molten, rotted heap which I carried at my center. I don't know which precipice I thought I was gliding over, but I know now it was temptation, and I was merely the fool of leaden feathers, doomed to fall from the moment I leapt.

[treedish]

Their eyes are like a forest in winter. Dark and cold and so hauntingly empty. A ghastly beauty that traps you when you pass it, leaving you incapable of looking away. You're left staring into the crisp brown and white abyss and praying that no movement snags your eye deeper into petrification. When the sun rises and sets, the soft rays lighten the bark to a color so comforting that you can only imagine the warmth its firewood could provide. But in the sun's absence, when only the moon dares to linger in the cold of night, that forest darkens to a void deeper than black. A color so dark and shadowed you can only register its hue by staring at it from a distance too close for your own safety. It's a promise of danger and hurt that has you gasping and hastening your steps for fear of the monsters that may come chasing after you. Their eyes are a threat, a ransom letter in beautiful calligraphy, and an art piece that leaves you lying awake to the memory of it. Aren't they lovely?