Chapter Text
When Aziraphale finished dragging his dinghy onto the shore and finally had a chance to take in his surroundings, he was unimpressed.
The island, faceless and nameless on every map the captain had in her arsenal, had been sought after by generations of pirate lords. There were always whispers and rumors, the original source of so many journeys, but the myths of this island in particular were spoken so softly and so rarely that Aziraphale had to question why they were even seeking it. No treasure, no bounty of riches beneath its soil, no fountains or springs of youth.
A garden that contained a tree. It was all the island was rumored to bear.
The island's looming canopy did not look promising. Truth be told, none of what Aziraphale saw was giving him confidence. The sky was colorless, the sun only just barely peeking through a haze of clouds. No need to worry though, as they weren’t stormy. The sand was drab and gray, almost an identical color to the sea behind him, pebbled with rocks that succeeded in finding every weakness in Aziraphale's boots. The shift from shore to loam was gradual as he moved, his boots no longer clinging to the earth the further he trekked towards the tree line. Palms, naturally. They dig their roots in the sand and feed off of rain that comes but only rarely. They are the guardian gates of every island Aziraphale has helped to conquer and stake claim, to leave barren of treasures.
Gold he can understand. The myth of the red apple that hung from the rumored tree?
This was why Aziraphale was second in command, the captain had said before he left. He was always good for skepticism It was for that same reason he was sent alone to scout out the island. He would not be swayed by distraction or lured from the destination. If the tree was real, Aziraphale would find it the fastest.
Aziraphale made his way through the trees, making sure to step around the fallen fruit. He didn't know why he was hesitant to make too much sound. The island was dreary, and while Aziraphale didn't believe in spirits or hauntings, he couldn't deny the shiver of his spine or the movement of his eyes to make sure there was nothing in his periphery. On guard, stalking through the trees as the light through the canopy of leaves continued to dim. Not because the sun was going down, but because the grove was growing thicker, the air heavier.
This was no forest. It was a garden.
And it seemed to be changing before Aziraphale's eyes.
There were vines beneath his feet instead of sand, a verdant carpet that made his cautious footsteps even softer. The palms had thinned, and trees Aziraphale did not recognize took their place. Wood of red, taller than the oaks of his home, towering above any palm tree Aziraphale had even seen in the many islands and sea towns he'd come across. Aziraphale paused to touch the bark of one such tree. Soft. Warm, like it had been near a fire without burning. And now that Aziraphale was paying closer attention, he realized he was not cold at all. He knelt to the vines beneath him. Warm, warmer than the trees, as if sustained from the bellows of the earth.
There were stories about what lay beneath the earth. More myths that Aziraphale previously paid no mind to.
He stood. He listened.
There was no life here, save the greenery. No buzz of insects, no chirping of birds, no shrieking of wildlife. Only Aziraphale's breathing and the whispering of the leaves above him.
Aziraphale kept a hand on the hilt of his sword when he began his trek again.
He could turn back now. The strange plants and the stranger atmosphere were enough proof to bring to the captain, proof there was something hidden in the depths of this forest. Aziraphale's disbelieving heart, swayed by little, would be reason enough to bring a larger search party along.
Yet he moved forward.
Wasn't it better to have evidence?
(Wasn't it better to always seek the unknown? Wasn't that why he'd been aboard ships since his youth, fighting and protecting, searching and seeking?)
The cover darkened, but not enough to hinder Aziraphale's eyesight. There was a rumble of thunder that interrupted the silence, far away, but Aziraphale knew the storm would be here before nightfall--before he reached the hypothetical garden.
When the thunder sounded louder and closer than Aziraphale expected, he knew he would need to seek shelter that night. All throughout this, he never let go of the hilt of his sword, running his thumb over the flame emblazoned there, the curved path a memory and a mechanism for coping. There was a flash of light above the treetops, and the inevitable thunder followed as soon as Aziraphale stepped out of the trees and into a clearing.
It began to rain. The trees were so thick that only sparse droplets reached Aziraphale's head. Still, even though the torrent was sparse, it could only be worse by the shore, and even more so at sea. There was no chance of his dinghy making it back to shore.
He looked around at his shelter for the night. The ground was covered in grass and mossy rocks, not unlike those in untraveled forests. It had been long since he'd seen a forest, but Aziraphale remembered, and wanted to remember more. He toed off his boots, eyes never leaving his surroundings.
Cooled, as if by dew left from nights before. Grass was just as soothing as he remembered it, plucking at his memory. Grass could also be warm, heated by sunshine, retaining heat even if the shade of a tree passed overheard. It could be wet, activate that dual smell of petrichor. It had been so long since he’d felt grass beneath his feet.
There was nothing else of note save for the tree in the center of the clearing, surrounded by a pool of water that appeared to have no source. The same bark as the forest he'd just escaped, but not nearly as tall. The names of trees came so suddenly to him, Aziraphale wondered how he knew them. Sequoia. Fir. Baobab. All of them could be identified by their currant-colored bark, but this was none of those. Aziraphale moved closer to the tree, analyzing its leaves, its height.
Its fruit.
There was a singular apple hanging from the inner branches, partially obscured until Aziraphale moved closer. Redder than blood, brighter than it ought to be, and hanging as if it weighed nothing.
Aziraphale sighed with relief, but it didn't last long.
"You're taking much longer to pluck it than any of the others did."
In an instant, Aziraphale was on guard: sword out of its hilt, body moved towards the sound, teeth bared in a snarl.
There, in the water, was something Aziraphale did not expect.
He groaned. "Bloody sirens."
"Oi, that's a gross simplification. Not every water-bound humanoid is a fucking siren."
It... this was further unexpected. Sirens' usual mode of conduct was to lure their prey into the water by any means necessary. It would be roundabout, to say the least, for one to argue that was indeed not a siren, but the logical fortitude required to pose such an argument might be beyond sirens. Not that Aziraphale professed to know everything about sirens, but he knew more than most. The library stashed in his quarters could attest to that.
This was all beside the point, though.
Aziraphale moved forward slowly, taking in the creature currently leaning on its elbows on the grass outside the pool, the rest of its body obscured by the cloudy water. Aziraphale had to admit it did not look particularly siren-like; no wings or mouths so big to contain all the songs of the world. Instead, this creature, at first glance, could be mistaken for any man too-long submerged underwater, perhaps stranded in a sunken cave for too long. Gaunt, hauntingly thin, red hair wet from the water and droplets running down its shoulders and torso. That was where the similarities to human ended, however. There were gills, Aziraphale assumed, on its neck and temples, rimmed with an inky black that seemed to literally bleed into its pearlescent skin. The hands, still resting lazily in the grass, were webbed with that same inky black and a few too many teeth loomed from the grinning mouth; Aziraphale could not ascertain their cleanliness from the distance, but he imagined them lined with flesh from foes before him. The eyes, which stared unblinking up at Aziraphale without terror or apprehension, were full yellow with that same black, ovate, at the center.
This was no siren, for sure, but Aziraphale was not comforted by that fact. The nescience was no more a balm, no bliss in this ignorance. Moreover, Aziraphale was surprised by the creature's eloquence, since this was no trick to sink him under the depths.
Yet, anyway.
Valiantly, he hoped, Aziraphale kept his blade trained on the creature. "What are you then?"
"Crowley. My name."
"That's not–"
The creature showed off more of its teeth, a tactic in some creatures to show dominance in strength. Similar here, but there was also mirth combined with the action. "I know it's not what you asked," Crowley replied, and did not elaborate further. "You're here for the apple? Most are, if they find this place." Crowley heaved himself onto the shoreline and leaned on his arms so that Aziraphale would see the sinew and strength of them. The scales that ran up from his hands and sporadically, tapering off at his shoulders. They were a mixture of different abyssal blacks; obsidians and oil spills and black holes. They shone despite the growing shadows, the sun was steadily sinking and yet Crowley seemed to sap all available light from the air to glisten. "You can take it, if you want."
This was too easy. "What are the terms?"
Crowley laughed. "Oh, and he's smart. I was so hoping you wouldn't be stupid. It's no fun eating the stupid travelers."
Once again, Aziraphale didn't have quite the reaction he probably should have to Crowley's statement. He watched as Crowley pushed off from the shore to swim to another corner, the two of them never taking their eyes off the other. Aziraphale couldn't help but notice the continuation of Crowley's body, human-esque torso fading into a tail that reminded Aziraphale of fish in reefs, brightly colored even through the darkness of scales, to attract prey. On the opposite edge of the pond, Crowley lounged, draping himself on a ledge under the water's surface and splashed his tail in Aziraphale's direction, playfully. "Do you know what the apple gives you?"
Aziraphale wanted to hurry things along to the terms and conditions, but he thought it would be rude to interrupt the creature he was, for the time being, stuck with. Distantly, in the back of his mind, Aziraphale wondered why he didn't initiate combat, but there was something about fighting in Crowley's territory, and the ramifications of the death of the apple's protector, that halted his blade. All of his skepticism couldn't stand a chance against too many stories and the logic of a deal struck.
"Knowledge," Aziraphale finally answered. "Knowledge of all things."
"And you want it?"
"I do not."
For the first time, Crowley looked surprised.
"My captain heard tales, and wished to obtain it."
"And… sent you?"
"To scout, yes." Aziraphale finally lowers his blade, the creature was distracted with their talking. "To see if the stories of the tree of knowledge were true. She trusts only me to see things as they are."
"And how do you see things then, angel?" Crowley laughs again at Aziraphale's confusion, turning the stakes around once again. "In lieu of a name, I had to go with a descriptor."
Aziraphale swallows. "The tree exists. Its fruit bears knowledge. I must deal with you in order for my captain and her crew to safely obtain it."
"Knowledge of all things is… a heavy burden to bear. I do not blame you for not wanting it for yourself." Crowley, even draped as he is, seems to tense his body in preparation. There are muscles tightening and his eyes cut Aziraphale to a core he does not have a name for. How many people have fallen to Crowley's whiplash of a tail, those depths of teeth with their sharpness, the eyes that swirl with equal part temptation and danger? There is a small but rapidly increasing part of Aziraphale that looks at those eyes and does not wish to forget them. "You must give up what you desire most. And never again regain it, despite all the knowledge of how to once again reclaim it."
"If I refuse?"
Aziraphale had already decided not to.
"Then you die here, and you will not be found by your crew."
Aziraphale sheathed his sword without flourish or circumstance. With nimble fingers that do not shake, for they were as sure of themselves as Aziraphale is, he unhooked his scabbard and laid it in the grass. Crowley did not move, did not even seem to breathe, as Aziraphale walked towards the edge of the pool, unbuckling his trousers and steeling his resolve with each step. "It is you I desire."
Crowley's smile, toothy and menacing, softened. "Was hoping you'd say that, angel."