The Mourning Star

Brain On Fire

I have lost

Myself, somewhere,

While searching

For you.

Crowley enters the Meelans' house, the familiar creak of the door announcing his arrival. The hushed ambiance of the living room, adorned with the subtle glow of a dim cloth lamp, greets him as he hangs up his jacket from the car on the coat rack. Melody, slumbering on the couch with an open book beside her, stirs briefly at the sound.

The coffee table, an eclectic ensemble of trinkets and reading material, draws Crowley's attention. A stack of papers and letters lies neatly arranged, catching the soft illumination from the lamp. His curiosity piqued, Crowley approaches the table, his eyes narrowing as he inspects the contents.

A frown creases his forehead as he recognizes the distinct handwriting—Aziraphale's[1]. The letters are addressed entirely to Crowley: not a single other name is mentioned in the addresses. Crowley's skepticism deepens. How had Aziraphale managed to send these letters when they were together the entire evening?

Melody's soft snores[2] offer no answers as Crowley carefully picks up the stack. He ascends the stairs to his room, the wooden steps groaning softly beneath his weight[3]. The letters, a puzzle wrapped in intrigue, await his scrutiny.

With a reluctant sigh, Crowley settles into the worn armchair in his room by his window. Crowley mutters to himself, a low grumble of skepticism and hurt with a tinge of curiosity. He begins with the first letter in the stack, the paper crackling as he unfolds it. The words on the page are a familiar dance of ink, Aziraphale's handwriting weaving a tale of affection and yearning.

Crowley,

Am I going crazy? I want it to end. I want the torment to stop. I thought Armageddon was the end of it. I thought the world was going to end, but I thought that at least then, it was everyone and everything ending. Not just you. Yet, here I am, sitting at this old desk, writing to you hoping one day you will return to me. I hope that you have found what you searched for the entirety of your existence— a place of peace where you feel like you belong.
I try to keep my chin up, I try to be me without you, but without you there seems to be only a shell of me. Oh, what I would sacrifice willingly to have you by my side again. I should have never let you go back to Heaven in my place. This is my punishment. A chamber of eternal suffering. My world has ended— even without Armageddon.

With all the love that remains,

A.Z.F

Crowley's eyes narrow as he reads, the weight of Aziraphale's emotions sinking into his consciousness. Each sentence is a revelation, an intimate glimpse into the angel's heart.

My love, Crowley,

I pray for you every night and every morning when my eyes open to the darkness that is left. Why did we believe the prophecy? Should have never...

The ink is scratched out so heavily, none of it is sensible until the last sentence.

I hope one day, She may respond to me, that the almighty will forgive.
-Aziraphale

As Crowley progresses through the letters, a pattern emerges. They're not mere reflections of the past; they seem to hint at a future that Aziraphale envisions. A future that excludes Crowley because the pain is too much to bear. The next letter is crinkled with water damage which has smeared several of the letters and words. Tears, Crowley assumes, as he takes a deep breath and begins to read.

My Dearest Crowley,

I went to the Ritz for the first time since you've gone. I barely sat down at our table before having to leave– I could not bear it. As I sit beneath the vast expanse of the night sky, the moon tunnels in on me as if to interrogate my very being.