~☕Crowley☕~
Crowley didn't know what was worse: that Tiller wasn't talking or that it had been over a week since he had heard any news about the revolution. Rationally, he knew that a week was no time at all for anything major to have happened, especially if the only thing the townspeople had to gossip over was a rat living in the attic. He still worried though. With only a waiting game to play, there was nothing to do but sit and think. And by then, Crowley had thought about anything that could possibly need thinking over—and even things that didn't need thinking over.
Crowley found that his thoughts continuously went back to the ones they had lost: Farrel, Egon, Pritchard, the lot of them. People—his friends—had given their lives up to a revolution that hadn't been certain up until a couple weeks ago. They had died, and more would die, while he was doing nothing within the safe confines of a castle. Simply put, Crowley was restless. He could do nothing as a sitting duck.
Pacing the floor in front of the throne room, Crowley looked up when the door creaked open. The tiniest sliver of hope bloomed in his chest, but it was extinguished before he had a chance to open his mouth. Duncan shook his head as he stepped out of the room.
"Any luck?" Crowley said even though he already knew the answer.
Duncan sighed. "No. His lips are sealed."
Crowley couldn't help but laugh, but it was more pained than anything. Tiller's perseverance would have been impressive, admiring even if not for the man he served. In a different world, Crowley would have respected the loyalty, but he loathed it now. Despise was the only thing he felt for Tiller. Gritting his teeth, he looked back towards the door. Annoyance pricked at his skin until he bristled. Despite the hours he had spent pacing back and forth, he wasn't tired at all. If anything, he was more irritated.
And Crowley was never one to be patient.
"Berrigan's in there now?"
There was something like nervousness in Duncan's eyes as he regarded Crowley, a glimmer of uncertainty as a hard frown replaced the tired lines on his face. "Yes," he said but not before the pause had drawn out too long.
Crowley was moving before his brain had even processed Duncan's response. He barely had time to think when he shoved the doors open.
"Crowley?"
His eyes immediately zeroed in on Tiller, who sat, hands bound, behind a wooden table. The chair across from him was empty, and Berrigan straightened from where he had been leaning against the table. A couple of Stanley's men, as well as Stanley himself, had been standing and chattering to themselves next to a pillar, but all conversation ceased as Crowley marched inside.
It was eerily silent as his boots echoed against the marble tiles. Taking the chair by its back, a loud, high-pitched squeak reverberated across the chamber as he dragged it against the floor. He slammed it onto the ground beside Tiller.
"That's enough."
Straddling the chair, he rested his arms on the back of it. In his hand, his saxe knife appeared out of thin air. He pointed it at Tiller without so much of a thought. "Did you," he said, voice low, "or did you not impersonate Prince Duncan in Picta?"
Tiller glared defiantly back at Crowley. His lips were zipped tighter than ever.
Crowley's knuckles were ghostly. He leaned forward, hand scarily steady as he held the blade underneath Tiller's chin.
"Speak." His voice was barely a whisper. His anger came swift when Tiller refused to answer again. "Speak!"
"No."
Crowley stood up so fast that he almost toppled over. He towered over Tiller, practically breathing onto him. His saxe threatened to cut through skin.
"Crowley..."
"Don't you dare lie to me," Crowley said, ignoring Berrigan. "Did you do it?"
"So what if I did?"
A chorus of whispers broke out from where Stanley and his men observed, but Crowley wasn't listening. He had already known about Tiller's involvement in Morgarath's reign, but none of the anger in the world could have matched what he felt now that it was confirmed. Now that Tiller himself said the words.
Blood roared in his ears as he stared down at Tiller, who finally seemed to have some kind of sense knocked into him. The fear in his eyes did nothing to ease the growing fury in Crowley's heart. If his anger was boiling before, it was spilling over now.
"Do you regret it?"
There was a heartbeat.
"Yes."
Crowley moved so fast that no one could react. He grabbed Tiller by the collar and yanked him up so that they were eye to eye. His saxe clattered onto the floor.
"Crowley!"
With all the strength he could muster, Crowley threw Tiller onto the table. His heart pounded. The world spun around him.
"Don't lie to me." He couldn't recognize his own voice anymore. It came out as a low, creeping snarl—menacingly.
"Why?" he said. "Why did you do it?"
A hand grabbed his shoulder before Tiller could answer. Not even a second had passed when Crowley spun around. He ducked away and traded places with his assailant. Both of his punches were deftly blocked, but that didn't stop him. Crowley only saw red. Sweeping his leg out, he didn't register what he had done until after Berrigan had fallen onto the ground.
"Ow!" the older ranger hissed, rubbing at one of his kneecaps.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Berrigan's eyes snapped over to Crowley's within the second. "You need to pull yourself together," he said. He winced when he pushed himself back onto his feet, blocking Crowley's view of Tiller.
"You don't know what I need or don't need."
"No?" Berrigan said. "I know that you'll regret this when tomorrow rolls around."
"No, I won't."
"We need him alive."
"He can rot for all I care."
"Can you live with that?"
"Can't you?"
"You're angry."
"Angry?" Crowley snorted. "People are dying because of him. They did die because of him!"
"Killing him won't do anything to fix that."
"Don't tell me you've forgotten about what happened to Egon."
Berrigan clenched his fists. He took a step forward. "He was my friend as much as he was yours," he said. "We were doing this job long before you were even an apprentice."
"That doesn't change the fact that he—" Crowley jutted his finger towards Tiller. "—is the reason that Egon's dead."
"Killing him won't change it either!"
"An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth. I say he deserves to die."
"He could have information!"
"Move out of my way."
Berrigan didn't move an inch. "No."
"Berrigan..."
"I won't do it."
"That was an order."
Berrigan's eyes flashed. For a brief second, his jaw dropped in surprise, but he recovered quickly. His eyes were like steel when he answered.
"No."
"No?"
"I don't take orders from you."
"I am your Commandant!"
"I answer to the King." Berrigan glanced over to where Duncan stood at the door before meeting Crowley's eyes again. "You do, too."
There was a pause before Duncan gave his verdict.
"I will not stoop to Morgarath's level," he said. "He stays alive."
Crowley scoffed. Taking one last look at Tiller, his eyes roamed over his cowing figure. One look at the terror in his eyes was all Crowley needed to see to know that the man knew nothing of Morgarath's plan. His loyalty had done him no favors.
"Pathetic," he said before storming away.
Somehow, he left the chamber even more silent than when he had first entered the room.
Oh man, oh man... An update a third week in a row? Unheard of.
But if you can't tell, I'm trying my darnedest over here. The goal is to FINALLY finish up this story before the end of the year. I don't know how long I can keep up the weekly updates (especially in these coming weeks --- final exams are coming quick!), but I shall try my best.
Anyways, Crowley is really going through it. And I gotta say... I don't blame him. Dude's been through so much the past sixteen years with no time to sit down and process everything. Now that he finally has some semblance of time, his grief is hitting hard.
As always, I love reading your comments. Remember to leave a vote, as well!
P.S. I was digging through my Google Drive and found some very old plans for a Caitlyn O'Carrick fanfiction. I won't say that it will for sure happen, but who knows? After I finish this, maybe I'll write yet another RA fanfic.
(that is, if i don't get distracted by the other ideas floating around in my head)