Chapter Text
Wingsong for the Wicked
And lo, the Metatron spoke:
‘And upon your belly thou shalt crawl for all unworthy days,
Low as the lowest serpents; just punishment for thine wiles.
Upon your wretched countenance: mark, the yellow-eyed beast.
Upon your untruthful tongue: mark, the fork of thine devils,
Upon your skin: mark, the silver scales of unholy treachery.
You have been sentenced and so you will be an angel judged.’
At least, that’s what the Official Record stated. In actuality, the Metatron had said: ‘Good riddance, nosy bugger’ and several burly angels had pushed the to-be demon Crowley off of the (metaphorical) cloud. Asked about it centuries later Crowley would describe it as a bit of an I-quit-you’re-fired scenario, but that wasn’t the entire truth. He hadn’t meant to fall, he just had questions. As was, he was bound by the Rules. He could slither on in silence, or walk the earth in mortal frame, but he could never hide the snake because the snake was in the name.