Chapter Text
It was not an everyday occurrence to have the Dreamlord himself turn up mid-tempt. The poor sap Crowley was working on was already half in his cups before Crowley had even insinuated himself into the group’s conversation, sidling into a seat bearing fresh cups of ale and whispered words of encouragement. It was not going to be his best work, but it was certainly going to be efficient. His target, one Robert Gadling, was hardly going to need a nudge to make a move on the serving wench he’d been eying up for the past hour, and with said serving wench’s possessive beau also half in his cups and all the more murderous for it… well, it’d be bang, crash, wallop, stab and a new soul collected for Hell before the hour was up.
All in a day’s work really, and the sooner it was done the sooner he could leave. He was one soul away from being able to miracle himself back to the Mediterranean and some decent weather. And wine.
Satan, he hated England.
The 14th century hadn’t had a lot to recommend it thus far, what with all the famines and plagues and whatnot, and there was significantly less to recommend it in this damp and dirty northern backwater of a country. Orders from Down Below sent him here frequently and he really didn’t understand why (he might be tempted to view it as a punishment, but no one in Hell had the imagination for that. To them, everywhere on this plane was the same) . After several millennia on Earth, Crowley considered himself to be somewhat of an authority on human misery as well as their penchant for sin and he knew that mortals in, say, Tuscany or Aquitaine were just as discontent with their lot and just as easy to tempt as these unlucky bastards in England. Yes, he could collect just as many souls for Hell sitting in the sun drinking wine in a Florentine piazza as he could in this dank and malodorous tavern.
Still. Orders were orders, and he hadn’t been able to shift this one over onto Aziraphale.
And like he said, it was an easy mark.
Crowley was just getting up steam, waxing lyrical about Robert’s clear prowess in the bedroom and how the comely wench with the come-hither eyes just couldn’t stop staring, when he sensed a presence entering the inn.
A very powerful presence.
“Death?!” he said stupidly, cutting his companion off mid-sentence and not even noticing. He was slightly dumbfounded to find the Endless (and top dog of the Horsemen) frequenting this grotty English tavern. Well, actually, he was expecting her later to pick up dear Robert’s departed soul and pop him on down to Hell, but that was business, and she seemed to be here off duty so to speak. Enjoying the sights, supping the ale and… in the company of her brother? That was, if anything, even more unexpected. Crowley was well acquainted with Dream of the Endless, of course, having spent a good deal of his time over his stint on Earth partaking of the comforts of the Dreamlord’s realm, but he had not heard or seen him on this mortal plane for… weeeell, had to be at least a thousand years.
Dream looked about as unimpressed with the place as his sister seemed delighted. He was trailing behind Death with the air of a sulky adolescent, all stiff lines and stern expressions. He too had a tankard, but it was quickly deposited into a waiting niche without being sampled, and Crowley could not blame him for that. The White Horse may have many wondrous things to recommend it (though he was hard pressed to think of any, to be honest) but the beer was definitely not one of them.
“Death?” Gadling repeated, seemingly not at all bothered by the shift in conversation and perfectly happy to go with the flow. “Look, I've seen death,” he declared, thumping his flagon down for emphasis. “I lost half my village to the Black Death. I fought under Buckingham in Burgundy. It's not like I don't know what death is. Death is... stupid.”
Crowley cringed. Death and Dream had both turned their attention towards them at the first mention of Death’s name and were exchanging unreadable looks while Gadling continued to unknowingly dig himself a deeper and deeper hole. Well, Crowley supposed, it looked like he wouldn’t even need to finish tonight’s temptation. Gadling was doing all the work of getting himself smote by Death herself for his insults. And this one’s soul was definitely not bound for Heaven.
“Nobody has to die!” Gadling continued. “The only reason people die is because everyone does it. Well, not me. I’ve made up my mind. I’m not going to die.”
The rest of the humans at the table roared with laughter and Crowley risked another glance over at the Endless. Death… didn’t really look all that bothered, actually? There was even a small smile on her face. Huh. Dream, though… ah , Dream was approaching their table. Crowley ducked his head- there was no chance that he wanted to get involved in the crossfire, not when it involved the notoriously bad-tempered Dreamlord, but he needn’t have worried: the Endless had eyes only for Gadling. Satan, Crowley hoped he wasn’t going to lose this one to centuries of eternal nightmares instead. That would be annoying. He had a bloody quota to fill, after all.
“Did I hear you say you have no intention of ever dying?” Dream asked the human, and Gadling looked up, his expression quickly morphing to drunken awe.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's right,” he said with a nervous chuckle.
“Then you must tell me what it's like,” Dream said and Crowley gawped. “Let us meet here again, Robert Gadling, in this tavern of the White Horse in 100 years.”
The rest of the table burst into laughter again. “A hundred years and I'm Pope Urban!” shouted one, and Gadling gave him a brief quelling look before turning all his attention back to Dream.
“Don't mind them,” he said. “A hundred years' time, on this day?” At Dream’s slight but definite nod, Gadling raised his tankard to him in a salute. “I will see you in the year of our Lord 1489, then.”
With a smug smile, the Dreamlord withdrew without so much as acknowledging Crowley’s presence. Which was not unexpected- Crowley had heard that Dream barely acknowledged the presence of his own family; he certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge a lowly demon- but it was a relief nonetheless. Gadling stared at Lord Morpheus’s retreating back with a stupid look on his face. The humans briefly discussed the bizarre interlude before returning to more important topics of war and wenching. The pert serving girl of the White Horse seemed to have been forgotten by Gadling and what did it matter anyway? Crowley wasn’t going to waste any more time trying to instigate that particular tavern brawl. Gadling had been marked by the Endless. He was officially Off The Menu. Lucky bastard.
Ah well, plenty more souls in the sea , thought Crowley, downing his ale and experiencing instant regret. He’d meant to miracle it into a far more palatable Vin de Beaune or something (those Cistercian monks were a joyless lot but they sure knew how to make a fine wine) but had let himself be distracted- first by his mark and then by the Endless siblings. Maybe this place was called the White Horse because it served actual horse piss to drink? Not that these humans seemed to mind- one of Gadling’s companions had just called for a refill and they no doubt planned to keep quaffing the swill until they passed out.
Unnoticed, Crowley slipped away from them, ducking out the White Horse and sidling off into the night, thinking. Maybe he could keep an eye on Robert Gadling over the next hundred years. He was already a dissolute soul- a whorer, a gambler, and a swindler. There wasn’t a soldier alive without his soul stained black, and this one was a light-fingered bandit during lean times of peace on top of that. Who knew what manner of sin a man of his character could cook up in a century of living? It could be most instructive indeed.