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Rodrick Burgess is nothing if not stubborn. He wants Dream to speak; he batters at the cage with his cane for a decade, increasing amounts of spittle splattering the glass. He wants his son back, and so he will get him.
He decides to try the ritual again.
As Rodrick’s followers lay down the circle, checking and rechecking the grimoire, Rodrick supervises - and watches the creature in his cage. There’s futile fury in Dream’s eyes as he presses a hand against the glass. It’s the most animation the Magus has seen from the Endless since the boy shot his bird. Good, Rodrick thinks. Victory is already roiling in his gut. If the creature is worried, then this time he’ll succeed. He’s certain of it.
Rodrick is, as usual, completely incorrect.
As Rodrick begins the chant ( here in the darkness, here in the darkness, ) he can see the Endless tensing in his cage. It must not be pleasant, he supposes, to be reminded of being captured, or maybe the second spell is calling to him from beyond the bounds of the first. When Dream’s form flickers, slamming him sharply into the glass, Rodrick takes brutal satisfaction in the second being correct. Dream of the Endless can’t leave the binding circle, but the spell still calls to him, dragging at his essence. The same cloud of sand and colors forms in the glass sphere, but Dream doesn’t completely vanish. Instead, he resorts to curling up at the bottom of the cage, his jaw tight with what must be pain, the edges of his form dissolving.
If it wasn’t an expensive and difficult piece of magic, Rodrick might cast the ritual more often, just to see the Lord of Dreams suffer.
If Rodrick Burgess hadn’t been caught up in his own sadistic joy and the enthralling thrill of nearing success, he might have noticed that, while Dream was absolutely in a great deal of agony, his lips still curled in a small, vicious smile. For the moment the magic begins to affect Dream, he realizes that his siblings are safe. The current spell affects Dream, yes, but only because he is bound and defenseless. Had he any magic at all at his disposal, he could have resisted, casually.
For this version of the spell is not tailored to capture an Endless.
Rodrick Burgess is not, after all, a competent magician. He succeeded the first time due to several factors completely outside of his control. First, there was sheer luck, in that he copied the symbols incorrectly and stumbled upon a much stronger configuration; on top of that, he was assisted by Endless interference and a millennia-old sibling rivalry. Lastly and likely most importantly, Dream happened to be outside of his own realm at the time, and was already weakened by a previous confrontation. Otherwise, the spell would have failed.
This version of the spell is also copied incorrectly, but Rodrick won’t get lucky twice. Instead of using the angel feather (where does he keep getting those) as a power source, he unknowingly uses it as an anchor for the spell.
As the feather hovers and ignites, as Rodrick chants the words about poison and pain, Dream lets the darkness and the burning torment wash over him. This time, falling into insensation is simple, almost comfortable. A break from the endless noise and glass.
Dream just hopes that the angel they summon will not be as bound as him - and that they will have no mercy for their captors.
********
The candles that surround the basement wink out; the circle flares with a hellfire light. The only illumination left is the faint glow from a glass sphere suspended in the center of the room. The ceiling is blue and painted with yellow stars.
For some reason, that’s what Aziraphale finds himself fixating on. It’s pretty, if a bit garish. It takes him a moment to notice the cultists surrounding him. They look as baffled as he is, which isn’t fair. Someone has to know what’s going on, and it really should be the humans in robes.
Aziraphale has never been summoned before. He feels a bit honored. More put out, though. He’d been in the middle of organizing the shop, and he’d been planning to get dinner at a new little place by the Thames. Maybe if he hurries, he can still make his reservation.
“Um, hello,” he says, following the words with a little wave. “May I help you?”
The human apparently in command - the only one without his silly hood pulled up, though Crowley would say that Aziraphale shouldn’t judge others for their clothing, considering - blinks dumbly a few times. His eyes flicker over Aziraphale, who detects that now he’s the one being judged. “You can’t be the angel of death.”
Aziraphale laughs, nervous and just a bit offended. “I’m not, no. Is that who you were trying to summon?” He glances down at the sigils surrounding him. They seem a bit haphazard. “You are aware she’s not truly an angel?”
“I am,” the human grits out. “Are you an angel?”
Aziraphale hesitates. “And if I said I wasn’t…”
“I would not believe you, you infernal creature!” the mage snaps. The circle flares with power, but Aziraphale doesn’t feel much more than a breeze.
“ Excuse me. I am not infernal,” Aziraphale snaps. He takes a cautious step away from the barmy old mage, testing the limits of the binding circle. If he could just leave, that would be brilliant. Unfortunately, the ritual seems sound. He can’t wander off.
“You’re either an angel, a demon, or another bloody Endless -”
That earns him another little laugh. “Oh goodness. I’m not Endless, no.” He takes in the man’s wording. He could just mean “another” as “besides Death,” but… something is wrong. Aziraphale peers around the men in robes - and they are stupid robes, he won’t pretend otherwise - to take in the rest of the room. He was correct in his assumption that the space is a basement, with stairs leading upwards and no windows to be seen.
But the glass sphere, which he’d initially taken to be some odd, dramatic light fixture, is in fact… a cage. Limp at the bottom of the curving glass is a figure. And Aziraphale has never met the Lord of the Dreaming, the Shaper of Form, but angels are still capable of sleeping, if they so choose. He recognizes Dream, and Aziraphale feels sick.
The Endless is so still. His chest doesn’t even rise with breath.
“How dare you,” Aziraphale whispers. He is not used to being angry; it is an unfamiliar, uncomfortable emotion. But Aziraphale is an angel, and angels are not peaceable. Even he once held a sword. “How dare you hold him here, like that - don’t you know what you’re doing to the world? To humanity?” Not even considering what they’re doing to the Endless himself. No one deserved what was happening to him.
“I did not ask for your opinion,” the human growls. “No matter your manner of creature, you are bound to obey me by the Old Laws -”
“Oh, no, I’m not,” Aziraphale says. He examines his fingernails, enjoying the frustration that flares through the human. “The Old Laws don’t often apply to angels. We’ve a preexisting commitment, as it were.”
Still, he’s unarmed and in the middle of an angry sea of humans. Aziraphale tries very, very hard not to remember Paris, and instead focuses on what magic he can feel. There isn’t much there. Aziraphale is put out by how human he feels. It’s a bit exhilarating, a lot gross. He’s more aware of his skin than he’s ever been, and the rough tweed of his jacket.
Aziraphale is very aware that this could go poorly, and he doesn’t particularly want to be discorporated, especially when he’s unaware of how the binding circle may affect his soul. He’ll have to rely on the kind of involuntary magic angels are always capable of. He’ll have to keep the humans busy, and hope that his usual luck will find him.
(Aziraphale isn’t aware of the following, or pretends not to be: his favorite Involuntary Miracle is the one that always seems to manifest Crowley whenever Aziraphale needs him. The demon has gotten him out of scrapes before.
And Aziraphale, despite himself, wants the chaos Crowley brings.)
********
Dream of the Endless’s continued silence is infuriating. The angel’s refusal to shut the fuck up is almost worse. He doesn’t even have the decency to appear as an angel should. Dream of the Endless is inhuman and strange - he could’ve been an angel, if Rodrick didn’t know better. This new creature is polite, far too awkward, and wearing a bow tie for god’s sake.
The angel’s veneer of humanity does not make Rodrick more sympathetic to his plight. In fact, he’d like nothing more than to sink his knee into the creature’s stomach, smack him over the head with his cane. But Rodrick has tried force with these beings before. Maybe he went too quickly to threats with Dream of the Endless; the angel seems more reasonable, after all, and as frustrated as Rodrick is that he summoned the wrong entity (Again!), the angel is at least closer to his goal than the monster in the cage.
“So, tell me,” Rodrick says, finally managing to interrupt yet another tangent about rare books, “what are angels capable of?”
The angel shifts nervously. “Well. It depends on the angel, really.”
Rodrick desperately wants to strike him. He envisions it, and says instead, “What are you capable of?”
“A variety of things. But, you see, I have a quota for miracles. I can’t just hand them out all willy-nilly, even if I wanted to.”
Miracles. Rodrick’s nostrils flare. “What constitutes a miracle? Could you bring someone back to life?”
“No,” the angel says quickly. Firmly. “I cannot alter the Plan.” He takes a deep breath. “I won’t.” His gaze wanders to the glass sphere, where Dream remains motionless. More motionless than usual, that is. He’s curled up, small, the ridges of his spine stark in the dim light. “You should not seek to either,” the angel says. “I do recommend that you release us both.”
Rodrick scoffs. “You clearly don’t understand. That thing will slaughter every soul in this house, and revel in our suffering. It’s much closer to a devil, in all honesty - it’s not like you or I. I’m not even convinced it’s capable of speech.”
“I think, and I don’t say this lightly,” the angel says, “that you’d deserve whatever he chooses to do.”
“You’re reasonable,” Rodrick pushes onward. “You’re clearly intelligent. What can I offer you - even beyond your freedom - for a single miracle?”
“Nothing,” the angel says. “Not after what you’ve done.” He sniffs.
That does it. Rodrick takes a sharp step forward. He doesn’t want to cross the edge of the circle, just as a precaution, but he can hit the angel from outside of it. That’s one of the reasons he made the circle smaller this time. He raises his cane, and the angel, for the first time, looks more frightened than nervous. Rodrick wonders if he’s experienced pain.
“Oi!” There’s an exclamation from the stairs. At first, Rodrick thinks someone has dared to intentionally interrupt him, but the man who stumbles down the stairs looks more drunk than determined. “Is the party over? We’ve run out of wine, you know.”
“Get out,” Rodrick snaps, gesturing to the guards. “The basement is off-limits to guests.” He doesn’t recognize this stranger, which is odd, because he’s quite memorable. Wavy, dark red hair spills to his shoulders, and he’s wearing mirrored sunglasses indoors.
The sunglasses conjure up the image of a white-suited American. Will this happen every time he summons something?
The man on the stairs locks eyes with the angel, and Rodrick feels a chill shoot up his spine. The sardonic smile falls from the stranger’s lips. “What’s happening here?”
*******
Crowley will later explain that he’d gotten an invitation meant for the occultist Aleister Crowley and just went along with it, the promise of a party and a silly mage’s cult too much to pass up. At the moment, Aziraphale couldn’t care less about Crowley’s reasons for being in the basement. Somehow, he's getting used to the demon’s rescues.
He didn’t question or gripe about Crowley’s use of malicious force against the guards, which let Crowley know that something serious was happening. He slams the mage against the wall, pinning him (loosely, at first) by his throat.
“You won’t - won’t kill me,” Burgess sputters. “You’re like him! You’re an angel!”
“Not exactly,” Crowley says, removing his glasses slowly with his free hand. “Not for a while, at least.” The mage turns very very pale. Aziraphale tries very hard not to take much pleasure from that. Whether he succeeds or not, that will remain his secret.
While the mage is dealt with - Aziraphale ignores the noises, he really does - Aziraphale, now freed from the binding circle, moves to the cage that still contains the motionless and silent Endless. “Hello?” he calls hesitantly. “Can you hear me?”
“Shite,” Crowley says, coming to stand beside him. The violence has not made him any less furious; his slit pupils are dilated, hunting. “Did they kill him? Can the Endless die?”
“Oh goodness, I hope not.” Aziraphale carefully steps over the ritual circle. It feels terrible, buzzing and cold, so he makes a face. It doesn’t bind him at all. He lays a hand on the glass. “Lord Morpheus? Dream of the Endless?”
The being opens his eyes. They’re black as the night sky before they fade to a watery blue, still dark against the absolute white of his skin. He finds Aziraphale’s face and frowns. His lips move, only slightly, but Aziraphale doesn’t even hear a breath.
“Thank God ,” Aziraphale exhales. “Don’t worry, Lord Morpheus, we’ll get you out of there. Circle first, yes?” He’d snuck a look at the Magdalene Grimoire. That book was definitely coming with him when this was done. When Morpheus slowly nods, Crowley swipes his boot across the circle.
Power thrums through the room. Dream shivers slightly, running his hands briefly across his arms. He sits up, still staring at Crowley and Aziraphale.
“There aren’t any hinges,” Aziraphale says, examining the glass. No wonder Morpheus isn’t breathing - he can’t. (Rodrick Burgess is lucky he’s already been dealt with.) “Can you break it?” he asks Crowley.
“I’ve got it, angel. No need to dirty your hands,” Crowley says. He steps forward, a crowbar somehow already in hand. Before he breaks the glass, his eyes go to Aziraphale. “You’re alright, aren’t you? They didn’t -”
“No, no,” Aziraphale says quickly. Warmth he does not particularly want to question blooms in his chest. It feels like a blessing, or the beginnings of one. “I think the whole experience was worse for them, actually.” Pride colors his voice. “I can be very obnoxious.”
“Sounds right,” Crowley quips. Before Aziraphale can shoot back, he slips his sunglasses back onto his face, raising his arm to swing. “Best close your eyes.”
Aziraphale, too curious by half - as always - does not do as he’s told, but the loud bang does startle him into flinching. Under the sway of Crowley’s imagination, fracture-lines race along the surface of the glass in every direction, popping the horrible structure with the crack of dissonant wind-chimes. The metal peels away and sand fills the air.
When it falls away enough to see (and Aziraphale doesn’t regret not listening to Crowley, no he does not, he just has to rub his stinging eyes -) the explosion has left the Endless standing, now somehow cloaked in black fabric, in a sea of incandescent shards. His hair, sticking up in several directions, is doused in shimmering particles. He blinks at them for a moment. “ I must thank - thank you, ” he gets out, as his knees buckle. Something in his tone sounds distressed.
Crowley catches him. “Don’t you worry,” he assures the half-conscious Endless, as he drags him away from the shards. “Angels and demons alike owe a lot, you know, to dreams.”
Aziraphale smiles. This whole summoning experience was turning out to be, well - a bit of a miracle. “Come on, Lord Morpheus. Let’s get going, shall we?”