#crowley's execution

The blade, running the demon through, draws a triumphant shout from the crowd. Heaven's thief cries out, negation, broken, ragged. His voice cracks, sorrow spilling out in his grace. As he is dragged to the stage, Balthazar breaks free of the hands of his brothers, kneeling at the side of the crumpled King, tears dropping, head bowed. (cont'd)

When the time is up, all charges read, a shining blade is presented to the eldest of all angels. Every member of the crowd assembled stares, damning the demon with angry eyes and stony visages. Some of the younger angels are weeping, the list of charges seeming vast and terrifying to them. Pale blue eyes meet those of the demon, searching, reassuring. Tears gather, falling, dripping down acidic over golden stubble. Balthazar isn't looking is best either. (cont'd)

Michael, stern and absolute, walks onto the platform, holding a scroll with gilt edges, creamy paper bearing dark marks, night-black pen strokes of Enochian telling the tale of crime after crime. Crowley begins to laugh at some of the charges, winking out into the crowd. A single angel chuckles, lifting a hand bound in clinking chains of his own to scratch briefly at his temple, the memories pulling a snort from him. (cont'd)

The demon standing on the raised platform is ragged, his once dapper suit in tatters. No less defiant is the set of his shoulders, no less squared is his jaw. The crowd of assembled angels is angry, muttering to themselves about Crowley's many crimes against their family and humanity both. The chains at his wrists are smoking slightly, their holy forging singing the skin, burning, quiet torture borne with only a grimace. (cont'd)