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#Post#: 20156--------------------------------------------------
Olympus Flashback Story: “In Our Own Sweet Time”
By: Caterina Sforza Date: May 25, 2025, 1:23 am
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The sky bleeds orange and lavender over the treetops, the last
remnants of sunlight brushing gently against the aged wood of
Muriel’s cottage. Wind stirs the tall grass in the yard,
carrying with it the whisper of falling leaves. The trees groan
and sway, stripped bare one branch at a time.
On the porch, Crowley leans against the railing, the worn wood
creaking under his weight. His boots are dusty, his coat still
smelling faintly of brimstone and ash. His eyes are locked on
Muriel, but she won’t meet them. She stands a few feet away,
arms loose at her sides, gaze fixed on the treeline like she’s
searching for an answer only nature might provide.
Crowley: dryly, with forced levity So this is it? No great
cosmic punishment, no blades drawn. Just you… done? He chuckles
bitterly, bracing his hands on the railing as if he needs it to
stay standing. His voice, though sarcastic, frays at the edges,
losing confidence. Us walking away?
Muriel doesn’t answer at first. Her golden hair lifts in the
wind, tendrils dancing like sunbeams caught in a storm. Her
wings are hidden, but the air around her thrums with restrained
divinity. Leaves flutter around her like broken promises. In a
way they are. She’d promised to stay as long as the flowers
still bloomed. Muriel: softly You know I couldn’t turn my blade
on you if I tried. A gust rushes through the yard, sending a
whirl of amber leaves scattering. She inhales the scent of the
earth, grounding herself before continuing. No, this ends… oh,
how did T.S. Eliot put it? “Not with a bang but a whimper.”
Crowley scoffs, pushing off from the railing. His boots hit the
porch floor with a dull thud as he steps closer. Crowley: A
whimper, huh? Muriel, you didn’t even give me a chance—
Muriel turns on him suddenly, a sharp and fluid motion. The
shift in energy is palpable; even the birds in the trees go
silent, their chorus cut short like a held breath. Muriel: A
chance? Her laugh is dry, empty — like the snap of brittle
parchment. She walks toward him slowly, deliberately, as though
every word carries the weight of her wings. I gave you years,
Crowley. Years of my life. I let you wield me as a weapon when
it suited you and cradle me in your arms when it didn’t. Her
voice grows heavier with every sentence — not angry, but worn,
like water carving canyons. I gave you the fruit of my womb.
Every holy part of me that I would be cast down for sharing. My
blood. My grace. My power. All of it — the best parts of me —
handed to you freely. And in return? I got Hell. I got a king on
a throne forged from suffering.
Crowley doesn’t flinch, but his jaw tightens. His hands curl at
his sides, knuckles pale. He wants to yell, but responds low and
controlled. Crowley: I gave you and this world protection. I
took the throne because if I hadn’t, they would’ve torn apart
everything you cared about. You think I wanted it?
Muriel steps in closer, and the space between them is electric —
full of things unsaid and too many that were. Muriel: Don’t lie
to me, dear. Her voice cuts like silk over glass. You may have
started with noble reasons, but you kept that throne because you
like the power. You like what Hell gives you — something no one
else never did.
Crowley: almost a whisper That’s not fair.
Muriel: No, but it’s true. She exhales, slow and shaky, eyes
searching his face like she’s reading scripture written in pain.
You sit on that throne like it was carved for you, and every day
I watch you slip a little further from the man I knew. From the
man I— She stops herself, and when she speaks again, her voice
is barely audible. And yet, I can’t hate you. I won’t ask you to
walk away. It’s better this way. Cleaner. More merciful than
dragging this out until we forget why we ever tried.
Crowley steps back slightly, his brow furrowing. Crowley: And
the girls? What about Azara and Cress?
Muriel: with quiet conviction They’ll be fine. They have the
best of both of us, even if we’re no longer whole together. She
glances out at the horizon, where twilight has deepened into
indigo. One day, when they’re older, they’ll understand. They’ll
see why we had to choose our callings over each other. Why our
love couldn’t bear the weight of Heaven and Hell.
Crowley: You make it sound like we were some failed experiment.
Like we were doomed from the start.
Muriel: Weren’t we? She speaks gently, without malice. She
offers a soft smile, but it’s empty — a ghost of something once
luminous, now dulled by inevitability. Heaven made me to serve,
Crowley. You clawed your way up to rule. There was never going
to be a middle ground. Just… borrowed moments. Fragments of
forever we never had a right to.
Crowley folds his arms across his chest, wounded and deflective.
Crowley: You didn’t seem to mind borrowing them at the time.
Muriel: She sounds nostalgic, almost tender You’re right. I
didn’t. I loved every moment of it. Loved you. She wraps her
arms around herself, a self-embrace that feels like both comfort
and containment. Her brow furrows, her nose scrunching the way
it always does when she’s trying not to cry.
I love you, Crowley. I don’t think I’ve ever said that part
aloud before. Not the quiet part. Not the true part Her voice
cracks slightly, but she pushes on. But love doesn’t let me
forget what I am. It doesn’t erase the lines etched into me by
divine design. And it won’t make me pretend I can be something
I’m not. Half of Heaven already thinks I’m on my way crashing
down. Maybe they’re right. But I won’t fall completely just to
hold on to something we were never meant to survive.
Crowley lowers his gaze. His expression is unreadable for a long
moment before he finally speaks. Crowley: And if I want to keep
it?
Muriel: We both know that’s not fair. To you. To me. To the
world. Her voice carries a strange certainty, the kind that
feels like prophecy. I’ve seen what happens in universes where I
chose the Fall. It’s total destruction. The balance between
Kuriel and me thrown off its axis. My twin and I are two forces
tied in cosmic equilibrium. He is destruction. I am renewal.
When I fall, creation falters. The world rots. Everything burns.
Nature stops. The end of everything we’ve both worked so hard to
preserve.
Crowley opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. There’s no more
fight left in him. Just grief wearing the mask of a king.
Muriel: But maybe one day we’ll find each other again. In
another decade. In an age. She steps forward, finally closing
the distance between them. Her hand lifts, trembling only
slightly, and she touches his face. Her thumb grazes along his
cheekbone with the warmth of sunlight filtered through autumn
leaves. Her voice is soft. In our own sweet time.
Crowley: You can’t say that and just say goodbye. He leans into
her touch like a starving man, but she’s already pulling back.
She reaches into her coat with one hand and takes his hand with
the other — gentle, reverent — before she’s moving, slipping two
small crystal vials into his inner suit pocket. He catches sight
of them briefly in the transfer. They shimmer faintly, like
bottled starlight — pieces of her grace, humming with power and
sorrow.
Muriel: For the girls. For when the world gets too dark. For
when you need a reminder of what home feels like. She drops his
hand and looks at him one last time. Not as the lover. Not as
the mother of his children. Not even as the archangel. But as
herself. Whole, weary, and resolute. She turns and walks toward
the door of the cottage. Opens it. Steps inside. And with the
softest finality —
She shuts it.
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