Chapter Text
It took a long time before the Gods and creatures of the Underworld let Aziraphale traipse back to the palace. At some point he seemed to have inspired an affection from them all that he had not really been aware of before now, and they all seemed to want to offer him their personal support and gratitude for what he had done – really, as if he had done anything other than tweak things here or there. They should have really been thanking the Underworld itself – that was where all the power came from, not him. But he found that difficult to say, particularly when he could feel Crowley’s eyes on him, waiting to challenge any utterance of self-depreciation.
In fact, Crowley had really been the only person he had wanted to talk this through with, to make sure that the Chthonic deity was really sure of his decision, but Crowley had vanished into the courtyard with the dead tree as soon as they made it back. Aziraphale watched him go but did not protest – he had a feeling that Crowley had as much to think about as he did, and night had already fallen on the Kingdom.
He wandered through the rooms of the palace that he had shaped, stopping the lanterns from flaring to life with just a thought, preferring the imperfect moonlight that fell through the windows. The rooms had shifted a little since he had changed them, as if settling into itself: the bright red accents he had created to match Crowley’s hair had faded to soft pinks, and some other things had shifted to pale greys, soft blues, buttery yellows and muted, sage greens. The furniture had slumped slightly as if relaxing into itself, and a few patterned blankets had appeared in places. Small plants had found their way into every nook and cranny, perky little things that Crowley patted gently and complimented on their shiny foliage. It looked… well, it looked like the kind of thing he might have imagined if he had tried to think of a place where he and Crowley lived together. Not that he had been thinking about that kind of thing.
Obviously.
“Why are you doing this for me?” he said, his voice thin and quiet in the darkness of the night.
Something in the room around him shifted, a tangible weight to the magic of the Kingdom that he had grown so used to, as if someone else was with him.
“Is that you?” he whispered, so quietly that it was closer to an exhalation than words. The King of the Underworld had been on his mind a lot lately, the true King who was supposed to come and take control of the Kingdom. How convenient it would be if he could appear now, and decree he and Crowley as his subjects, an inviolable law that even Gabriel would have to respect. He would take this palace back, true, but Aziraphale was pretty sure he had done good work here, that the King would be please and let him stay, and he and would be happy enough with a little cottage somewhere. Maybe he could take over some management duties that the King didn’t have time for? He seemed to have a knack for them, and he was certain the former wraiths would give him a good reference.
The presence shifted around him, enveloping him as if an embrace. But it did not manifest into anything – rather, it seemed to sink into his skin, slowly but surely, until it was as if it had never been there before, the only evidence it had ever been there was a strange tingling beneath his skin.
Perhaps the magic of the Kingdom, attuned to him by now, had been trying to respond to his desires, trying to create what he wanted. He appreciated the effort but was pretty sure that prophecy-answering Kings couldn’t be forced into being. They would come precisely when they were supposed to, and some oracle somewhere would cackle at being proven correct.
What would this King be like, though? He had to admit to a certain level of reservation. Whilst he liked the sound of handing over responsibility, of having someone else to stand between him and Gabriel, the thought of someone else changing everything, of undoing the work that he and Crowley had done together, made him feel a little uncomfortable. This palace would lose its softness and turn to the dark woods and stately furniture that Kings would presumably require. Perhaps the King would change his systems and would disapprove of his moral stance on the division of the afterlife. Perhaps he would insist that all lobsters really are evil after all. But Aziraphale shook his head at the thought, casting aside the remnants of it like cobwebs drawn across the room, and instead went back in the direction of the courtyard.
He had not intended to disturb Crowley, but when he caught sight of him through the open doorway he could not help but pause. The God was kneeling on the floor, hands buried in the earth. It had once been dry and grey, but was now rich and dark, and in the air hung a heavy sweetness, a scent that Aziraphale did not know to identify. He took a deep breath of it, the taste of it soothing.
Crowley slowly stood, as if he had heard him, but when he half-turned he seemed surprised to see him there. There was sweat drying on his brown, in his hair, and dirt under his nails, smudged across his arms. A sense of exhaustion lingered about him, in the sag of his shoulders, but a sense of exhalation too, as if something quite wonderful had happened deep beneath the earth, something that Aziraphale was not privy to. The night was still, strange, moonlight and dirt and wild magics all around them.
“What are you doing?” he whispered into the quiet night, though no one was around to hear them.
Crowley smiled, snowdrops blooming around his feet. He pointed up at the tree, where small buds were forming on the branches.
“It’s finally decided to wake up,” he whispered back, reaching a hand for Aziraphale. For a moment, he hesitated to take it. Crowley was glowing in the moonlight, his hair lit the colour of blood, and the scene was tremulous, beautiful and ethereal and terrifying all at once; made phenomenal by the feeling that it could not last. But then Crowley’s smile slipped a fraction at his hesitation, and Aziraphale felt something in his chest tighten in return.
Crowley’s hand was warm in his.
“What kind of tree is it?” he asked.
“Not a clue,” Crowley replied. “I don’t think it has made its own mind up yet. But give it time – it’ll get there.”
Dawn rose slowly, bloody red and hesitant. Crowley made Aziraphale wait in the palace again until it was definitively in the sky, a defiant act, one that Aziraphale knew they must do but somehow still felt terrible about. He distracted himself with the sword, carefully polishing it until it shone, letting Crowley fiddle with his hair, making him a crown of balsam and hawthorn.
“If I get a crown, you should too,” Aziraphale tried to tell him, but Crowley just shook his head, his eyes narrowing with feeling that Aziraphale couldn’t identify. Eventually, several hours after dawn, they heard the clashing of the gates, and a roar from the bestiary, and left the palace.
Gabriel was angry. Actually, Aziraphale rather suspected that was underplaying the situation somewhat.
Gabriel was apoplectic.
“Who in all the realms do you think you are?” he hissed at Aziraphale when he appeared at the gates. “You’re nothing, do you understand me? You’re a lowly God with no real talent – you haven’t even got a proper designation. Protection. That’s not a real Godly assignment. I’m the fucking sun, Aziraphale, do you understand that? I gave you one sliver of responsibility, something that you should have been desperately grateful to receive, and what the fuck do you do? You fuck it up.”
“I don’t see how he fucked it up,” Anathema said, the jade beads that draped over her glowing slightly. “All I can see is that the Underworld is working better than it ever has before, and-”
“Silence,” Gabriel cut over her. “Lesser Gods do not speak over me.”
Anathema opened her mouth to retort, but Aziraphale got there first.
“Don’t speak to her like that,” he said, and though he hadn’t raised his voice it echoed nonetheless, as if the Kingdom itself wanted her heard. “You do not have that right. Not here, and not anywhere else, for that matter. This is the Kingdom of the Dead, and you do not have jurisdiction.”
He was pretty sure his voice was trembling, but the echo masked it, making him sound much braver than he was feeling.
Beelzebub, unnoticed until then, put their hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, shoving them out of the way with a surprising display of strength. They looked straight through Aziraphale with a sneer, focusing instead on Crowley, who was hovering just behind Aziraphale. Their face was still, pale and difficult to read, but their eyes were dark with clear intent.
Flies buzzed in the air: several attempted to cross through the bars of the gate, but fell, smoking, to the ground.
Aziraphale’s sword burst into flames.
“Crowley is under the protection of the Kingdom of the Dead,” he said, hefting the sword in a manner that he hoped was threatening. “And he will remain as such.”
Beelzebub turned their attention to him now. “Is that so, Lesser God? It is interesting that you claim to speak for the Kingdom when you have no true role in it. Where is your divine manifestation? Where are your powers? Like it or not, the two of you belong to the Celestial and Chthonic orders, and you will be returned to them. This rebellion will not be forgotten. Far better to surrender now before you evoke any harsher punishment.”
Vines were growing across Aziraphale’s shoulder: it took him a moment to realise that they were coming from Crowley’s hand.
“Why don’t we get a choice?” Crowley asked. “You chose – you rebelled, you left. The Celestials chose, they got to throw the rest of us off the mountain. Where was my choice, in that? I didn’t choose you, and I didn’t choose them, but I was thrown off anyway, just because I wouldn't pick a side. I want to make my own choice for once.”
Beelzebub sneered. “You’re a creature of flowers and growing things. Why would you choose the land of the dead?”
Crowley’s voice was quiet, but there were violets blooming at his feet, curling around his ankles.
“At least I am wanted here,” he replied, quietly. “I would choose it because it wants me. My plants grow here, and they thrive. If this land didn’t want me, my plants would whither, or refuse to grow at all. You know that.”
Gabriel huffed, drawing attention back to himself. He looked around them all once again, and when he spoke his voice was no longer loud and yelling: now he spoke with the quiet authority of a being about to wreak absolute and unimaginable vengeance on a world. “Your choices in the matter are irrelevant. I had hoped to find you sensible and returned to your posts this morning. Since you have not, and since you will not listen to reason, let it be known and heard by all here now that the force of the Celestial and Chthonic orders will be drawn on all of you. These gates may be enough to keep the two of us out, but they will buckle before our divine forces. We have powers beyond the understanding of you Lesser Gods, and any who stand with these traitors will be punished alongside them.”
He stared at the Gods of the Underworld, clearly expecting a response from them. When nothing happened, he scowled. “We will reappear with the full host at the same time tomorrow. Be prepared for surrender, or annihilation.”
Gabriel disappeared with a crack and a burst of brilliant light. For a moment Beelzebub hesitated, staring at Crowley through the bars of the gate.
“The punishment will be yours as well, little flower God,” they said, eventually. “Do not think that your silence will ease it any. If I were you, I would sneak out of this place the same way you got in.”
Then they too vanished, and Anathema let out a huge sigh, as if she had forgotten to breathe for a few moments.
“Well,” she said, after a moment. “I feel like that could have gone a lot better.”
Unlike the previous day, there hadn’t been as much of a celebratory feeling as the group of Gods and beasts dispersed from the gates. Most were giving the two of them careful looks, concerned, though Crowley couldn’t quite work out what they were all worried about – the punishment, or the thought of them giving in? Aziraphale had disappeared before Crowley had even noticed, but he wasn’t particularly concerned. Finding Aziraphale was no problem whatsoever: the Kingdom echoed with the feeling of him, with the feeling of his magic, the power that Aziraphale seemed convinced belonged solely to the Kingdom and not to him.
He followed the feeling of it back to the palace, through the rooms with their simple and homey furniture and soft smell of jasmine and old books, out into the courtyard. The tree was still changing, its buds opening now into the smallest of new leaves, but underneath it, the garden was still a little desolate looking in places. Aziraphale had perched himself at the base of the tree, where tufts of dead grass still lingered, though Crowley had a sneaking suspicion that it wouldn’t be long before all of that changed too.
Aziraphale was pulling up fistfuls of dried grass, but absentmindedly, as if he was in a whole other world. The confidence that he had found here seemed shaken, and it was as if he was withdrawing into himself. Crowley couldn’t help but wonder if this was what Aziraphale has looked like in the world of the Celestials. He could picture it now: windswept mountains, cold winds, glaring light and cruel words. The world of the Celestial Gods, where Aziraphale had come from and where he would have to return if Gabriel and Beelzebub got their way. Aziraphale didn't belong in such an unforgiving landscape.
“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, taking a seat next to him. “That was wild, wasn’t it?”
Aziraphale shrugged a little, then sighed. “Not really, I supposed.”
Crowley brushed their hands together, carefully. Aziraphale’s skin pulsed with a power that Crowley thought felt beautiful, one wedded to love and protection and honour. It was nothing like his own familiar power, full of spring shoots and deep roots, but they slid alongside each other naturally, comfortingly.
“That Gabriel guy seems like an absolute ass,” he offered, just to see if he could make Aziraphale quirk a smile.
“They’re going to make me go back,” Aziraphale said. “They’re going to make you go back. Don’t pretend like you don’t know that.”
“They can’t make us,” Crowley replied, and it sounded desperate even to his own ears. “They… you can stop them. I know you can.”
“Gabriel’s right,” Aziraphale said, softly. “I’ve never actually manifested a divine power. I’ve got no more strength or authority than any nymph or immortal bloody bird. I can’t go up against a God of his power one-on-one.”
Crowley pulled the pieces of dried grass from Aziraphale: between his thin, pale fingers each grew longer, greener, and from the end of each burst a red flower, unsymmetrical and layered with petals as soft as silk. Balsams, their fragrance sweet in the air.
“Now, that is a real gift,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley sighed, a soft and gentle sound, hiding the way the corners of his mouth were turning upwards. He took those flowers, one by one, and threaded them through the riotous mess of Aziraphale’s hair. With the fifth, and final, he paused: he stroked it down the line of each of Aziraphale’s cheekbones, impossibly soft, then his nose, tapping the end of it gently when he was done.
“You’re a bloody idiot.”
Aziraphale blinked. “Seems harsh.”
“How can you possibly still believe you haven’t manifested a power at this point?”
Aziraphale was still blinking at him. Above them the leaves of the tree were growing larger, lusher, brighter. Crowley glanced up at them a moment as if asking for strength. Heartsease flowers bloomed on his collarbones, and ambrosia grow between his fingers like rings. A breeze lifted the tips of his hair, gently stirring it, that strange summer breeze with the hint of autumnal chill in it, the sort of breeze that is quietly singing of change.
“Alright,” Crowley said, eventually. “Let’s say you really are this oblivious and haven’t noticed anything yet. Why do you think the Kingdom has responded to you? Why do you think you are able to do the things that you can do?”
Aziraphale looked at him, a small crease between his eyebrows as he frowned. “You’ve been helping me – you’ve been growing things, and-”
“Those are my powers,” Crowley replied, his voice patient. “The powers I have always had. The Underworld didn’t give me a sword, it didn’t let me change its very nature. The Gods and beasts don’t look to me. This world doesn’t answer to my desires. It lets me grow here, lets me add to it, but it does not allow me to fundamentally change its very nature.”
Aziraphale was still staring at him, bewildered, and Crowley sighed.
“Have you ever considered that it is because you were supposed to be here? That you were supposed to… rule here?”
“I think you might be the kindest thing that I have ever known,” Aziraphale told him, with a small smile. “But…”
“No buts,” Crowley replied, getting to his feet and holding out a hand for Aziraphale. “Come with me.”
Crowley led him through the Underworld, past the Gods that nodded their heads respectfully at them and the beasts that smiled with affection. Aziraphale’s hand was warm in his, and he did not let it go as Crowley led them through to the Halls of the Dead. There were still queues, but they were far more reasonable now, and the new systems he had put into effect seemed to be working. But Crowley did not stop there: he took them past the hard-working administrators and judges, who all nodded shyly at Aziraphale, and through the door to the afterlife rooms, the one for those who had done the greatest deeds in their life.
It looked very different to how it had the last time they had been there, thinking and seeding plants, Crowley with his hands in the dry dirt as Aziraphale closed his eyes and dreamed. Now the lands rolled away from them, golden grass stretching away to the horizon, distant groves of trees, dappled sunlight and a soft breeze, bringing the scent of all that is fresh and good. Where once this land had been empty, now there were clusters of houses visible, smoke from home fires spiralling into a clear sky. Aziraphale was looking at Crowley curiously, but he did not stop, setting out in the direction of the nearest cluster of houses.
There were bees in the air, Aziraphale realised, herbs growing along the path attracting ladybirds and other small, buzzing insects. Signs of life that had not been here before – it made him wonder what else there was, growing and thriving out there in these new lands. Just as he was thinking it, a hare hopped across their path, pausing a moment to look at them, eyes bright and curious before darting quickly out of sight again. Was it the spirit of a hare from the living world, or a creature belonging solely to this one, created to give life to Aziraphale's dreams of a better death? He almost didn't want to know.
When they came to the village (though it might have been a bit generous to call it that) Aziraphale took in the signs of life, of flourishing. He didn’t know how the small cottages had got there, whether they had been built or had appeared as needed, but they seemed homey, and as if they had been there far longer than they had: flowering vines were growing up the walls, and the whole place had an atmosphere of legacy and pride.
An old woman caught sight of them from where she was sitting in long grass, threading flowers into a flower crown for a young girl sitting next to her. She watched them both carefully for a moment before getting up, far more limber and painless than she would have been before her death.
“We were not expecting a visit,” she said, smiling, dipping into a low bow. “Forgive me for saying, but you are the Lord of this place, aren’t you?”
She was staring directly at Aziraphale, who was frowning again.
“What makes you say that?”
The woman looked confused for a moment. “I don’t know really,” she replied eventually. “But there is something about you… I just know. You have the same glow that everything else does. And around your brow - it almost looks like you are wearing a crown.”
Humans don’t see Gods the way the divine see themselves, Aziraphale remembered from some distant conversation with another Celestial. They don’t see the truth of their forms, the shapes they were born to. A human would never see the face that Aziraphale saw when he looked at Crowley, would never see the details, the fine lines around his eyes and the way they gleamed like topaz in the light. They would see something less natural, more sculpted, altogether less human – exactly what people expected their Gods to look like. They saw the truth of them, their powers and manifested abilities, the malice and joys held deep in their soul.
“What does the glow look like?” Crowley asked, and the woman smiled.
“It is hard to describe,” the woman said, already turning away, turning back to the young girl, taking her hand. “I suppose it looks something like safety.”
It didn’t… Aziraphale still couldn’t quite understand. Crowley was looking at him expectantly as if he was waiting for Aziraphale to say something, to turn around and agree with something that Aziraphale still couldn’t quite wrap his head around.
“I don’t know,” he said, turning to head back to the rest of the Underworld. “I understand, I think, why you all believe it. But I… where is the proof, really?”
“Is the sword not enough?”
“Swords are for protectors,” Aziraphale replied, humming a little under his breath. “If it was a crown, maybe, but I don’t see how a sword-”
“I feel like you are being deliberately obtuse, my love.”
Aziraphale stopped. It took Crowley a moment to realise, and he turned back to look at the other God, who was watching him cautiously.
“Do you mean that?”
Crowley had a feeling that Aziraphale was not talking about the being obtuse thing. He nodded, slowly, and though no words fell from his mouth, heliotropes dripped from his fingertips, their compact flowers littering the ground around his feet. Aziraphale’s eyes widened a little, and then he smiled, blinding with something Crowley didn’t have words for. Aziraphale took a couple of steps until they were level and then kept on going, taking Crowley’s hand in his.
“I know you’re trying to help,” Aziraphale said, quietly. “And I understand – if there was a King, a lot of our problems here would disappear. But… I do have an idea.” Aziraphale said.
“What?” Crowley felt a little blindsided, but when he glanced at Aziraphale’s distant eyes he realised that the conversation had already moved on again. He suspected that Aziraphale did not realise it, but his normally blue eyes had filled with shadows and stars, the colour bleeding into a whirling cosmic infinity, as he thought about something far beyond where they were.
“I’m not sure… but I think I was wrong about Tartarus being empty.”
Crowley was frowning now, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, not exactly. Tartarus didn’t have any souls in it until recently. But I think… I think Tartarus might be something more than a space. I think it is like Erebus. I think it is something in its own right. And I think I might be able to wake it.”
“How do you even get to Tartarus?” Crowley asked, as they left the afterlife, and Aziraphale paused.
“I’m… not actually sure,” he admitted after a moment. “I know a few souls have gone there, but… I don’t actually know how? The judges said it had been done, and… I don’t really know how, but I know it has been. I think I can do it. But there is no door, is there?”
Crowley shrugged, but Aziraphale was right. It wasn’t clear at all – Aziraphale had implied that the river of fire might possibly have led there, but call Crowley a coward, he wasn’t a huge fan of the idea of finding a boat and trying to sail on that particular body of water (was there water under the fire? And if not, could it really be called a river? Philosophies for another day, perhaps). He was about to state his unwillingness to start sailing, but realised that Aziraphale had stopped, was frowning, a small line between his eyebrows.
“What?” he asked, but the Celestial did not answer, just reached out his hand for Crowley to take.
There was a strange shifting, the edges of the world blurring, a pull in his gut that he was not expecting – but nothing happened. The world realigned, and Aziraphale sighed.
“Not quite,” he said, with a small smile. “There is still something blocking me.”
Crowley was still focused on the feeling of their hands, linked together Aziraphale’s skin was hot, almost burning, and despite the worry still nagging at him, cedar leaves were sprouting in Crowley’s hair. His heart felt full, valerian growing around his feet.
They made their way back to the palace, to the building that Crowley had started thinking of as home. He didn’t want to leave here – couldn’t imagine now being anywhere else. He had never had a home before, not really: he had been on the mountain, and then on the earth, and he had spent his time wandering from plant to plant, from field to mountain to forest, never lingering anywhere. There had never been anywhere he wanted to stay before – but this house, this blend of the two of them, finally felt like somewhere he could rest his bones.
“Aziraphale,” he said, as they walked through the door. But he wasn’t sure what he was going to say. He chewed at his lip, only letting go when Aziraphale’s warm hands cupped his cheeks.
The other God was smiling, a little hesitantly, and Crowley’s hands covered Aziraphale’s. He could feel the pressure of both their hands on his face, a reassuring weight, and then he leant forward until their foreheads were resting together.
“It’ll be alright, won’t it?”
“I think it will,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t ask me why, but I think it will.”
And then his mouth was warm against Crowley’s, gentle and inquisitive, and Crowley had to take a moment to remember to breathe, to remember to kiss back. Something tight and delightful was building in his chest, and when Aziraphale eventually pulled away, he realised he was smiling. Aziraphale looked like he was about to say something more, but a sudden breeze blew down the hallway, insistent, bringing the smell of fresh growth and something sweet, ripe.
They glanced at each other, both thinking the same thing – that the breeze had come from the courtyard.
The last time they had looked at the tree, just an hour or so ago, it had been putting out leaves, rich and dark green, small and slightly pointed. Now it looked like the kind of tree that had been growing for generations, old and well-loved, and it was hard to believe how much it had changed. The sweetness in the air was stronger here, and they stepped forward cautiously, and the dead grass around its base was long gone: now it was lush with sage and thyme, the woodsy, herby smell a gentle compliment to the sweetness.
“What kind of tree is it?” Aziraphale asked. “Why do you think it is growing so quickly now?”
Crowley shrugged. “It’s ready. It’s been waiting for something, I think. It was always supposed to grow now.”
“Well, that’s ambiguous.”
Crowley shrugged, but there was something tugging at the corner of his mind, a strange encounter almost forgotten – the Sphinx, and her glowing eyes, and her words: look to the tree.
And there it was, right in front of them – a single red fruit, the branch it was clinging to dropping lower than the others as it struggled with its weight. The thin, black branches of the tree were growing strong, but as of yet there were no other flowers, no other fruit – perhaps there never would be. Perhaps trees like this did not grow in the normal way, but only when there was a desperate need. And by the (many) gods, Aziraphale was feeling desperate.
And was it really that simple? One piece of forbidden fruit?
There had always been stories – overheard from humans, but no less truthful, for if enough people believe in something, then it becomes. If you love something, you must consume it, must make it a part of you, so you in turn can become a part of it. Some stories were more literal than others: sometimes it was a case simply of acceptance, and other times… other times there might be a piece of fruit, a temptation laid out in front of you, waiting for you to make the choice.
Crowley was looking at him. He’d figured it out too.
“Could I tempt you?” he asked, and Aziraphale laughed, reaching to pluck the fruit. It came willingly, offering no resistance. It was soft beneath his fingers, ripe, and as he squeezed it split, the red skin parting exactly in two, as if it had always planned to be divided this way. Inside, the seeds were gleaming, wet like blood. Precious.
Aziraphale handed one of the halves to Crowley, and examined the other with a cautious eye.
“This sort of thing is always a bit structural, isn’t it?” he mused. “The stories are often a bit precise about this kind of thing. I suppose… a seed for each month, do you think? Or is that too obvious?”
“Mmmnf,” was Crowley’s reply.
Aziraphale looked up.
Crowley had stuffed the entire half of the pomegranate into his mouth, skin and all.
“Well,” Aziraphale said, blinking. “I suppose that’s one way to do it.”
Crowley seemed to be rather struggling with the fruit. Juice was leaking out of the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were going a little watery from the effort, but he was chewing on regardless. Aziraphale suspected that the more reptilian parts of Crowley were going to have to come into play if he had a hope in hell of getting that down (unhinging your jaw was rather bizarre, but he was sure that it had its uses) but to his surprise, after a moment Crowley managed anyway.
“I think that might have been overkill, darling.”
Crowley coughed, a little awkwardly, and licked his lips. “I wasn’t taking any risks.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale hummed. “But I mean… we do have cutlery, you know.”
Crowley was still busy sucking the juice from his fingertips, looking rather satisfied with himself, when they went back inside. They still didn’t have much of a plan, and Aziraphale was starting to get a bit concerned about that, but as they had eaten the fruit something had settled in his chest, some sense of belonging, some old and ancient magic. He was not a Celestial God anymore – if he had ever been - and Crowley wasn’t a Chthonic God either. They belonged to this place, just as it belonged to them, and no matter what the other forces of the world threw at them, they would not be able to remove them from this place.
There was noise and movement from outside the palace, and when Aziraphale opened the door he found Anathema there – and behind her, all the other Gods and creatures of the Underworld. Newton waved at them anxiously, and even Shadwell was there, arms crossed and scowling, but there nonetheless.
The paved space outside the palace, shared with the main administration blocks, had changed: where once there had been nothing but the pale stone paving slabs, now there were old bay trees, the slabs pushed up around the thin, strong trunks of the slender trees. There were mulberry trees too, with their twisted boughs and ripe, dark fruit. Spiderwort was growing around their bases, spilling out over the slabs with their tiny, blue flowers. The trees provided a comforting atmosphere, gentle shade from the leaves and a soft, herby smell. The once-barren space, the seat of the Kingdom, now finally looked complete.
“We’ve been talking,” Anathema said, and she crossed her arms. “Aziraphale, you know about the prophecy of the King. And I know you don’t think that it can be you, but we’ve all talked it through, and we have decided that we want you to be. We don’t want to wait around for some bloke to turn up who might not appreciate the place, not when we could have someone we actually all like, and who likes us. So we’ve come here to ask you to be the King.” she paused. “If you want to be.”
“I’d be honoured,” Aziraphale said, “but… do you really want me? Don’t you want to wait for someone a bit more special? For the person who is supposed to be king?”
But before anyone could answer (or Crowley could wring his neck in frustration), the ground shifted beneath their feet, a rumbling from somewhere deep below echoing through the space. The crowd shifted too as something in the courtyard started to move – a plinth, rising from the ground, right in the centre of the courtyard, smoothly and easily as if it had just been waiting for this exact moment. And on the top, gleaming, sat a crown.
“I’m getting tired of telling you,” Crowley said. “I think you are supposed to be king, Aziraphale. Can you not see that?”
Aziraphale’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Deep inside, in that secret part of himself, something slid finally into place. As strange and unimaginable as it could be, they were right – this place, this strange and wild and beautiful place wanted him, and he wanted it – he was the King of the Underworld, and nothing could take him from this kingdom.
But it wasn’t just his: he looked around the assembled crowd, who were all watching him, with affection and love and worry. This belonged to all of them, he belonged to all of them, and they were his to protect, and with that thought the magic he had always been waiting for seemed to flare to life within himself. His Godhood had awoken – protection, the flavour of which he had always known, but now on a scale and of a power he could never have imagined. He had felt selfish, wanting to stay here, risking the Gods of the Underworld for his own desires, but now that selfishness felt better placed: this was his land, to love and grow and cherish, to keep safe from any and all threats that came to the gates.
Finally, he turned to Crowley, who was smiling softly at him, and as he reached out a hand to him a second plinth rose from the ground.
“That looks like two crowns,” Anathema said, slightly unnecessarily. “Don’t you think we should look at them?”
The crowns were beautiful things. From where they stood, they almost could have been the same crown, but as they walked across to them Aziraphale realised that they were quite different. The shape of them was similar, but everything else was distinct, though both were beautiful. One was made of thin copper strands, coiled together, with delicate leaves hammered so thin they might almost have been real. The other was made of steel, set with uncut shards of quartz, sharp and unyielding but beautiful nonetheless.
Anathema was still staring at them. She looked slightly at a loss, which was reassuring because that was exactly how Aziraphale was feeling, too. She hesitated a moment, looking between the two crowns, and picked up the one made of gemstones, and cautiously held it out to Crowley.
Aziraphale could understand the sentiment, could even appreciate it, but it was all wrong. Crowley appeared prickly, but he wasn’t actually like that – not once you got below the surface. He might be hard on the surface, abrasive and sure of himself, but it was a layer over something much gentler. He was gossamer leaf veins and soft petals, all too easy to tear.
Aziraphale was the other way around, though he had to admit that he had not realised that until recently. He came across as soft, and malleable, but all that hid a core made of jagged edges. He was stubborn and unyielding, and wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to. He was hard and unwavering, beneath all the fear. Okay, a long way beneath all the fear, but still.
Anathema meant well, but she had got it all wrong. The Kingdom hadn’t though – he felt in his bones that these crowns looked this way for a reason and that the delicate leaf crown was for Crowley. He picked it up, and settled it on Crowley’s head. The copper picked up the highlights in his hair, setting it aflame. He was lost in the moment of it and barely felt the gemstone crown being placed on his own head. He couldn’t see it, but the steel looked right against the silver-white of his own hair, as right as Crowley’s crown looked on him.
“You said you would believe it if there was a crown,” Crowley was saying quietly, his eyes shining gold. “Do you believe it now?”
The fear had been stripped away from him: for the first time in his life, Aziraphale felt right in his body, as if his bones had been off-kilter, but had finally been settled. The crown was not a heavy weight, and he barely noticed it when he sat under the pomegranate tree, and closed his eyes once more to try and reach Tartarus. Whereas before there had been a sense of evasion, of a door that wouldn’t open, this time his mind seemed to slip through the levels of the kingdom, and when he opened his eyes he found himself standing in a vast, cavernous space. This was Tartarus: he knew it in the core of himself, the prison of the Underworld, where he had been sending only the most irredeemable souls. He did not need to raise his voice: he did not need to speak at all. He pushed his own presence out into the space, aiming for polite enquiry, the sound of a gentle but unignorable knock at a door. He waited a moment, feeling the space, and something close by shifted.
It was much like Erebus: something primordial and beyond the trivial notions of bodies and form. Tartarus was a God too, again like Erebus, but something older, something from the dawn of time, made of the rubble of the universe, ancient and strong. But he evoked no terror in Aziraphale, though perhaps only a few days ago he would have done. Aziraphale reached out his hands into his presence, as if to embrace it.
The sensation hesitated, just for a moment, at that. “Who calls me?” it asked, the voice quiet and low, thrumming with the experiences of centuries.
“My name is Aziraphale,” he said, and he smiled.
“What is that to me?”
“Open your eyes, and tell me yourself,” Aziraphale said, but for a moment Tartarus did not respond, as if it was uncertain. “What do you see?” he asked again.
“You are silver in the darkest of stone,” the voice said, and its voice softened, as if in recognition. “Your spine is made of steel, and your eyes were made to see beyond that which others see. You hold the sword of Erebus, and the flame of it will never burn you. You have been touched by the magic of the growing Gods, and the light of the open sky, but in your heart you ache with the power of protection, of gateways and hope. Your mind is full of ideas to help and heal, not to hurt or hinder. There is steel and jade and tourmaline and garnet in your hair.”
Aziraphale reached his hands out again, and this time he felt pressure against his skin, as if someone was pressing back.
“You see a lot. What else?”
The voice grew warmer still. “You wear the crown of Death.”
“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed.
“You are the King that the Underworld was waiting for.”
“I suppose I am, aren’t I?” he smiled, more to himself than to anyone else.
There was a sense of hesitation again, a feeling of confusion and alarm. “Why are you here?”
It thinks I want to get rid of it, Aziraphale realised. It thinks I view it as a stain, as something that needs fixing, as a problem I mean to solve. That wouldn’t do – not at all. That wasn’t the place he wanted to run – if he was responsible for this kingdom, with all its beauty and mystery, then he was responsible for the happiness of its inhabitants, for keeping them safe.
“I’m here to ask you if there is anything you want.”
The air around him seemed to flicker, and a shape seemed to form out of the air, the rough outline of – well, not quite a man, but some sort of creature, with limbs and an approximation of a head, something perhaps based on creatures that no longer existed in the vastness of existence.
“To what purpose?” Tartarus asked.
“I want to negotiate a favour, and it helps in advance if I know what I can do to make your life here nicer.”
The shape shivered in the air, and for a moment Aziraphale felt like he could see all of time in the shape of him, something endless and unfathomable. “You could order me to do what you want.”
“Yes, I could. But that isn’t how we are going to do things here.”
Silence, just for a moment.
“You have a strong will.”
“I am making a world,” Aziraphale said. “And I have help. So much help. But this place reacts to me, which makes me responsible, and I am determined to make it something better, not just something that will do. To make it the place that we deserve to have. Because none of the other worlds are.”
The form wavered. “It is dark, and I am tired, and so old.”
“How can I help?”
“You send me souls, souls full of hatred and regret. They are a heavy burden.”
This made Aziraphale ache, his chest tightening in guilt. “I will stop.”
“No,” Tartarus said, and it seemed to shake its head. “It is my burden to bear, to make up for a sin from many ages ago.”
Aziraphale did not ask, though he burned with curiosity – not just at what it could have done to have this endless punishment, but also at what creature had the power to enact it, to keep Tartarus trapped here in the Underworld, to chain a thing of such vastness. He held his tongue not for fear of Tartarus’ wrath, but rather to spare it the pain of having to bring such a thing up again if it did not want to.
“Stories,” Tartarus said, eventually. “I want to know what the world is like. When I was trapped down here… it was a long time ago. Before the world was made. I want to see it, through their stories. I need… a window, I suppose. Something to see the world through. A way to hold on to the hope that dies more every passing century.”
“I think we can arrange that,” Aziraphale said with a smile.
“What would you have me do?”
Beelzebub and Gabriel appeared the next morning, as promised. The sight that greeted them was rather different from the previous day. The dull, dark metal of the Gates was gleaming now, with a light of their own creation, and they remained firmly shut. The gates were not the only difference to the Kingdom of the Underworld. Underfoot, the dry grass and cracked dirt had found new life, a riotous mix of wild grasses and flowers and ferns that all appeared to be doing remarkably well for themselves, despite the rather obvious handicap of only having grown that morning. The grey stone of the vast walls seemed threaded through with silver, gleaming in the light the gates put out. The rivers, now so beautiful and calm, even seemed to have some ducks. Well, the spirits of ducks, but the effect was still rather nice.
Magic thrummed in the air, perceptible to all, a wall of strength and power that felt comfortable, resolved in itself and its purpose. Before the Kingdom of the Dead had always felt unformed, waiting for something or someone, lacking in strength and determination. But now it felt as it always should: like something formed, something ready for action.
Something threatening.
Lily of the valley bloomed across the gateposts, the perfumed scent of them heavy in the air.
“What the fuck have they done?” Gabriel asked. He had gone a little pale, and looked like he might throw up. He did not dare turn around to show that expression to the hoard of Gods stood behind him.
Every Celestial and Chthonic God who had the strength and will to hold a sword had been summoned, though many of them looked distinctly uncomfortable to be rubbing shoulders with each other. They had never before been brought together for such a task, and centuries of dislike did not make for comfortable bedfellows. They were uneasy around each other, and with their swords: it had been centuries since most of them had been given any need to use one, and they did not seem particularly comfortable at the notion of having to do so again.
The only thing they were looking at with more caution was the creatures of the Underworld, who had once again turned out en masse, standing on the other side of the gate, watching the army with some curiosity. Aziraphale and Crowley were nowhere to be seen, but neither God believed that they had the good sense to flee.
Gabriel and Beelzebub shared a look. Beelzebub had not seen the need to speak: truth be told, they found the bravado of the Celestial God a little repugnant. But both sides were aware that an issue such as the Kingdom of the Dead required cooperation.
“Let’s get this over with,” they muttered, striding up to the gates. They raised a hand, the power bestowed on them by their rank and position welling inside them. But nothing happened.
Beelzebub frowned, and tried again. Once again, nothing happened.
“Give me a break,” Gabriel muttered, and shoulder-barged Beelzebub out of the way. “Let someone with real power sort it.”
But the gate would not shift for him either. If anything, they gleamed even brighter, and the colour of the flowers flared.
“I am afraid that won’t work,” Aziraphale said, stepping as if from nowhere. He was on their side of the gate, but when Gabriel lunged for him the God was forced to pull up short, as if something had barred his movement.
“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “None of that. I’d like to give you a moment to realise that you have lost, and allow you to pop off home again.”
“Why you-” but Gabriel was cut off, by Beelzebub’s hand.
“What has changed?” they barked. “What have you done?”
“I have done nothing,” Aziraphale said, as kindly as he could. “I have simply… become, I suppose. The Underworld has decided that I am its King, and as it’s King, neither of you hold any jurisdiction over me anymore. You cannot make me leave, and you cannot command my people. You also do not have the right to be here, and I am respectfully telling you to leave, and never come back.”
“You little shit,” Gabriel said, staring down at him. “The Underworld does not belong to you, you are nothing, and-”
“He is something,” Beelzebub hissed through their teeth. “Pause your blathering a moment and feel, you cretin. He has come into his power.”
Gabriel glared, but did as he was bid: after a moment his eyes widened. The sound of grinding teeth was audible. The God of the Sun had never been bested before: he had never lost a battle. And certainly, if Aziraphale had gone up against him, he may not have won, even with a flaming sword. But that wasn’t his style, and he did not plan to win today with violence: he didn’t need to. He looked over at the army of Gods, shuffling awkwardly, trying to avoid looking at each other. There were some he recognised, and many more that he didn’t, but there was something familiar about all of them nonetheless: they were Gods following orders that they did not really like or understand, Gods bowing to commands given by callous leaders who did not care about their wellbeing. He had been one of them, not that long ago, bowed down by the weight of other people’s disapproval. He remembered the fear of decisions being made about you without your consent and control. He couldn’t envision ever going back to that, ever becoming less than he was again.
And he refused to be that kind of person - against his allies or his enemies.
“Again,” Aziraphale said, “I am giving you a moment to think things through, to take your soldiers, and leave. I would not have bloodshed on my land if I can help it.”
“Crowley!” Beelzebub said suddenly, voice raised, swivelling on their heel to glare through the gate.
“Up here,” Crowley said, from where he was perched on top of the wall, his crown gleaming in his hair. He gave Beelzebub a cheery wave. “Also belong here now. Also not going.”
The swarm of Beelzebub’s flies rose like smoke, but they hesitated before they got too close to Crowley, remembering perhaps the way their comrades had died at the gates yesterday.
For the first time, Crowley did not look afraid. He got to his feet, stepping out into air, but he did not fall: vines carried him down, until he was stood next to Aziraphale. Crowley stood, straight and proud, not intimidated.
“I told you,” he said. “I belong here. The land wants me, and I want it. You can’t just make things happen because you want them to – not here, at any rate. You don’t have the right to me, and this Kingdom protects its own.”
“I’ll drag you back by your hair,” Beelzebub promised, voice calm and eyes narrowed.
“That’s quite enough of that,” Aziraphale said. “I’m taking from this that you are not interested in making good choices today. That’s alright. I’m happy to make them for you.”
He raised his hand, and for a split second, nothing happened. Then came the darkness. It rose from the ground in an impregnable wave, the beautiful mass of Erebus in full display as he engulfed the army of Gods, hiding them from sight. There were murmurs, some sounds of surprise, and Gabriel’s lip curled, as if he were about to mock them. Then the darkness began to shimmer as the force of Tartarus joined the affront, and the murmurs turned to screams.
Primordial forces are beyond comprehension: they have power over Gods, though the Gods are often unwilling to acknowledge such a thing.
Aziraphale would often wonder in the future what it was they saw, what Tartarus did to those unsuspecting Gods. The worst of evil men were punished by Tartarus, and it knew the weakness of people, knew the truth that lies in the hearts of all creatures. And Tartarus had all of known history to draw on, Erebus too: they had shown Aziraphale the vast gulf of space and time, the stars spiralling out into eternity, the beauty of the endless void and the joy to be found in the dark.
He didn’t want to know what they could do if they did not like you – and these creatures did not appreciate anyone threatening their kingdom.
The screaming grew louder, then things fell ominously silent. Then, suddenly, both vanished. The Gods stood there untouched, but their faces were pale. Several of them collapsed: others were vomiting. One by one, they dropped their swords, and dropped to their knees. Some of them didn’t even bother: they vanished, fleeing back to wherever it was that they came from.
“As I said,” Aziraphale said, his face still pleasant. “I would not have bloodshed here.”
The Gods left swiftly, after that, and several days later they received a letter, via Newton, officially recognising Aziraphale as senior administrator of an independent region of existence. It was good enough, as far as Aziraphale was concerned, as he wrapped his fingers through the curls of Crowley’s hair.
The Kingdom of the Dead is a happy place: so it should be, for it is where the living will spend the most of their time on this plane of existence, one way or another. If you ever find yourself there (and you will, I guarantee it) then you may end up surprised by how it is, for stories are often unkind to places where the dead rest.
But the stories are not true. This is a place of warmth and kindness, of gentle tempers and warm sunlight. It is orderly, and the souls that it was created to guard are protected. Those very few who require punishment are given just ones, and the majority of people – those who are not particularly bad, or particularly good, just people, made up of silly mistakes and bad choices and happy memories – are given that which they deserve. A long and happy afterlife, with the worst of the living world taken away.
Even for the lobsters.
If you walk the spaces of the Kingdom, you will find the beasts and terrible Gods, all of them with purpose and intent, and all of them happy. They are respected here, and they too are not judged for things that are beyond their control: they are allowed to be exactly what they are, and perhaps more importantly, exactly what they want to be. Some will be knitting – if you befriend them, you might be gifted a scarf or a new pair of socks.
The Sphinx may still give you a riddle, but if she does, it will be because she wants to, not because she is forced to. Normally you’ll find her singing, now – it turns out she likes a bawdy tavern tune.
The judges of the dead – those who were once wraiths – have all picked their own names. Some of them, in fact, have chosen several, because they like being able to make those choices for themselves. Sometimes men make their way to the Kingdom, too – bold heroes, searching for fame, and the occasional traveller, just looking for answers. They are received politely, but are always sent on their way again – this is not a place for living mortals, and even the bravest hero will make their way here in due course.
The Gods of the Underworld are many, and their numbers are increasing. Newton still carries messages between the planes, and sometimes he comes back with new Gods, those who don’t quite fit into the divine order that continues outside the kingdom, split between land and mountain top. Gods whose thoughts and beliefs don’t align with those who look down or up: Gods who stare out across the land and see only beauty and potential, and don’t fear the change that time will bring. They are welcomed, each and every one, by the King of the Underworld.
He does not have a throne – he does not want one. A throne is an unfriendly chair, is his way of thinking, a way to create separation between a King and his kingdom, and he does not want that. No man is an island, and no King should know anything but the feeling of his kingdom under his feet. He believes that this place is his to love and protect, and you can’t do that from a distance. His consort doesn’t speak as much, but he is a kind thing, sorrel and globe amaranths blooming down his arms whenever the king looks at him for a little too long. He spends his time growing what he likes, and comforting the children who find their way here alone, until he can ensure they are reunited with family who have come before them.
If you stay long enough, you’ll know them by name. They do not use titles, not if they can avoid them. When they are not completing the duties assigned to them, you’ll find them by the banks of the rivers, or walking under trees: Crowley may be growing new plants, or Aziraphale dozing happily in the sunlight. And nearly always you’ll find them together: laughing, telling stories, feeding each other pomegranates – or just simply being, existing, two souls exactly where they are supposed to be.