Chapter Text
GABRIEL
Right. So. This is the big one. Everyone accounted for?
SANDALPHON
All present and correct, your glory. Well…
GABRIEL
Well what?
SANDALPHON
We’re still missing Aziraphale. He… Um. He just buggered off.
GABRIEL
When we’ve won the war, triumphed over the forces of Hell, he’ll find what we do to traitors. Sound the advance…
*
The thing that you really do have to remember about Aziraphale – the really important – the key thing to remember about Aziraphale is this: as is (was) common for principalities, he has no sense of a middle gear. None. For Aziraphale there is ‘Stop’ and ‘GO! GO! GO!’ (All those intermediate settings are clearly just there for decoration.)
You thought the angels of the Ninth Regiment were an aberration insofar as formerly-principality-led regiments? Well… alright, so they are. But only because they have collectively elected to remain at the latter stage of operations at all times.
Aziraphale certainly had no intention of causing such a general ruckus during Armageddon, really, he hadn’t. Aziraphale, as any who have met him will doubtless have immediately spotted, would have far rather been excused from the entire mess, along with the Earth he had come to love and appreciate and generally become terribly comfortable within. Even had The Great Plan included some sort of clause stating: “After The Glorious Victory of The Holy Host, There Shalt Be A Second Earth, Much Better Than The First One We Promise, And Aziraphale Can Still Totally Look After That One Too…” The chances are great that he still wouldn’t have gone for it. It just wouldn’t have been the same. He’s got used to this one.
And so, when pushed and shoved and forced out of his customary, far-favoured setting of ‘Stop’, it really ought not to have come as a surprise to any of the archangels that he had, with great reluctance, sighed and turned his internal dial all the way up towards ‘Go! Go! Go!’
It really was the archangels’ own fault.
There is, however, something else which you must remember, as we enter the End Times together…
As all well-loved leaders do when pestered for advice and comfort by a crowd of eager (and often worried) listeners, Aziraphale had – very much by accident, and certainly not with any kind of plan for such an outcome at all – issued to the guardian angels one of the most important lessons they could ever learn while living in Heaven. It would, somewhat ironically, have made for a brilliant all-day workshop. [1]
[1] And would have been the best-attended such a one. In the opinion of many in the Host, the late twentieth-century expression “could have been an email” was a good descriptor of many of Gabriel’s all-day workshops.
The thing that the guardian angels have learned from Aziraphale is this: “It is forbidden to ask questions or to disobey, my dears. But consider this: if you do not ask … certain persons… for permission or approval before you do something which you feel strongly about, then you cannot be forbidden to do that thing, and you have asked no questions at all. Being told not to do a thing again, my dears, quite after the fact is rather different from disobedience.”
So armed with these two vital facts, let us now consider … Armageddon.
*
Cassiel is working through yet another pile of requisition forms when Israfel comes charging into his office and slams the door behind her.
“Have you heard the news?”
Israfel was a generous angel, always full of news. Gabriel was pleasingly apt to forget when she was in the room, taking notes, and so Israfel could always be relied upon for the choicest gossip, something which Cassiel took full advantage of. As two rather romantic souls in the decidedly unromantic environment of Heaven, they each enjoyed sharing the stories and ideas which no one else had the patience to listen to. The end result was that whenever something exciting was about to happen – Cassiel tended to know first.
“No?” Cassiel thinks this should be obvious; he’s clearly been buried in this office, besieged by binders for the last three decades at least. [2]
[2] That “Internet” thing had created a whole new category of morality to administer, as well as paperwork to match. On the upside, the fine angels over in the Third Tower were hard at work, developing some very interesting ideas about new avenues for miracles, since pesky concerns like Science seemed to have been banished from the realm and everyone can just do as they liked. Once they work out how to put all this spam back in the tin, it’s over for those butt-accounts! [2.1]
[2.1] “Bot accounts, Maalik! They’re bot accounts!”
“Aziraphale’s trying to thwart the Apocalypse!”
Cassiel blinks. “Can he… do that?”
It doesn’t seem like that sort of thing should be allowed. Not that Cassiel wants the Apocalypse, not at all, in fact Cassiel would very much rather that no Great Plan, no Great War, should be on the horizon at all, but…
Well.
If angels could just… opt out of the end of the world… You’d think Upper Management would have investigated the idea, wouldn’t you? Explored the option, at the very least. [3]
[3] It might be argued here, by the uncharitable but probably accurate, that Cassiel was rather indulging himself in a bit of wilful blindness. The archangels – save Raphael, who had been forced to learn many exciting new skills and methods of thinking in her quest to actually keep the most stubborn and creative of principalities in good health – have never been especially noteworthy for their adaptability and unconventional thinking. Therefore, it is highly unlikely that any archangel would have thought to explore other alternatives once they had decided on a course of action.
Israfel shrugs, making herself comfortable on the end of Cassiel’s desk and threatening to send at least four piles of papers scattering to the floor.
“Don’t know, the archangels didn’t seem very sure, but Aziraphale’s pretty confident. Says it’s clearly a demonic plan, so it’s his duty as an angel to thwart it.”
Cassiel considers this. “I… I suppose he’s not wrong. The Antichrist’s a product of Hell, isn’t he? So… Well, I suppose Aziraphale is well within his rights to… Oh, but how would he even go about it?”
“Oh good, you’ve told him?” Kamael burst through Cassiel’s door with the grace and discretion of a whirlwind.
“Kamael, did you kick my door in again?” Cassiel demands, though he has no idea why he even bothers to be surprised any more. [4]
[4] Over in the Fifth Tower, an intrepid team of engineers dejectedly marked another failure down in their notes, before brightening and pulling out another three prototypes for testing. One day, they are sure, they shall manage to design doors which can withstand an excited Kamael’s efforts at entry, and they shall not rest until they succeed!
“Yes.” Kamael agrees, but carries blithely onwards, “Cassiel, are you alright to handle the team, or do you want to delegate it? Leliel over in Fertility says he’ll do it if you don’t want to, but I said you’d never let Aziraphale down and he could go and pluck his wingtips if he thought he could do better than you!”
“I wish you wouldn’t pick fights with your colleagues, Kamael; it does dreadful things to the cross-department meeting agendas,” Cassiel grumbles as he rubs his eyes, but he’s rather touched by Kamael’s faith in him all the same.
“I didn’t pick it! He did! I just gave him what he asked for!”
Cassiel sighs in a pointed sort of manner, [5] but reached once more to take back control of the situation.
[5] He had learned it from Aziraphale, but he still suspected that he needed more practice. Kamael is doing his best to assist by providing plenty of opportunities. Because he’s helpful like that.
“Wait a minute, what am I helping Aziraphale with, here? Israfel only got as far as telling me that Aziraphale was going to try thwarting the Enemy to stop Armageddon, but how –”
“Oh, right!” Israfel gasped, sitting up straight and looking very excited. “He’s going to be a gardener!”
Cassiel blinked. Again.
“He’s going to what?”
Israfel grinned. “A gardener! I heard him telling Gabriel the whole plan! He’s going to take a job as a gardener in the Antichrist’s home and raise him to love and care for all Our Lord’s creatures, and Her creation in general, so he won’t want to destroy everything when the time comes!”
“That’s…” Cassiel thinks of the enormity of what Aziraphale is attempting to do. An angel, an actual angel… raising the Antichrist. It’s… it’s madness.
It might just work.
“Why a gardener?” He wonders.
Israfel grins, and leans a couple of elbows on various stacks, wrinkling her nose. “All the weirdos are into plants; he’s hoping it’ll make him inconspicuous.”
“I am quite certain that this was not what he said at all.” Cassiel raps back, face absolutely straight.
Israfel shrugs irreverently.
“Alright, he said it with more words and all that, but the meaning was exactly the same, if you ask me.”
“We didn’t,” snips Kamael, who does not appreciate his commanding officer being lumped in with ‘all the weirdos’… although having just come from speaking to Leliel, he has to admit that his defence is a little weaker than it would ordinarily have been.
Cassiel understands now why he has been roped into this. “And you think Aziraphale might need some assistance with his… horticultural endeavours, is that it?”
They nod.
Cassiel feels himself brighten at the prospect. “Well, this is rather wonderful, really! Not had a chance to get my hands dirty in ages!”
The two guardians watch as a strange, slightly less-than-holy light begins to shine in Cassiel’s eyes, watch his hands rub themselves together, and lean back, away from his abruptly focussed energy.
“What sort of plants do you suppose they go in for in gardens in London these days?”
“Roses, I think.” Israfel tries to look like she’s not got five walls dedicated to pictures she has been assured are also by human-standards recognised as ‘romantic’ and ‘picturesque’, cut out from magazines and photoshoots in her office. “And lavender?”
Cassiel snorts. “Well, that just won’t do at all! That’s dreadfully boring! If that’s the standard of horticulture the Antichrist is being exposed to, why, I shouldn’t wonder the poor dear might destroy everything out of boredom! No, no, let me think… Now, some specimens which might entice a budding Antichrist… Well, of course the Strangler Fig, yes, we’ll need one of those, but how about the…”
The pair back away slowly, leaving Cassiel to unearth his old notes from back before Botanicals sent the HR Department a frantic request that Cassiel be reassigned to an environment where he couldn’t design any more plants, please, before something dreadful happened. Something more dreadful. Again.
“Do you… Do you think we did the right thing, there?” Israfel asks, biting her lip in worry.
Kamael immediately opens his mouth to defend Cassiel, but then thinks about it.
“Well…” he shrugs, “hey, the whole point is to help Aziraphale stop the Apocalypse, right? If we end up feeding the Antichrist to a pitcher plant, it probably still counts?”
Needless to say, although Aziraphale received thousands of helpful memos, and hundreds of cuttings from Cassiel over the next few years, [6] the Ambassador’s gardens did not feel the effects of most of them. [7]
[6] The cuttings and notes and helpful hints pages were all stashed with great care in the attic of the Bookshop, who was somewhat puzzled by the unsolicited offerings, but game to try new things from time to time. Although Aziraphale never discovered this, following a meeting with an especially enterprising crime boss in the late 00’s, a select group of young men with the kind of dedication to their passions and creativity of method that Hell so badly wished it were capable of, climbed up the neighbouring building’s guttering and broke in through a skylight they were fairly sure had not been there a few years back. There were no survivors.
[7] Crowley thought that Aziraphale was a remarkably terrible gardener, but Crowley – as ever – had no idea how much negotiation and effort it took for Aziraphale to placate the chaotic (if beloved) aspects of his life into allowing him simply to be ‘adequately harmless’.
Warlock, who did not end up as compost in the end, may have been a little saddened not to meet a Corpse Flower in his back garden, but he was not consulted on the matter until very much later.
*
When Kamael heard the first beats of the War Drums, signalling the Beginning of the End of Everything, he realised that he wasn’t at all sure how he felt about it.
Going to war against the Fallen had always sounded… exciting. Certainly, it sounded a great deal more interesting than forms or seminars or training exercises. And of course, it was all a part of the Great Plan, wasn’t it? You can’t go against the Great Plan, can you? Silly to even try, really.
Well, unless you are someone powerful, like Aziraphale, of course, Kamael quickly corrected himself, remembering how their principality had been working towards doing nothing but thwart the beginning of the Great Plan for some time now.
From the looks of things, it didn’t seem to have worked. Maybe that just proved it? If even Aziraphale couldn’t thwart the Antichrist and the coming of Armageddon, well… then it really just couldn’t be done, could it?
Kamael shrugged, and went to go and get his flaming sword out from its cupboard, trying to remember where he’d stashed his breastplate since he’d last used it, and where was his helmet? Dratted thing never seemed to stay put….
On the bright side, Kamael thought, still rummaging about in the cupboard, if the world was coming to an end, then Aziraphale would get to come home at last. That would be good, wouldn’t it? Aziraphale had probably missed Heaven. He had enjoyed Earth, of course he had, but the whole experience had clearly been spoiled by constantly having to go around thwarting the Adversary, Crowley, and now Aziraphale could defeat the Serpent once and for all and settle down to enjoy his retirement…
Sword finally found, Kamael sits back on his heels and looks at it critically. Then he looks at it a bit more … abstractly.
He’s going to go to war. Kamael’s never done that. Not really. He’d been stuck with the Baggage last time, because even back then Gabriel was a no-humoured wanker who thought Kamael was a liability and would muck everything up. So he’d ended up missing basically everything. Of course, he’d heard all the stories, seen the monuments to the glorious dead, heard of how they had vanquished the Fallen… But, still…
Kamael thinks about how he’s not met many demons, but one of them – Nybbas, Kamael thinks his name is – he’d met him a few times. He’d seemed like a rather… alright sort of person. Nothing at all like Sandalphon said demons were, Nybbas had always been quiet and a bit… puzzled. Unsure of what was going on. Kamael hoped that Nybbas was going to be excused from the War; he didn’t think the demon was going to be very good at it at all.
Kamael wondered what a demon’s battle plumage would look like. His own talons are long and sharp enough that Cassiel’s always griping on training missions, all ‘put those away, Kamael, before you take someone’s eyes out.’ And of course the archangels’ plumage is fire and burning Grace as far as you can see. No one’s said what Aziraphale’s is like; there aren’t any others to ask, after all, and well… no one likes to remind Aziraphale of this, or the reason why.
What do demons do, in a fight?
“Everything alright, Kamael?” Arariel asked, sticking her head around the door. “You’re late to the Wednesday Woodwinds thing…”
Kamael looked up.
“Oh.” He said, “am I?”
Arariel looked at him more keenly now. “Are you…? Do you need me to go and get Cassiel?”
“No,” Kamael shook his head. “He’ll be busy. Got all those final preparations to get started on.”
“He won’t be too busy to come and see you, Kamael, you know that. What’s wrong?”
He shrugged. “I… The drums started.”
Arariel sighed. “Yes, I know. But they’ve not cancelled band practise yet, I promise. You can still go and play-“ [8]
[8] In the early days of the band, Kamael generally played drums, and any other such instruments. He was certainly very well-suited to the task, but eventually banned from playing any and all percussion instruments after his frankly spectacular triangle solo. After a significant period of grumbling, one fine Wednesday morning dawned, all unsuspecting of the chaos it would later be forced to bear witness to, as Kamael strode confidently into the practice rooms, bearing a new woodwind instrument… The Bagpipes!
Kamael shook his head again. “No, I… Do you think… everyone in Hell is going to be fighting? Or only the warriors?”
Looking quickly over her shoulder, Arariel stepped inside the room, closing the door behind herself. “What’s this about? Kamael?”
Kamael bit his lip. “I… I mean, not everyone up here is going to be fighting, are they? Archives and all that, you’re staying up here, right?”
Araiel shook her head. “No, no, it’s everyone, I’m afraid. We’re all gearing up. That’s why Michael and Uriel have been running all those training drills and such, isn’t it? So that we’ll be ready for all this.”
Kamael looked down at his sword. “Oh. I just… I didn’t think it would… be everyone. Just…”
Arariel waited.
“I thought that Aziraphale was going to stop it.” Kamael said, in a small voice
Arariel sighed. “I know, love. I know he tried very hard, he wanted to stop all this so much, but… well, as Gabriel likes to remind us, it’s all a part of the Great –“
“The Great Plan.” Kamael joined in, shoulders slumping.
What if there were other demons like Nybbas out there? Who’d be fighting too. Kamael… Kamael wasn’t sure that he could bring himself to fight someone like Nybbas, someone nervous and jumpy and polite.
Oh, someone like Crowley, that was totally different. Crowley was very evil indeed, and cunning, and dangerous, and he’d be very fierce in battle too, Kamael was sure. But what if Crowley was a special sort of demon? What if there were… lots of types of demons? Like there were lots of types of angels?
Ones like Arariel with strong opinions about stationary and filing systems. Ones like Raphael who were bossy and fussed dreadfully, but made sure everyone healed up properly. Ones like Israfel who adored grand stories and melodrama. Ones like Michael who were terrifying and blood-thristy, but dreadfully efficient about it. Ones like Cassiel who grumbled his way through the day but always made time to listen to everyone and never rushed them…
What if…
What if there were demons out there who were a little too enthusiastic for everyone around them? A little too eager and energetic, but who tried to stay on-message while they were at it. What if there were demons like him?
“What if Aziraphale has nearly succeeded?” Kamael found himself asking, tone a little desperate. “What if he just needs more time? We can’t give up on him now, can we?”
Arariel turned to look him in the eye now, face sad and resigned. “Oh, Kamael… It’s no good, you know. We can’t stop the Great-“
“Of course we can’t!” Kamael burst out, frantic in his hope. “We’re not, we’re just… I know we can’t! But, we could… we could make a – a distraction! Couldn’t we? You know how the archangels keep jumping to conclusions, maybe Aziraphale’s nearly done it, stopped everything, and he just needs a little more time? We’ve got to give him that, don’t we?”
Arariel began to shake her head, but then stopped, and tilted it instead. “You know, Kamael… You might be right. Maybe we can just… give Aziraphale a little more… yes, a distraction, you’re right. Come on!”
Grinning now, Kamael leapt to his feet, grabbing Arariel’s hand and following her out of the door. “Where are we going?”
“The Seventh Tower!” Arariel tossed over her shoulder.
“What?” Kamael didn’t dare stop, but he couldn’t see how – “What’s in the Seventh Tower?”
“A bunch of lunatics, that’s what! And if we need a big distraction that’ll take hours to sort out, then we’re not going to do better on this much notice.” Arariel answered, panting as she towed the enormous form of Kamael in her wake. “Now, come on, Kamael!”
On the way, they ran into Cassiel, who told them where to find Baraqiel [9] in Armouries, who didn’t at all appreciate being dragged away from her furnace when preparations were in full swing, but couldn’t slow Arariel in her purpose. It took a great deal of discussion, and a lot of grumbling, but a large contingent of weaponry was signed out to them both for delivery – and then immediately very carefully not signed out, because the first rule of Operation Hijinks is always ‘Do Not Write Down Your Misdemeanour’, and Baraqiel did owe Aziraphale several favours, after all, and wanted to help him however she could.
[9] Right before he denied all knowledge of their antics, because Cassiel has not spent 6000 years around Arariel and Kamael without learning a thing or two, and one of those lessons was ‘Plausible Deniability’, and he certainly intended to make full use of this valuable skillset right now.
Lovely shiny, sharp objects delivered into the wonder-struck hands of the Seventh Tower, not to mention a significant consignment of coffee and cakes [10] delivered by a very confused Zaquiel from the Third Regiment, who always seemed to know what was needed, even if the why escaped them, and Arariel pulled Kamael away.
[10] But emphatically not chocolate -covered espresso beans. Even members of the principality-led regiments refuse to get them anywhere near members of the Seventh Tower. There really do have to be some limits. Even in the name of the Greater Good.
“And now,” she whispered, “we wait.”
Whatever else might be said of Arariel, she was truly an expert at creating a good diversion when called upon.
*
“- no flaming sword, not even a body, you pathetic excuse for an angel!”
Without needing to look, Cassiel reaches out and grabs Kamael’s arm, and holds up one hand to signal to the others, halting outraged movement beside and behind him. The Fifth Regiment pauses, but it does not subside; wings held up and out, some with their talons sliding out from beneath the tips. They remain in place, standing in their formation, but they are poised, tense, ready to leap to their Regimental Leader’s aid the second he might need them.
It isn’t as if Cassiel isn’t furious with the Quartermaster’s cheek too, but Aziraphale is already drawing his shoulders back and focussing all his attention on the little man, and Cassiel rather doubts their Regimental Leader has any need of them to defend himself.
“Yes.” Aziraphale says, quietly at first, but becoming louder and more firm as he continues, “I rather suppose I am, really. I mean…” And here Aziraphale takes a neat step forwards and deposits the whole pile of uniform and equipment back into the Quartermaster’s astonished arms. “You see, I have not the slightest intention of fighting in any war.”
Behind Cassiel, there is the gust of a collective gasp, the Fifth Regiment staring at the angel who has finally said the unsayable, actually said it. Out loud.
“I knew it!” Kamael hisses into Cassiel’s ear. Cassiel silently nods but says nothing.
As far as the angels behind him can move without breaking rank, shoulders are clapped, fists bumped, the glow of vindication seeping through them all. They had heard the rumours, of course they all had, and they had dared to hope. And now here it is; the final admission. One of their own really is doing something to stop this.
Aziraphale flicks a look towards them, looks a little embarrassed to have raised his voice so, but he remains resolute and Cassiel catches his leader’s eye and nods, just once.
The Quartermaster looks as if he couldn’t have been more astonished had Aziraphale actually pulled out his (missing) flaming sword and smote a fellow angel on the spot.
“Don’t be a coward!” He bellows, seemingly on instinct. Then he takes a breath and visibly collects himself, before leaning towards Aziraphale and speaking conspiratorially. “You get in position, right now, and I won’t say anything more about the body you discorporated. We can take the sword out of your celestial wages.”
The look Aziraphale gives him is equal parts contempt and pity. Certainly, an angel who regularly tells archangels things they don’t especially want to hear isn’t going to be put off by the bluster of a mere Quartermaster, not at a time like this.
“I’m afraid,” he asserts, calmly, “that I was in the middle of something important. I demand to be returned.”
The Quartermaster scoffs. “Without a body? That’s ridiculous.”
For a moment, Aziraphale looks stumped. The discorporation hadn’t been a part of his plan, that much had been evident, and the lack of body now threatens to really insert a drill into the engine. Cassiel holds his breath, come on…. Come on… Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, and Cassiel’s heart leaps. He’s got it!
“It is?” Cassiel knows a leading question when he hears one, and he ducks his head down to his chest to smother a grin.
“Obviously. What are you going to do? You can’t possess them.”
Aziraphale has never looked so much like the sort of angel who has reigned undefeated by evil upon Earth for 6000 years than he does right now. His eyes are alight with inspiration, his Grace thrums with energy, a smile creeps into the corners of his mouth. Aziraphale is no longer the awkward, diffident angel they have all become used to seeing, a little put out with having his careful plans sent awry by Heaven’s policies. No, this is an angel taking his stand, ready at last to make a move he has been holding in reserve as long as he could, but always available to him.
And nothing, not even losing his body – and maybe also his sword? – is going to stop Aziraphale now.
“Demons can.”
“You aren’t a demon. You’re an angel.”
Aziraphale barely bats an eye at the remark, only responds to this with an odd little shake of his head, accompanied by a shrug of his shoulders.
I’m quite certainly that you feel you have a point, he seems to say, but I regret that I cannot fathom even a hint of what it may be.
He walks slowly over to the globe, bending down to examine it carefully. After a moment he turns back towards them all. Cassiel has no idea what his friend and mentor intends to do with the contraption – has in truth never even given the globe much thought before this exact moment, much like the Quartermaster himself if the look on the other angel’s face is anything to go by – but he finds himself tensing up all the same.
“How does one navigate?” When faced only with the Quartermaster’s incoherent spluttering and rage, Aziraphale sighs and again shrugs his shoulders. “Oh well. I’m sure I’ll figure it out as I go.”
“What are you -?”
As Cassiel and all his fellow lieutenants watch in combined awe and horror, Aziraphale closes his eyes. He reaches for the Earth and presses his hand against it…
And he’s gone!
“Can he…” whispers someone behind Cassiel’s left ear, “can he do that?”
Kamael lunges to bury his face into Cassiel’s shoulder while the Quartermaster remains frozen in shock;
“Yesssss!” He hisses.
Cassiel’s grip on his arm is probably painful, but he’s too exultant to care. He’s done it! Aziraphale’s done it! We knew he had a plan!
The moment of silent celebration hangs there, a sliver of stillness in all the chaos of Heaven’s war plans, a beacon of hope.
Then it starts to feel a trifle awkward. What are the Fifth to do now? The angels all stand there, looking at the globe, the fading shimmer of stardust which was once Aziraphale, Principality, Regimental Leader, and Guardian of the Eastern Gate… then, doubtfully, they look at the quartermaster.
For a moment he looks a little lost too. Then he spins and snaps at them.
“What are you lot looking at? Don’t you know there’s a war on?”
Oh, but is there? Cassiel thinks to himself, and hides his smile. We’ll just wait and see about that…
*
The archangels may think that they are extremely clever beings (doubtless also see: ‘wise’ and ‘talented’) but nothing remains as a secret for long in Heaven. Nothing. There are too many eyes floating around for one thing.
Besides, Michael’s voice is the sort to carry rather well in places like staircases [11] and people do have the most unfortunate tendency to notice when demons get welcomed Upstairs to perform certain … services.
[11] Honestly, considering how her voice was really designed to be heard over the crash and chaos of a celestial battlefield, it’s really something of a wonder that she even understands the concept of an Inside Voice at all.
The demon strides out of the closed off room, all confident swagger and over-done bravado, but he sure freezes soon enough at the sight of the previously-empty hallway suddenly dotted by groups, some small, some rather larger, of angels. None of them are even trying to pretend they aren’t lying in wait for answers, and the quiet tension simmers uncomfortably under everyone’s skin.
Even among the hopeful, it had been understood that should Aziraphale succeed in his mission, even against the expectation of Management, undermining 6000 years of planning would come with consequences. When Baraquiel had caught sight of Aziraphale being dragged Upstairs by Uriel and Sandalphon, certainly not comfortably, but not struggling either, they all knew that the moment of judgement had come.
“It’s not right, that it should be hidden away like this,” Cassiel had growled, eyes narrowed as Arariel shooed him off to go and find out what he could, “judgement’s a public matter. We should all be there.”
“I’m sure they just want to shout at him, make themselves feel better,” Arariel had soothed, but she’d soon sent out word to the others, just in case. “They probably just don’t want us to see them getting themselves into a tiff, that’s all.”
Then the demon had arrived.
“You don’t think that’s Crowley?” asks Israfel doubtfully.
“Can’t be,” Arariel shakes her head, considering, “absolutely no style about him at all. Just looks a bit… weedy, if you ask me.”
“Oi!” The demon under discussion turns on his way out, casting a faintly outraged look at the sceptical pair. “I can hear you, you know?”
Arariel purses her lips, just like she’s seen Raphael do, and tips her chin up challengingly. “Well, are you Crowley, then?”
The demon rather emphatically shakes his head. “No! Wouldn’t wanna be him for anything! Not that there’ll be much left at this rate.”
The angels exchange speaking looks, before turning back to the infernal new-comer.
“Have you got an actual name then? If it’s not Crowley?” Arariel takes point as the senior angel present, Israfel watching carefully.
“Erik,” the demon answers, then curses as if he’d not intended to answer truthfully.
Arariel rolls her eyes at his dramatics and holds out a hand to shake. “Arariel, Leader of the Eighth Tower, and this is Israfel. It’s very nice to meet you.”
The greeting obviously throws Erik completely off-guard, as Arariel had rather hoped, and she presses her advantage. “So, what’s happening with Crowley, then? If there won’t be much left of him.”
Erik hesitates, but he’s clearly an underling who’s unexpectedly been given his first major task, and he’s aching to gush to someone. How fortunate that they are all so eager to provide him with a captive audience.
“’S because of him teaming up with the angel, isn’t it? To stop the Antichrist from starting the war and everything.”
The angels nod. The demon looks briefly shocked.
“Wait, you’re not – surprised?”
Arariel shrugs, and then, taking a bit of a chance that the archangels are all going to be busy with whatever chewing-out Aziraphale is getting right about now, tugs the demon down the hall to her office and offers him an armchair.
She leaves the door open, but there’s no call to be a bad host. What would Aziraphale think of them all?
“Oh yes,” she says brightly, “Aziraphale’s been saying for years now that he’s sure he could find a way to thwart the Apocalypse. We always had faith in him.”
Israfel nods. “And then he chewed out the Quartermaster over by the Fifth’s wing, told him he’d no intention of taking up arms, and actually broke himself out of Heaven and back downstairs, stormed off to save the day! Gabriel was furious when he heard, but of course by then it was too late and he got summoned downstairs to try and sort things out, and when he came back he had to admit to us all that the whole thing had been called off indefinitely and sent us all to pack up! I’ve never seen him in such a flap.” [12]
[12] There were even those who argued strongly and rather compellingly, that it actually managed to beat the time Kamael had succeeded in utterly redefine any and all established Heavenly standards of “amazing”
Arariel watches their visitor to see how he takes the odd tale.
The demon looks doubtful, and twitches uncomfortably before confiding, “I mean… they did say, Downstairs, you know, they said Crowley, he’d been working with the Mad Bastard – Aziraphale – to stop the big Plan-thing from happening – word is he’s been … you know, fraternising with the angel for years now… The angel’s gone and tried to lead him down the path of righteousness, the poor bugger.”
Arariel keeps smiling, but inwardly she has to admit that she’s a little shocked. She knew Aziraphale was determined and a bit of an unconventional thinker, but… really? To, ah, fraternise? With the Adversary? For years?
Beside her, Israfel clasps her hands together and sighs, dreamily. “Oh, that’s so wonderful!”
Arariel and Erik raise puzzled eyebrows at each other, before turning to look inquiringly at the third.
“It is?”
Israfel beams at them brightly. “Of course it is! Isn’t Aziraphale such a shining example of angelic love? To be able to extend it to one of the Fallen like that, he must be! And then to be able to bring the very Adversary himself around to the cause of Peace? Aziraphale’s just so, so, oh!”
Erik looks a little offended. “Oi! Crowley’s not some weak sap, he don’t fall for-“
Irsafel shook her head. “Oh, of course he isn’t! Aziraphale’s told us ever such a lot about Crowley, how fierce he is, and how clever, and cunning,” Erik looks rather flattered, as if he were the demon in question, “it isn’t any sort of slight against him, not at all, that he should be overwhelmed by Aziraphale eventually, I can’t imagine how anyone Aziraphale showed so much love and kindness towards could possibly hold out!”
Arariel has a horrible suspicion that Israfel is about to fill every Hall in Heaven with ‘The Romantic Tale of Aziraphale and Crowley.’ There may be artwork. She’s not sure if she oughtn’t to do something to stop her friend…
Erik gives an uncomfortable cough.
“Yes. Well. Um.” He coughs again. “I guess… it sounds like the Mad Bastard was going to get his way in the end, then. Them poor sods in Temptations, they’re always going on about how he’s a crafty old sod, always on the look-out and damned hard to shake when he’s onto you.” He raises his chin defiantly, “but I bet Crowley put up a hell of a fight.”
Arariel and Israfel nod. They imagine so too. It’s really only right and proper.
“Mind you,” Erik continues, looking troubled once more. “Seems a bit of a shame, then. What’s going to happen to them both.”
Outside of the office, there is a shift in the air, a ripple of movement as several angels all tense up together.
“Oh?” Arariel asks, trying not to look too interested, but desperate to know.
Erik nods, looking uncomfortable. “They made an arrangement, see? Management, that is, not Crowley and, well, I suppose they did first. But yeah, they got it all settled after the clean-up started. Swapped Hellfire for Holy Water, didn’t they?”
Arariel feels herself go cold.
“They did what.”
They can’t have. It’s not possible. Demons are liars, everyone knows that. The archangels are petty and sometimes thoughtless, maybe even a bit cruel from time to time, but this… To destroy Azirapahel, the last principality, to wipe him out of all existence like that…
No…
Erik shrugs. “Michael, she just went Down to drop off the Water. They sent me up to, ah, start the Fire.”
Arariel’s shoulders ache, and she tunes back in from her visceral feelings of horror to realise that Israfel’s hands are clutching them so tightly, fingers digging right into the muscle, that she suspects the flow of her Grace is being constrained. She can’t make her voice work to beg her to stop.
“That’s…” Israfel seems lost for words.
“It’s obscene, is what it is.” Cassiel’s voice comes from the doorway. He is a frozen tower of fury, and Erik instinctively cringes back from him. Arariel has never seen Cassiel look like this, not in all the time they’ve known each other.
“Cassiel, this is Erik.” Arariel cuts in, hoping to defuse things.
Cassiel nods to their visitor. “I’d say it was good to meet you, but…”
They share a look of understanding. Erik, sensing that the angel’s ire is not aimed at him, relaxes slightly.
“No, totally, I get it. Messed up way to meet people.” Erik shrugs.
“You, ah,” Cassiel begins, then shrugs and goes for it. “There’s a lot of, well, people. Out there. You need any help getting back Downstairs safely?”
“Um. Really?”
Cassiel shrugs again. “If Aziraphale’s going to be – well, it’s important to live up to his example, isn’t it? Can’t let these things be for nothing.”
Erik looks like he has no idea what to say, but he nods, cautiously. “I guess.”
Cassiel nods. “Come on then. Before Management finds us.”
They leave together, Cassiel raising up one wing to cover the demon a little, make it clear to any of the more jumped-up angels that messing with the enemy in their patch is going to come with Consequences. Arariel turns to pull a shaking Israfel into her arms.
“Hey, hey now, don’t cry, Israfel. Don’t cry.”
“How can I not, though?” sobs Israfel, “I – they only wanted to help! And Aziraphale’s probably dead by now, and we didn’t even get to say goodbye, and-“
Arariel holds her tighter and tries not to think about it. Aziraphale’s been such a major feature of their lives, all of the, no matter how infrequently he’d been around, no matter how small he’d tried to look, he’s loomed so large, an example of the warmth and simple kindness which angels could manage, if only they tried. He’d tried so hard to explain their Mother’s Creation to them all, had tried to show them what it had all been in aid of, what She had created and loved, and allowed to thrive…
And to imagine him gone… To think that the very last of the small flock had met his end, not at the hands of the Enemy, but by their own…
Outside her office, Arariel can hear loud footsteps running in her direction and she grits her teeth. If this is Kamael coming to make a nuisance of himself, she might actually scream and –
“Arariel!”
Cassiel turns into her office so quickly, he has to grab onto the doorframe to prevent himself from sliding across the floor. Behind him, a small group of angels had pulled up short, pages from dropped folders still fluttering gently to the floor around them, to stare in unabashed horror at the sight of Cassiel – calm, collected, confident in his ability to arrive on time no matter what, unflappable Cassiel – running down the corridor as if his life depended on it. [13]
[13] Cassiel famously runs only for training drills when absolutely necessary – and even then, only when an archangel is definitely watching him – and to take something sharp, explosive, or wriggling out of Kamael’s hands. That’s it. Everything else is approached with the confidence that it will either still be there when Cassiel arrives, or it won’t which would make it someone else’s problem. Which of these options Cassiel hopes for most is up for debate.
“What?”
“You’ve got to come and see this!”
Arariel exchanges one shocked look with Israfel and bolts for the door, the other angel right on her heels.
Striding down the corridor, still adjusting his cuffs and looking just a little bit smug around the edges – not that he hasn’t got good reason to – walks Aziraphale.
Whole. Unharmed. Unburned.
Aziraphale.
The relief freezes them all in their tracks.
“It’s a sign,” Israfel whispers, eyes taking up almost her whole being, “She must approve. She’s showing Her blessing upon them-“
“Steady, Israfel,” Arariel mutters. “It might only be the part they played in thwarting the –“
“Oh, tosh!” Israfel scoffs, quietly. “It must have been Her Plan all along! An angel, a demon, joining forces as a symbol of Her love, and forgiveness, and –“
Arariel tunes her out, turning instead to look at Cassiel, who looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, too many emotions all at once, and nowhere to put them all.
“He didn’t burn.” Is all Cassiel can get out. His voice sounds tight, and Arariel thinks that if Cassiel starts crying then she’s going to cry too, and then they’ll be a proper mess, standing in the middle of the hallway, bawling their eyes out, but…
“He really didn’t.”
“Always knew Aziraphale could do anything.”
“Yes.”
“Even save the world.”
“Well, he’s always been special, hasn’t he?”
“Think that offer he made us all still stands? About going to see him?” Cassiel wonders.
Arariel shrugs. “Can’t see him going back on his word now, can you?”
“Good.”
*
Preparations hardly take a minute. The Fifth, both Tower and Regiment, are all packed already, not that they will admit as much, for fear of appearing inappropriately eager. There might be protocol about this sort of thing. Or paperwork.
The Eight Tower spend a short while casting hopeful little looks at their friends, trying not to look too terribly forlorn in case they weren’t wanted. This results in a rather awkward sort of stand-off in one of the lobbies.
“Well?” Cassiel asks. “Aren’t you coming?”
There is a bit of shuffling. Arariel shrugs.
“We don’t want to intrude, you know? It’s not as if we’re actually affiliated, and-“
Cassiel sighs and looks very put-upon as he dumps his bag into Kamael’s hands. [14]
[14] This is going to require – Cassiel shivers at the thought – dramatics. A Grand Gesture, even. Cassiel was not built for drama, but needs must.
Stepping forwards, he takes Arariel’s arm in his own, looks her honestly in the eyes and flatly declares,
“This is a kidnapping, Arariel. I am taking you away from,” he waves his hand in the most undramatic dramatic gesture you have ever imagined, “all this. Let us away.”
After a short pause, and when Arariel stops laughing, tears still streaming down her cheeks and feathers, he sweeps her solemnly off her feet and carries her with him.
The assembled angels watch on for a moment, in combined amusement and relief.
“Oh, for the love of bakewell tarts, finally!”
“I’m so proud of him.” Kamael notes, a trifle sardonically. “He almost managed actual dramatics, for a minute there.”
For his trouble, he receives no less than three elbows into his ribs.
Israfel needed to lie down in a quiet room to recover.
The Third, Seventh, and Ninth agree that they’ll be along later, but it’s probably for the best it not be all at once. They’re quite understanding of allowing the Fifth time to enjoy their reunion with their commander. Besides, someone has to cover the exits, and the Ninth have… Ideas.