Chapter Text
1546BC – Thera
“Well shit,” Said Crawley. She had liked Thera, it was wonderfully warm, the people had known how to have a good time. So of course, it had to go, no we can’t let Crawley have a good time, can we?
The Volcano at the centre of the island sputtered again and sick orange pyroclastic flow poured down its sides. Crawley should have gone, she really should. But she didn’t, for the same reason people stare at a car accident for far longer than they ought to. Houses that had been inhabited by people she knew had been reduced to rubble with the first fall of pumice and ash from the sky. They thought they had angered the gods. And maybe they had, but Crawley couldn’t think what was so bad about the way they had lived, then again she didn’t think there was anything wrong with asking questions either.
It had taken a long time for the screaming to stop. She’d tried to get a few of the people onto boats, maybe, just maybe they’d get away fast enough and find some way to preserve their culture . . . otherwise. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know otherwise. But someone had to bear witness. Someone had to know they had existed and mourn the loss of them.
As the eruption ended, it was as though the Earth itself gave a deep shudder. In fear and sadness over what it had just witnessed. Crawley flew carefully down to where the city she had been living in until several days ago had been. It had been completely buried by the first clouds of ash. It was like it had never been there at all. She wondered where she would go next, or he, she hadn’t decided. Being a ‘woman’ (whatever that meant) had been easier here, one of the rare matriarchal societies. But wherever she went next may require something different. She didn’t really mind, but she had been enjoying playing at being a Minoan woman, with pearls in her hair, and special respect for her eyes (serpents were sacred to their chthonic goddess). Not to mention the elegant flowing dresses that had bared their breasts, after all, Minoan society was a tits out kind of place.
Despite the desolate landscape being a crappy place for spying, Crawley couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. She walked over to where she had once seen an incredible display of bull-leaping, a test of agility and strength. In the ash on the ground she could see a single saffron flower, vibrant purple against the grey that permeated everywhere else. How could it have grown here? She wasn’t stupid enough to believe it had somehow survived. The flower had a familiar feel to it, it reminded her of apricots and Eden and missing swords. Ah.
“Aziraphale? I know you’re out there,” She said, loud enough to disturb the dismal silence that had permeated the once-lively island.
Some people believe that everything happens for a reason. Angels are definitely supposed to believe that; that everything happens as a part of Her divine plan. But Aziraphale was, in this moment, not entirely convinced. The Minoans had done nothing wrong except build their home right near an active volcano. But surely, She had never meant to hurt them, not like this.
Aziraphale glided down from where he had been watching above the clouds, they still hung low and deadly, ready to rain down more ash and stone as soon as they felt ready.
There were a lot of things Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, wanted to say to Crawley. Things like ‘So this is where you’ve been since the Tabernacle?’ and ‘I’m sorry this happened’ but he didn’t, he knew better. In times of crisis it wasn’t his job to be sorry or to keep track of demons for any reason other than thwarting or smiting them.
“It’s strange, isn’t it,” Aziraphale began, in his best thoughtful angel voice, “the cycle of life and death. Volcanic soil grown the best food but then,” he made a gesture that he hoped looked wise, “this is the cost of it.”
He went to look at Crawley to gauge her reaction but got stuck somewhere along the way due to the fashion choices she had made. If he had made it to her face, he would have realised she didn’t want to hear his angelic bullshit. She tugged on her skirt and removed a brooch which she held out at Aziraphale, pointy end first, and indicated for him to take it.
“I know plenty about the cycle of life and death, Aziraphale. That’s from Egypt. You can keep it, if you’re allowed,” she said haughtily despite her throat feeling rather tight at the moment, her black wings (unencumbered by a dress that barely covered her torso) spread out and she flew away. She was too sad, too tired, and too angry at everything to deal with angels today, even her favourite angel, if he was going to act like that anyway.
Aziraphale looked down at the brooch she had left him with, it depicted an ouroboros, a snake eating its own tail. Certainly a fitting brooch for Crawley, the serpent of Eden. It was also, if he wasn’t mistaken, a symbol of life, death, and rebirth. What had been the purpose of her giving it to him? The heavy dark brooch was definitely not his aesthetic. Perhaps it meant something. He was not so inept at reading people that he couldn’t tell she was upset. Maybe more upset with him than at the volcano.
But why should he care? He was an angel, he had no reason to make demons feel better, in fact it was a good thing when they were sad or upset. But still, some part of him wondered if that had to apply to Crawley. And a deeper part of him still made a note to never try to use angelic wisdom to cheer Crawley up ever again, not because Aziraphale shouldn’t be cheering Crawley up in the first place, but because it didn’t work.