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“I was at a Royal Historical Society conference today,” said Aziraphale, goblet clinking against tabletop. “All about the early Vulgar Era.”
“Sounds like fun.” Crowley raised his own half-full glass[1] in anticipation. “Get in any academic arguments? Take some experts down a notch or six?”
“‘Experts.’” Aziraphale’s voice dripped undisguised disdain. “So-called. As if they’ve any basis for expertise. Talking about things that happened last millennium, when most of them are scarcely a half-century old themselves. They weren’t even there.”
Crowley smirked. “Put the upstarts in their place?”
“I tried.” Aziraphale wrinkled his nose. “They didn’t listen. But they were wrong, of course.”
“About what?”
“Camelot.”
“Camelot? What about it? Helmet style? Ale recipes?”
“No, they—”
“Got it!” Crowley grinned. “They didn’t describe the Black Knight as wicked and dashing enough. Or left out the daring exploits of the bold and handsome Sir Aziraphale?”
Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, enough. We were both damp, you said so yourself. Nothing dashing or handsome about that.”
Crowley feigned an affronted pout.
“Anyhow,” Aziraphale continued after a second. “It was nothing so specific.”
“Really.” Crowley raised a doubting eyebrow. “You’re usually all about the specifics.”
“Not this time.” Aziraphale sighed, and now there was an edge of melancholy in the sound. “They — the historians — they think that Camelot never existed.”
“...Oh,” said Crowley, taken aback. He rarely paid attention to what scholars considered history; living through it once, he figured, was enough. “Do they?”
“They do,” Aziraphale confirmed. “Nothing but folklore, they say. Even the famous ones… Arthur, Gwen, Galahad, the rest. All myth. Fiction. Literary invention. Never happened.”
“Huh,” said Crowley. He thought about that. “Funny, innit?” he concluded.
Aziraphale looked nonplussed. “It doesn’t bother you? That they think it was just a story? Even though we were there?”
“Nah.”
“Oh.”
“They get all kinds of stuff wrong.” Crowley shrugged. “Heck, they believe dinosaurs existed. Don’t tell me that isn’t funny.”
“I never quite got that joke,” Aziraphale admitted.
“Me neither. Still funny, though."[2]
“Probably.”
They contemplated the ineffable funniness of dinosaurs.
“...And, I mean,” Crowley added. “Lots of ‘em say the same thing about us. Angels and demons are fantasy, Eden was a metaphor, yadda yadda. Joke’s on them. We’re still here.”
“True.” Aziraphale smiled, a bit wistful. “At least they remember the stories. They don’t always.”
A pause. They drank.
“You know,” Aziraphale said finally, eyes on his wine. “Camelot was damp, but… important things happened there. Important ideas, that is.”
Crowley studied him, and decided Aziraphale wasn't referring to the Table Round. “Yeah?” he agreed cautiously.
“I just…” Aziraphale hesitated. “Well. I’m rather glad they did happen.”
Crowley didn’t quite choke at that extraordinarily effusive admission. Instead he nodded, not fully trusting his voice, and offered Aziraphale a refill.
They shared a silent toast to history. Forgotten, remembered, mythologized… but once and forever real.
1 Crowley was an optimist.
2 The following day, Crowley realized with consternation that he'd expressed appreciation of the Almighty’s sense of humor.