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The ring was secure around Aziraphale’s little finger, the smooth gold band with its ornate wings fitted flawlessly to his hand. It felt pleasant, that small metal circlet; cool and comfortable, easy to fidget with yet seldom slipping out of place without leave.
When he closed his eyes, he could almost think it one and the same as that sturdy yet gossamer ribbon that, on another plane of existence, sat snugly around the matching metaphysical finger-equivalent… and stretched, at its other end, to he who was no longer the red-haired angel who had first formed their bond.
Aziraphale was far from the only angel to wear a signet ring, of course. In fact, rings of an identical design had been given to many of his colleagues; accessories to their new corporations, upon descent to the material world. The four objects he had been assigned for Earth were all fairly standard: a body, a robe, a sword, and the ring.
It was, he supposed, intended as a reminder. A badge. A token. A visible, physical sign of his allegiance. A reminder of who he was; why he was here; what he was meant to do; and who and what he was doing it for.
It was effective, so far as it went.
Aziraphale doubted, however, that the celestial jewelers had reckoned with the other thing of which the ring reminded him. Had they known that every time he stroked the metallic surface, he fancied he felt the caress of incorporeal string; that whenever he twirled it on his knuckle, he saw a so-familiar face with lifted brow and a smile more edged than in times gone by; that, sometimes, what should have been a grounding confirmation of duty morphed into sentiment so deep and desperate it was all he could do not to weep for yearning…
Well, but the jewelers had not known that, and as far as Aziraphale was concerned there was no reason they should ever have to find out. In the end, after all, what difference did it make? It was not as if the bond might ever give rise, now, to anything more tangible than dreams and its single strand of ethereal starfire.
That, of course, was the heart of the matter. The ring on his finger stood for something real; the ribbon on his essence, for something that could never be.
He easily could — arguably, should — have let go of the latter; untied its metaphysical knot, broken its ethereal fabric, released it and let the bittersweet reminder slip away.
Yet instead, as much as he devoted to caring for his ring, keeping it safe and polished as befit an agent of Heaven, Aziraphale found himself cherishing the soulbond with no less dedication.
He fingered the golden ring, eyes shut, and sighed. A reminder that he was an angel, and a reminder of the once-angel now called Crawly. A reminder of allegiance, and of adversary. Of duty, and of distantly remembered joy.
Of loss… and of love.