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Chapter Text

Where did it all go wrong? 

The Great Plan and the Nice and Accurate Prophecies and the leylines all converged on Tadfield, where an angel and a demon were supposed to rendezvous on a Saturday afternoon. The demon made it on time. The angel didn’t. 

Maybe he would have made it if a Witchfinder-Sergeant hadn’t menaced him into the summoning circle. Maybe he would have made it if the Celestial Quartermaster had been a little bit more forgiving regarding the angel’s lack of documentation, and issued him an emergency body without first ordering a run of the bureaucratic obstacle course. Maybe he would have made it if his disembodied soul hadn’t been blown off course by a rogue westerly, losing precious minutes in the Bermuda Triangle. 

Meanwhile, the witch and the Witchfinder-Private had managed to shut down the electronics that were about to commence a multinational nuclear exchange, though it was anyone’s guess how long that would last. The Antichrist and his gang had duelled the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse back into the minds of men. So there they stood: a gang of children, a witch, a Witchfinder-Private, and a demon on one side. The Lord of Flies and an Archangel on the other.

And the Archangel said to the Antichrist, “You can’t run counter to the Great Plan. You must think. It’s in your genes. Think.” 

It had been a long, stressful day. Nobody at the airbase knew any arguments that might’ve cast any doubt on the authorial intention of the Great Plan. Maybe the angel might’ve known what to say. After all, the angel was awfully knowledgeable about ineffability, prophecy, and Plans. But the angel wasn’t there, so instead the Antichrist wavered for just a second too long. 

Only for a moment, you know. But a moment was all it took for the American president to punch in the launch codes, the Russian generals to turn their keys, and the Supreme Leader of North Korea to press the big red button. 

The Antichrist caught himself a second later. “No,” he said. “That isn’t right. It doesn’t matter what’s written down. It can always be crossed out.” 

Not this time. The future was already being rewritten. Ten million demons clawed their way out of the abyss, and ten million angels descended from the skies. The world came crashing down to be baptised in fire and reborn in fury.

But that was only the prelude before the fugue. 

Bach wrote his fugues like conversations, two voices asking and answering, point and counterpoint, learning and growing together until their simultaneous denouement. Heaven needs no such back-talk: the eternal perfection of the celestial bells is enough. Now, the ten thousand bells bless Earth with immaculate polyphony at the top of every hour, every day and every night. Each refrain will be exactly as beautiful as the last, as yesterday blurs into tomorrow and tomorrow blurs into forever. Because the kingdom of Heaven is a fugue-state in every sense of the word: a kingdom without flaw. A kingdom without sin. A kingdom that has finally succeeded in obliterating its past. 

Bach would’ve wept, were he not already double-booked in Hell. If he’s lucky, the plagiarism investigation will wrap up in the next thousand years. The Last Battle has inconveniently left Heaven short on staff, short on miracles, and short on answers. Questions still linger:  

Was this twist in fate foreseen by Agnes Nutter? Why can’t anyone find the Antichrist? Did Bach plagiarise the celestial choirmaster? 

You’ve never cared for Bach, so you have only one question:  

Still think this was worth it? 

∽⧖∼

Luckily, your assignment as an “Celestial Reclamation Specialist” doesn’t give you much time to dwell on any questions at all. Its job duties involve scraping up old bits of firmament off the blackened bones of your beloved London with which to rebuild the Kingdom of Heaven. You shovel up fragments of marble from the ruins of Kensington Palace into wheelbarrows. You cart your salvage over to the Third Temple, whose frame rises over the mud like the ribs of a beached leviathan. The masons take your wheelbarrow full of marble, dunk it into a font of holy water to remove any radioactivity, and affix it to the gleaming façade. 

It’s hard work, twelve hours a day and six days a week. Your overalls don’t pull as tightly over your middle as they used to. Your face is perpetually caked in a layer of dust like a Victorian chimney-sweep. And goodness, your hands could really use a manicure. Yet there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. There’s nowhere else you could be. Hidden from view, too tired to think, completely indistinguishable as one of five million earthbound angels.  

So it is of no relief to you when Gabriel calls you up to his office at Westminster Abbey.

The archangel has set up shop right beneath the high gothic arches of the nave, displacing the high altar with an incongruently modern desk. Each footstep echoes for an eon in the time it takes to walk down the aisle. Candles throw flickering shadows over the pews. Does Gabriel light all of these himself with a box of salvaged matches? Does he make Uriel scrape up the wax drippings by hand? Or is the archangel skimming a few miracles off the top of the paper-thin budget? 

Gabriel himself is garbed in a pair of denim overalls that happen to match his eyes, and might stain the white leather of his executive armchair. The fabric is still stiff at the knees, and the buttons yet untarnished. You hope they chafe the archangel, who says, “So, Principality, do you know why I’ve called you here today?” 

“About the housing plan?” you say. Your proposal to build a billion pup-tents for the human survivors of the Last Battle was soundly rejected two years ago on budgetary grounds. Besides, they’ll all die eventually anyway, said Archangel Michael with what she’d thought passed for kindness. No sense in prolonging their suffering. But the Third Temple is supposed to house the Son of God and the archangels when it’s finished. You fancy that a few thousand Englishmen could squeeze into the basement as well, or even more Englishchildren, since those are smaller and can pack more tightly.

“No. Of course not,” says Gabriel. “They won’t all fit. And it’d be such a pain to sift the righteous from the sinners. We’ve still got five billion souls to sort through in purgatory. Can’t even begin to work through that backlog ‘til we sort out our administrative infrastructure.” He taps his pen on the tabletop - a ridiculous contraption lacquered in mother-of-pearl, topped with an ostentatious gold nib. You had one like it, once. “Bit of fresh air and sunshine won’t hurt the ones who survived.” 

Not so true in the midst of a nuclear winter. “Sorry,” you mutter. If this isn’t a meeting to discuss the housing plan, then this must be some sort of official reprimand for productivity. You turn your gaze downwards onto the floor with the appropriate level of contrition. 

“You’ve got the highest productivity of all the diggers on your team, so you’re getting promoted,” says Gabriel. “Congratulations!” 

“Buh?” you say, before you recall that most angels had struggled mightily with the near-total cut in the miracles budget after the Last Battle. The idea that rubble would need to be moved with a shovel and a wheelbarrow and not a wave of the hand was as foreign a notion to them as eating sushi, or flying in a plane.

Demons would have been much better at shovelling than angels, accustomed as they were to burying evidence, bodies, hellhound droppings, et cetera. Not to mention that they literally lived in a theological underground before the Last Battle. If only Heaven had a demon or two on the payroll.

“Not to mention, your prior service record has been impeccable,” says Gabriel. “Thwarting the enemy and keeping the Plan on course for four thousand years. Tracking down the Antichrist. Standing beside me in the final battle, watching my back...”

Discretion is the better part of valour, and you rise admirably to the occasion.  

“... I’m glad we ran into each other in Soho. You were like the squire I never had. But it’s time for the squire to become the knight.” Gabriel folds his hands over his desk. “How would you like to serve Heaven? Where do you see yourself in fifty years?”

“I like the pits,” you say. Nothing would be more appealing to you than a few unremarkable millennia shovelling debris into pits, falling beneath the notice of your superiors. Falling senselessly into bed at the end of the day. A shame it’s not possible to fall from grace anymore, else you’d probably try that too. 

“Nonsense,” says Gabriel. “Someone like you is too good to waste in the pits. Come on, Principality. Do you want to bring the Word to heathens? Sing in the celestial choirs? Tend the Tree of Life? The Kingdom is your oyster. Tell me about your wildest ambitions, your greatest dreams.” 

You used to enjoy dreams. But most nights, you lie awake in a recycled hospital bed in the Tower of London barracks, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard not to think of anything at all. Your dreams offer no answers for Gabriel. Maybe your memories will offer up intelligent inspiration. Something characteristically Aziraphalish. Aziraphalean? “Something with books,” you manage. 

“Something with books,” repeats Gabriel. He taps a little percussive roll on the top of his desk with his fingers. “Like the Word of God, given shape on paper and parchment, recorded for posterity?” 

“Yes,” you say.

“You’re in luck! We have an absolute mess of Holy Books for our staff to refer to while building the Kingdom. They need an Archivist to keep all of the editions and standards in order.” The archangel looks at you expectantly. 

“I suppose I could help with that,” you say. You sound like a private who’s been volunteered by the squad leader to sweep for mines in no-man’s-land with a kabob skewer at oh-five-hundred on a foggy morning. 

Luckily, Gabriel has enough enthusiasm for the both of you. He whips a transfer form out of his desk, scribbles his signature at the bottom, and spins it around for you. “We’ll make a manager of you yet, Principality!” He hands you a pen from the mug on his desk - not the fountain pen he was twiddling, but a run-of-the-mill biro.

You pick up the biro, which, like you, would have been more at home languishing under a sofa cushion than standing at attention in Westminster Abbey. There’s a spot for you: a dotted line, under which is labelled “Angel” in small letters. 

The bells of Heaven ring through the Kingdom twelve times before you sign. Their peals echo in your ears like a fugue even after you push the papers back to Gabriel.

“Excellent. Keep the pen,” says the archangel. “Now, I think most of your old clothes are in storage, but I thought it’d be nice to bring out an old symbol of office - knew you’d accept the promotion, Almighty knows you deserve it -” He pulls out a sword from under his desk, still tucked in its scabbard. “Go on, pull it out,” he says. 

“No, no, I wouldn’t want to set anything on fire,” you demur. “Also, I’ve got the worst bunions on my shovel-hand right now. All my fingers feel like thumbs. I’d probably drop it and make a mess.”

“I insist,” says Gabriel. His smile looks like cut steel in the candlelight. 

You draw the sword. It flares to life in your hand. The ringing in your ears grows louder.  

Gabriel smiles benignly. “What I wouldn’t give to wield my spear in the defence of virtue again,” he says. “Give another demon the old one-two -” 

You don’t hear the rest of his story. The ringing in your ears has become a roar, like crashing waves in a cold and distant ocean, drowning out The Plan and The Greater Good and Those Were The Days - 

-  days of wine and roses and Bach oratorios and omakase sushi dinners and silver regency snuffboxes -

The archangel shakes himself out of his reverie, and waggles a finger at you. “Aziraphale, you've got me going again! Right. That’s enough reminiscing. Put the sword back. I had the Quartermaster make a belt for you this time, so that it doesn’t go missing again. Now, they say the pen is mightier than the sword - but I always say, why not have both?” He twirls his own pen around his finger. “Consider that sword part of your new uniform. If I catch you without it, there will be severe consequences - damn -”

Gabriel’s pearl-inlay pen spins out of his fingers and clatters onto the floor. The archangel bends down to retrieve it. 

Something dark and dormant twists painfully in your stomach, and it has nothing to do with the housing plan or the pen or your reassignment. Your grip tightens on the sword’s hilt. How easy it would be, to vault over the desk and stab Gabriel in the back. 

How easy it would be for him to hear your coveralls rustle mid-leap and knock your sword out of the way at the last moment. He’d run for his spear. Maybe you could surprise him and stab him with a biro while he rushes by. But then he’d whip around and gut you like a fish. It would hurt. You would die. 

And then. Well. It certainly would not have been worth it at all. 

Chapter Text

Confucius taught that there were three ways with which to learn wisdom. First, by reflection, which is noblest. Second, by imitation, which is easiest. And third, by experience, which is the bitterest. 

He wasn’t entirely right. 

Experience is indeed bitter, and the sword sheathed at your waist is palpable proof. The sword-belt chafes against your waist with every step. The pommel digs into your stomach when you bend over. The blade - 

- running red with blood, alone below the burning sky, bells pealing victory - 

Nevermind the blade.

Imitation normally is easy. Pretend to be something for long enough, and you’ll pick a few pearls of wisdom regardless of effort. Frequent masquerades amongst the humans has inevitably left you with a working knowledge of bicycle maintenance, keyboard counterpoint, and musical theatre. But imitation becomes more difficult when you can’t see what you’re supposed to copy. For example, a semi-butterfly knot in a bow tie is a nasty, messy business at the best of times. But without looking in the mirror, you might as well be trying to weave a basket, underwater, with both hands behind your back. You’re more apt to strangle yourself than you are to master the art of blindly tying neckwear.  

The bow tie gets the best of you, and you turn reluctantly to your reflection to learn its wisdom. 

Pale, wispy hair crowns a squarish face. Faint creases mark a mouth accustomed to smiling. A pair of sky-blue eyes peer out from beneath the aristocratic brows. 

The incongruence is strongest there. The shadows cast in the sockets are deep and dark. The faint lines at the corner of the eyes pull the wrong way. A suspicious furrow is etched between the brows. Nothing that an acquaintance would notice amiss - not when the Last Battle saddled other angels with far more interesting souvenirs. Uriel traded her white plumage for a pair of batlike spans. Metatron has a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead. Your squinty thousand-yard stare ruffles no feathers except your own.

Yet you are still struck by the impulse to pluck your eyes out rather than be reminded of your shortcomings every time you pass within sniffing distance of a reflective surface. As far as you’re concerned, there’s nothing noble about your reflection nowadays. 

You glower at your reflection and pull on your jacket, which Gabriel has helpfully pulled from storage, and stuff the bow tie in the left pocket. 

There is already something in there. You reach in, and nestled in a rust-stained handkerchief is a pair of black sunglasses. How kind of Gabriel. How thorough. 

After you recover from your paroxysm of hacking, desperate laughter, you slide them onto your face to hide your eyes. They’re too big, and you have to bend the hooks behind your ears just to make them stay. 

∽⧖∼

The office of your unfortunate choosing is the newly-dubbed Archive. It was once a huge neoclassical mausoleum nestled in an overgrown corner of the Kensal Green cemetery, constructed by a dot-com tycoon, in case the cryogenics technology wasn’t quite up to spec by the time of his demise. You haven’t got a clue as to whether that tycoon survived the Last Battle, but his mausoleum improbably did. 

Gabriel handily expropriates this primo bit of real estate the day you sign the transfer form. A week afterwards, he sends a team of movers to install two dozen twenty-foot high wooden shelves. A number of mismatched conference tables and armchairs are cursorily fumigated and ushered swiftly in. When the dust settles, reading tables run down the centre of the hall. They are flanked on each side by grand rows of shelves. The shabbiness of the reading tables and the grandeur of the shelves gives you the impression of a line of soldiers marching prisoners of war down a hallway. 

At the head of the column, they install a battered schoolmarm’s desk and chair to face the door. All the better to see the enemy coming, rather than let them stab you in the back. Besides, it’s not like the stacks offer much of a view. The new Archive is no Alexandria, no Ashurbanipal, and hardly even a Celsus. They would be considered small by the standards of the meanest public library in England. And yet they are still too large for the materials you have been given to shelve. 

The movers leave you with about a hundred boxes of the Word. This would be an opportune time to enact your choice of shelving system. But if you’ve ever had any opinion regarding the Dewey Decimal System versus the Garside Classification Scheme versus Hide The Good Stuff From The Customers, you certainly haven’t got any now. You crack open a box-cutter and start opening up boxes at random. But for God’s sake, watch the box-cutter, lest you slice up the Dead Sea Scrolls or the Vetus Latina or the Wulfila Bible - 

When the cardboard carnage is complete, before you lie copies of the Word of God in a thousand different languages: The New and the Old Testaments, of course, and a few Qu’rans, Talmuds, Kitáb-i-Aqdas, and Peshittas to round out the lot. Scholars would have sold their own mothers to see even a fraction of this collection, let alone touch them with ungloved hands, and breathe in the smell of well-kept leather and parchment that wafts freely in the air. 

A copy of the Buggre Alle This Bible catches your eye, if only because you recognize the leather spine. You pull it from the shelf and open it. The embossing on the cover is untarnished with age, the pages are pristine, and the lettering is as crisp as if had just been lifted from the printing press: 

“In the begynnynge, God created the Heaven and the Earth; forsooth the Earth was voyde and emptie and darkeneſſe was upon the face of the deepe, and the Spiryt of the Lord was borun on the watris. And God said let there be lyghte, and there was lyghte -” 

Not quite the stuff of closely-guarded secondhand bookshop collections, is it? You idly flip through Genesis, until a passage catches your eye:  

“And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying, Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?” 

A chill creeps down your neck, and you freeze. You are wearing the sword, of course, as it’s now part of the Archivist’s uniform. You have not wielded it except for that long minute in Gabriel’s office, and during the battle three years prior. But those moments were enough to imprint upon your hand remembrances of the embossing on the sword’s hilt, digging into your palm, while a flame danced on the blade’s edge and blood hissed into steam.  

That was the moment in which you were reborn. And that is not something that even the deafening polyphony of celestial bells, chiming at every hour of every day can erase. 

You shove the Buggre Alle This Bible back into the box whence it came and run outside, retching. 

The air of the Kensal Green cemetery is cool, as you try to turn your digestive system inside-out whilst leaning on a fluted mausoleum column. A perpetual fog lingers in the lulls of the hillside. Straggly grass springs gamely out of the ground, but broken tombstones and monuments jut out of the surrounding hillside like shattered teeth. Bomb-craters mark the slopes like pockmarks. A sickly wind swirls ash around you, and it catches in your hair and sticks in your throat. Of course you should preside over the library of the dead in a necropolis: you are the last mourner in a kingdom eager to forget. 

∽⧖∼

You do your level best to shirk your new duties in the Archive, but it is not easy. London is walled off by the M25 motorway, which is still burning merrily between the Kingdom of Heaven and the wasteland beyond. The angels have torn open a handful of gates in the fiery barricade, but you don’t have the security clearance to pass through them. Not that you’d last long out there before a trigger-happy retrieval squad tackled you into a swale, dragged you back before Gabriel’s desk, and detained you in Purgatory for the next thousand years. 

On the other hand, wandering around the city just gives you whiplash. That should be a lovely little Khmer restaurant, but instead a twisted mass of scorched timbers lie broken like discarded chopsticks. That should be an antique store specialising in Baroque-era musical paraphernalia, but its wrought-iron gates and shutters have melted into dullen grey lumps in the dirt. That should be Hyde Park, but its trees have all been cut down to frame the Third Temple over the ruins of Buckingham Palace. 

Well, there’s one tree left. In a shadowed courtyard in front of the Third Temple stands the Tree of Life, a wizened little sapling struggling to grow towards the cloud-choked London sky. Five angels alternatingly guard and fuss over it. Shows how little they know about plants. Nothing thrives when it’s constantly being watered, picked over for pests, or subject to fawning. The best results come from benign neglect, or better yet, outright intimidation. 

They shouldn’t even be in London. The Tree of Life and the Third Temple should be Jerusalem, out of sight and out of mind. Unfortunately, the Last Battle started in Tadfield instead of Megiddo. So it stood to the archangels’ reason that the cornerstones of the Third Temple should shift accordingly. Now, the bones of the Third Temple can be seen blighting the shattered skyline from half the street corners in Central London. 

With such wonders to behold in the new Kingdom, you elect to while away the wretched hours of your existence in the festive milieu of a converted mausoleum. Sometimes in the mornings, you haphazardly unpack a few books from their boxes and shelve them at random. Other times, you walk directionless between the rows of graves in the cemetery. But mostly, you exploit the few perks of your promotion.  

See, the post of Celestial Archivist is sufficiently vaunted that it comes with a modest budgetary allowance of one miracle per week. A minor miracle: not enough to raise the dead or walk across the English Channel, but sufficient to, say, cure one instance of common cold, or turn a gallon of water into boxed wine. 

You pour this week’s attempt into a plastic mug, swirl it around, and sniff it. Oof. It’s got a bit of a rustic funk to it. It’s, ah, a wine that doesn’t hold your hand. A wine you need to meet halfway. A wine that you wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking three years ago. But nowadays, you are one woolly hat and no fixed address away from becoming an actual bum. So you tip the mug backwards and swallow it all in one long, gulp. Your sinuses revolt, but at least the wine tastes marginally less poorly than it smells. 

So you do it again, and again, until you find yourself half sitting, half-lying in a particularly comfortable crumpled cardboard box full of mothballs and dusty oil lamps that only dig into your back a little bit. The subject of today’s philosophy has already meandered from “What is the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow?” to “How long would it take for a swallow in a spacesuit to fly to Alpha Centauri?” to “What if I go to Alpha Centauri?” 

The answers follow thusly. A swallow can fly up to 60 kilometres per hour. It would take the swallow about a hundred million years to travel to Alpha Centauri, maybe a little less if it had a jet pack. You’d probably be alone on Alpha Centauri, with no company except for the astro-swallow. 

You’d probably be alone anywhere. 

It wasn’t always that way. You used to be just like everyone else that the Head Office sent to Earth. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to make a difference in the world. But every year, more and more field agents requested reassignment, got promoted out, or flat-out ran astray of an enterprising coven armed with Jesus’s flip-flop and disappeared. Whereas each year, you grew fonder and fonder of Earth.  

How lucky you were to find another soul who appreciated the delicacies of fieldwork. How unlucky you were to spend nearly six thousand years of his acquaintanceship in petty competition. 

How lucky you were to survive at his expense. 

No. Don’t say that. Be better to yourself, dear.

Tap tap-tap tap tap. 

And chin up, because Sandalphon is at the door. 

It’s definitely Sandalphon, because he always knocks in the “shave-and-a-haircut” rhythm. Sandalphon once heard that American prisoners of war would use the cadence as a shibboleth when tapping messages on the cell walls. An absolutely pointless tidbit of knowledge, since only two prisoners were taken during the last battle. Satan and Beelzebub are suspended in cages hanging above a freezing, bottomless abyss, through which the shrieks of the damned echo so loudly as to drown out any secret taps. A third cage hangs empty some distance apart. Michael has assured you that Heaven’s best are en route to track down the Antichrist. 

You stagger out of your cardboard nest to your feet, and crack the mausoleum doors open so that you can see enough of Sandalphon to send him away. “I’m dreadfully sorry, but we’re closed,” you slur, and immediately try to sober up. A regrettable move: you’ve already used up your miracle for the week. Instead of sobriety, the attempt achieves stomach cramps. 

The angel is dressed like he’s late to an American firearms convention. A toothpick lolls out of his mouth. An assault rifle is slung over one shoulder and another cradled in his arms, with no sign of trigger discipline in sight. A white-on-ivory camouflage bandana and a pair of black aviator glasses cap off the outfit. They suit him like teeth fit a petunia. Please don’t get any ideas about that. “Aziraphale!” he says, ignoring your dismissal entirely. “Not seen you since the battle. God’s Kingdom treating you well?” 

“Mustn’t grumble,” you say. “Hm. I thought you were outside the M25?” Gabriel offered you a field position after the Last Battle, on account of notions like valour and experience and I know you’ve got the right stuff, Aziraphale! But angels these days don’t spread blessings or grant divine inspiration or answer prayers. They remove sin from the world: non-kosher scavengers, discount superstore looters, and trespassers in the houses of the holy. You turned Gabriel’s offer down and were reassigned to the pits, having lacked the heart to smite humans trying to get three hots and a cot.

Sandalphon certainly did not lack in that quality. “Wish I was still there,” he says. “Almighty, not a day goes by where I wish I was still turning sinners to salt and -” he raises his rifle to his shoulder and begins shooting imaginary targets in the distance while making pew pew noises with his mouth. That’s two commandments of firearms safety vanquished, two more to go. 

“How nice,” you say faintly. “But I’m afraid we’re still closed.” 

“I don’t see any opening hours,” says Sandalphon. “But then again - it’s hard to see much in this light, nowadays. When I took down Leviathan, he - ah - left a little parting gift.” 

Sandalphon beckons you to come closer, and against your better judgement, you do. Then, he slips his glasses down slightly.

His irises are now red instead of brown, and they each have three pupils apiece. You gaze into them with horrified fascination. Last you saw those eyes was centuries ago, from a wreck north of the Mozambique Channel. A would-be pleasure-cruise plagued with East India Company privateers and buccaneers alike, cut short by Leviathan’s thalassic rampage, and culminating in paddling back to shore on a piece of driftwood to the refrain of I Told You So. “Having all these pupils makes it hard to see during the day,” Sandalphon says. “And at night - well, you’d think that it helps with the night vision, but those damned things won’t dilate properly. One culted-up yahoo with a flashbang grenade, and it’s game over.” 

No, the original owner of those eyes didn’t have much trouble with those pupils in the pitch black crevasses of the ocean. Sandalphon pushes his glasses back up onto his face and chuckles ruefully. “How about you?” he says, gesturing to your own face. “Did you get hit with any switcheroos?” 

“No, but that’s a little personal, isn’t it?,” you squeak, and adjust your own glasses self-consciously. 

“Shame. Some are pretty...” - and he lowers his voice - “groovy.” 

You recoil from the door. Groovy is not a suitable word for an angel to say. Unfortunately, the doors swing open without your hand on their pulls. Sandalphon gets a glimpse of the Archives before you wrest control of your nausea, run outside, and slam the doors closed behind you. 

“Bit of a clutter,” says Sandalphon. 

“Oh, it’s no worse off than the rest of the Kingdom,” you say testily. 

Sandalphon slaps you jovially on the back. “That it is, ‘Zira!”  

Zira? Of all the overfamiliar, underbaked sobriquets... how dare he.  

“Aziraphale,” you whisper. 

But Sandalphon doesn’t hear you. “Clean-up’s gonna be an uphill battle. But I know we’ll win. We always do. It’s part of the Plan! Though... what’s your plan for reopening? When can I drop by?”

Never. “Soon,” you say. 

“Couple of weeks, then? I expect you’ll keep core hours.” 

“That’s a long ways down the road. I wouldn’t want to get ahead of myself.” 

“If you want to deviate from core hours, it’ll be another form for Gabriel,” says Sandalphon. “Phew! When I wanted to change my checkpoint hours to something more nocturnal for my condition... it was easier to shut up and put up.” He punctuates his perceived cleverness by thumping the stock of his rifle.

“Core hours it is, then,” you say feebly. Nine to three, six days a week. That’s thirty-six hours a week, about a hundred-fifty a month, and - eternity for eternity. 

“Did you need any extra hands with the clean-up, though?” says Sandalphon. You position yourself bodily between him and the door, lest he get another glimpse of the mausoleum. “We at the Southern Gate could lend a hand, though maybe not Muriel, she’s all claws nowadays -”  

“Thank you, but there’s no need,” you say, through clenched teeth. “I really must get back to work.” 

“Come up and visit sometime,” adds Sandalphon hopefully. “I’m dying to hear what you’ve been up to in the last few years -” 

“Sometime,” you say, right before you slip back inside, and slam the door unceremoniously closed behind you. You listen at the threshold for a few moments, just to make sure his clipped combat-boot footsteps fade into oblivion. When the mausoleum falls silent, you lean your back wholly against the cool wooden doors, and sink to the floor. 

Then, you tuck your head between your knees and scream. 

You retain just enough presence of mind to make sure that Sandalphon’s footsteps haven’t returned. That he hasn’t brought Gabriel with him. Oh, a little bit of you wishes that it was the archangel who’d come knocking again. You wouldn’t mind taking out your sword and going mano-a-mano with Gabriel right now. Then you wouldn’t live long enough to hear the fugue of celestial bells mark the hours forevermore. 

But nobody comes to stop you, so you take a deep breath, and you let out another scream. And again, and again, until your throat is ragged and your eyes are wet and puffy. You wrench yourself from the ground and begin to tear at the hateful cardboard boxes that dare witness you at your nadir. 

“This could’ve been yours. All you had to do was stay out of the way,” you croak at the closest box of Bibles. “So tell me. Was it worth it?” 

The box doesn’t answer you, so you tear open the flaps. Thank goodness, there’s nothing particularly interesting in this one - The Emphatic Diaglott, some miniscule motel-room editions with the chain logo embossed in the cover, and a mass-produced Taverner’s Bible. An absolutely inconsequential edition, ignored by scholars and translators alike. You pull out the Bible, flip to Revelations, and point at a woodcut of a demon locked in eternal combat with an angel. “Go on and say that yes, it was all worth it, it was all part of the Plan,” you say. “Tell me that you needed me to, what, blow the seventh trumpet and wave the iron sceptre and officiate the Son’s wedding. Tell me that you couldn’t just leave well enough alone, you bastard - or - or -” 

Words fail you. You slam Taverner’s Bible closed and hurl it at the shelves standing empty around you, like terracotta soldiers in your tomb. It hits the wall with an echoing thud, and falls to the ground, spine cracked and pages splayed. A pang of guilt strikes your heart. 

Do what you must. It was only a Taverner’s.

Will the motel bibles fare any better? You open one to the cover page.New International Version for Super Nine Motels. Certainly no answers to be had in there, either. You pelt it at the back wall of the mausoleum. Its cheap binding explodes on impact in a puff of powdered glue. Vicious satisfaction floods your veins. Damn them. Damn them all, to dare to have survived the Last Battle intact, yet to offer nothing but last edition’s platitudes. You throw another one at the wall. And another, and another, until the box is empty and so are you. 

Your knees wobble. The exertion required to commit mass bibliocide exceeds the energy that metabolising the sugars from box wine might have lent you. Void and formless, you slump into the cardboard nest, and darkness falls upon your face, and the spirit of poorly-chosen metaphors is borne below the surface of the waters. 

Divinity abhors a vacuum. Let there be light. Let a final, foreign prayer rise unbidden to the surface before consciousness departs you for the day. 

You have to believe it was worth it. You have to. Otherwise it really would have all been for nothing.

Chapter Text

It’d be nice to say that brief, singular moment of clarity lifted you out of your funk; that you found a purpose in the new Kingdom, and spent the rest of your life carving a little niche of paradise out of the world. 

That’s not what happened. More realistically, people hit rock bottom, bounce a few times, and lie stunned on the ground for a while. They don’t always get back up. After all, who actually listens to that little voice in their head that says, tomorrow will be better than today, be kinder to yourself, and oh for the love of God please don’t drink that on an empty stomach? So you continue to defend your solitude from Sandalphon, expend your weekly miracles on turning water into box-quality wine, and take up Sudoku puzzles on the old newspapers lining the boxes in which your scriptural charges are contained. 

You used to enjoy solving that sort of puzzle, occasionally in a chintz bookshop armchair. The answers came as easily to you as, oh, knowing how much to palm the maitre’d at Chez Bruce when you have neither a reservation or the wherewithal to explain to your supervisor what happened to your interventions budget that month (a stack of fifty-pound banknotes fat enough to buy a Soviet missile), the quickest route from London to Oslo (overseas in a 1926 Bentley, via the Norwegian Current), or the number of apple species in the world (over seven and a half thousand). Now their solutions bring only an old ghost of satisfaction. When you finish one, you tear it out of the page, and mechanically rifle through the newspapers to start another. Scraps of newsprint gather in the corners like paper cobwebs. 

One afternoon, when a frail little sunbeam breaks through the clouds and illuminates motes of dust floating between the empty shelves and you catch the warm scent of leather bindings and sturdy wood, you’re struck full-force by the impression that you’re loitering in a secondhand bookshop instead of a mausoleum. That on the table is a cup of steaming cocoa, behind those shelves are would-be customers to intimidate, and outside those doors is a bustling street of humans walking their dogs or arguing about where to get takeout or honking their horns in a vibrant, ear-splitting cacophony. 

Tap tap-tap tap tap.

Bloody Sandalphon. You wrench yourself out of a heap of cardboard and sling open the heavy wooden doors. Cold air blasts into the mausoleum. 

“Good morning,” says the angel outside, clawed fist still raised.

“We’re still closed,” you snarl, and slam the door closed on her face before realising she wasn’t actually Sandalphon. Probably one of his pudding-brained lackeys, trying to invite you to a networking event. You close your eyes and rest your forehead against the cool stone of the mausoleum walls, willing the illusion to return. But the dream has already fled, and you have awoken in a cold, dark mausoleum, with no cocoa and empty shelves. 

Your gaze flicks between the boxed holy texts and the shelves. Stacking books in long-term storage will collapse the spines. Gabriel might have hidden something interesting amongst all the perfect Gutenberg Bibles. Out comes the box-cutter. 

Several hours later, you’ve assembled a half-dozen Infamous Bibles to join the Buggre Alle This Bible on the highest shelf at the back, and stuffed the chaff into the shelves at the front in case Sandalphon ever gets another peek into the Archives. You step back to admire the burgeoning collection. 

It doesn’t hold a candle to the one that burned down in Soho. These Bibles could’ve come fresh off a printing press. They lack the rich patina on the spine and the delicate tarnish on the binding hardware. The pages are too creamy and crisp. And most of all, they lack history. You didn’t have to track them across Moorish Spain or spirit them out of Nazi burn-piles or request them from the Pope’s private collection. Ha. That was a good one. You posed as a visiting scholar to catch a glimpse of the Great-Asse Bible, which Pope - which pope was it, Whatshisname the Third - had hidden from the delicate eyes of his flock. 

A cardinal walked in on you as you were beholding the Great-Asse Bible in all its misprinted glory. However, there was a minor mix-up with the official paperwork, in that you'd been carrying a parchment packet of biscuits rather than a papal letter of permission. The entire Swiss Guard chased you across St. Peter’s Square, Bible still in hand. Or was it the Gendarmerie, in the Piazza di Spagna? Did you lose them in the Old Gardens as your feet burned and ached from running across Vatican City at full pelt? Or did you disguise yourself in a nun’s habit? A tiny spark of panic ignites. No. You can’t forget the story of how you acquired the Great-Asse Bible. It was a good time. One of the best. 

“Damn,” you mumble. Your counterpart could jog your memory, having borne witness to that acquisition. All you’d have to do is point proudly at the Great-Asse Bible, and he’d recount the trouble it wasn’t worth, and how “the Lord our God hath shewed vs his glory and his great-asse” was resultant of an inkblot covering the “n” and not a true misprint, but shoot down all suggestions to return it to its former owner.  But your counterpart currently is not in any state to take questions. You’re never going to remember how you escaped Pope Whatshisname the Third by the skin of your teeth. That memory is lost forever. 

Which one will be next to go? You wouldn’t mind losing most of the fourteenth century, or a few of the Crusades. But what about a picnic beside the Seine, or a meadowside nap in Peru? The taste of strawberries, or the smell of lavender? The glint of cleverness in the opposition’s eye, or the curve of his mouth when he thinks he’s gotten one over you?

No. Absolutely not. But this mausoleum isn’t conducive to any sort of remembrance, and neither are the ashes of London. So it doesn’t matter that there’s nothing but a nuclear wasteland beyond the walls: you’ve got to get out of this blessed Kingdom.  

To get out, you’ve got to get a Letter of Transit from your supervisor - in this case, Gabriel. 

To get a Letter of Transit, you’ve got to get your act together. You need to look like a functional Archivist, even if your corporation is sloshing with box wine and existential dread. 

You begin to pick up the pieces. Starting with the Archive to which you’ve been assigned.  

The administration has seen fit to gift you ten thousand editions of various Abrahamic holy books, excluding duplicates. They take you about four months to catalogue, sort, and shelve by date, and occupy ten of the wall-to-ceiling shelves in the mausoleum. 

It would’ve taken only two months if yellowing pages of the Daily Telegraph did not line the moving-boxes. You attempt to jog your memory for hours every day by reading decades-old articles, trying to recall whether you had a hand in the Moon launch (of course), Decimal Day (outsourced to the opposition), or Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (unfortunately, yes.) 

You also finish all of the Sudokus on the newspaper puzzle pages, and move on to the crosswords. They are more difficult than the Sudokus, but the clues and the solutions can still be ciphered out with the help of a dictionary. 

When you run out of those mundane crosswords, you move on to the cryptic crosswords. Those are impossible, really. You’ve found that the best strategy is to sit back in your chair, tilt your head backwards, and stare into space. After having sufficiently lost track of time, a second look back reveals that the crossword will have filled itself out entirely. You hazard a guess that it’s the newsprint’s latent self-preservation instincts kicking into high gear, before filing them into your desk drawers. 

And when you’ve finally finished all that the Daily Telegraph puzzle pages have to offer, you find that you’ve also finished sorting all of the Bibles: first by language, and then by date. You’ve also spaced out the bibles so as to try and use all the space you’ve been allotted in the Archives, but they are still shockingly empty. There are parts in the library where you can stand, and gaze through a tunnel of empty shelf space, all the way to the fresco of the Last Battle at the back.

This high level of organisation and low level of bibliodensity is more reminiscent of a minimally-decorated London apartment formerly occupied by the Serpent of Eden, than an angel’s second-hand bookshop. 

It is not a pleasant realisation, but Gabriel seems to like it when he visits. “Good job,” he says, and slaps you on the back. “I always knew that you could buckle down and apply yourself. Shame that that hovel you were living in before wasn’t half as organised.” 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Unclench your teeth. “I have a few ideas on how to expand the collections,” you say. 

“Really? Haven’t you got enough copies of the Great Plan around?” says the archangel.

“An angel can never have enough books,” you say sweetly. 

“Look, if there’s really anything you think we’ve really missed, then file a request with my office,” says Gabriel. “But I think you’re going to have quite enough on your plate in the next few weeks. Who isn’t going to want a little refresher on the Word?” 

∽⧖∼ 

The answer is nobody. Nobody wants a refresher on the Word. Especially not in the Kingdom of Heaven, chock-full of angels with the Word thrumming through their veins, writ upon their fingerprints, and twisted around their throats. Your mausoleum receives a grand total of five visits in its first week open. Two visits are from Sandalphon, whose pupils are too dilated to read anything, but inexplicably finds you to be scintillating company. Another two are angels who took a wrong turn on the way to the Third Temple. The final visit is an angel who needed to borrow a pen. 

You do not lend her a pen. This is an Archive, not a charity. 

The following Monday, you prepare a travel form for Gabriel’s approval, so that you can travel beyond the Kingdom walls under the guise of padding out the Archive. 

When you enter the candlelit halls of Westminster Abbey, Gabriel is opening inter-office communiques with his celestial spear. He draws a speartip across the mouth of an brown paper envelope. It flares up like a torch, and burning fragments flutter down like black butterflies to pile upon his desk. Celestial weapons cut down to the bone and burn everything from the inside out. Wounds don’t have to be fatal, if swiftly cleansed with holy water or cauterised with hellfire. But if you haven’t got any of those on hand, you’re a goner. Maybe Gabriel will cut himself by accident.

The archangel looks down his nose at your travel form when you set it upon his desk, on top of the little ash pile. “What’s this, Principality?” 

“Well. Good morning. Do you recall the other day, when I mentioned that the Archive was missing a few, ah, supplemental chapters? I’ve taken the liberty of assembling a Requisition Order.” You sit neatly into the chair across from Gabriel’s desk and fold your hands in your lap. 

“Hm,” says Gabriel noncommittally. He flips through the unsigned Requisition Order, past Attachment A: Letter of Transit, Attachment B: Motorpool Reservation Authorisation, Attachment C: Request for Supplementary Provisions, Attachment D: Extraction Acknowledgement Agreement, Attachment E: Health and Safety Checklist, all the way to Attachment F: Bibliography. His violet gaze shifts down your list, from Mother Shipton’s Tidings to The Little Horn’s Doom and Downfall to Les Prophéties. So he got to keep his own eyes after the Last Battle. His own face. His own hands.  

Your own begin to shake, and you jam them in the pockets of your waistcoat. 

“I don’t recognize any of these prophets,” says the archangel a few moments later. 

“There were certainly quite a few. Nobody can be expected to remember them all,” you say.

Gabriel’s face grows stormy, and he taps the nameplate on his desk. “Really, Archivist? Not even the Messenger of the Almighty and His Left Hand?” 

“Well, when you put it that way,” you squeak. 

“I remember every tiding I delivered, and this Mother Shipton didn’t get any,” says Gabriel. “And if all of these prophecies didn’t come from me, they must’ve come from demons. Or Witches. Or they’re complete lies. What kind of idiot do you think I am?” The archangel balls up your forms. “Hold still,” he adds, and lobs them high over your head. 

“What -” you say. 

Then Gabriel throws his spear. 

Your gasp catches in your throat, and the smell of charred concrete and steaming blood and desperation fills your nose. You throw yourself backwards in your chair. The chair overbalances and tips backwards. Your limbs splay out in all directions to try and break your imminent fall on the dark wooden floor. 

The spear flies over you and pins the papers against the stone wall behind you with a thud. Your paperwork burns to ashes, and the stone begins to scorch and crack. 

“Blast it - not again, we’re short on masons as it is,” mutters Gabriel. He strides to his spear, plants a shiny black galosh against the wall, and yanks. And yanks again. The spear has an awfully funny habit of getting stuck in things, doesn’t it? But of course Gabriel had to borrow the flaming sword during the Last Battle - 

Gabriel finally pulls the spear free. It leaves a blackened gash in the stone. 

You scramble to your feet, right your fallen chair, and try to recover what is left of your composure. 

The archangel sits back down behind his desk, blows the ashes of your paperwork off the spearhead, and leans the weapon against the wall. He smooths down the front of his perfect overalls. In a very calm voice, as if he hadn’t just been this close to giving you an eyebrow piercing, he says, “I told you to hold still. And you still haven’t answered my question.” 

“You’re not an idiot. I’m an idiot. Misplaced the sword. Misplaced my head,” you babble. “Won’t happen again.” 

“Good answer,” says Gabriel. 

∽⧖∼ 

Not to worry. Nobody masters the gavotte at their first cotillion. You return to Westminster Abbey a week later, with requisition order in your hand and a steely glint in your eye. 

It’ll be an uphill battle. Gabriel has preemptively acquired an admirable selection of rubber stamps and crimson inkpads. But hope springs eternal: his spear is safely stowed in an umbrella holder on the other side of the church. Probably something to do with the newly framed photograph hanging behind the visitor’s chair. The photograph depicts Gabriel beaming at the camera while shaking the hand of a bewildered, curly-haired angel’s hand. It also does not do nearly enough to conceal a poorly spackled, sooty hole in the wall underneath. “Hello, Principality. Did you find your spare head?” He leans back in his chair, chuckles, and taps his temple knowingly.  

“I’m afraid not,” you say. “But I did find another list of items I’d like to add to the collection.” You present Gabriel with a packet of forms with one hand. The other is behind your back, digging the point of an uncapped biro into your thumb. Think about the sharp ache of the penpoint pressing into your skin. Think about how you’ll have to wash the ink off your fingers later. Don’t think about the spear. Don’t think about launching a kamikaze attack on the archangel with your bare hands. 

Gabriel sighs heavily, and belatedly turns it into a cough. In a falsely jolly tone, he says, “I’d forgotten about your... tenacity. Well, go on then, what have you got for us?” 

“A little bit of the bard,” you say. Gabriel looks at you uncomprehendingly, so you clarify: “Shakespeare. As in William Shakespeare.” 

“Never heard of him,” says Gabriel. He rights his chair and rifles the the edge of your form packet with his thumb.

“Nothing flashy. Certainly no false prophets. Just a few histories this time, all based on real people. You know, Julius Caesar, a few Henries, some Richards...” 

“If I really wanted to ask about who stabbed Richard Randomfuck, I would just take a walk down to Purgatory and ask him,” says Gabriel. “But wouldn’t. Because why would I give a shit about a bunch of dead kings?”

“But Shakespeare makes it all sound good.” Desperate to give Gabriel a reason to care, you attempt to orate. “The peace of Heaven is theirs that lift their swords/ In such a just and charitable war.”  

You are successful. Understanding and recognition bloom on Gabriel’s face, followed immediately by disgust. Just like the corpse flower, which blossoms for a day, dies the next, and stinks up a party the whole time. The archangel shakes his head decisively. “Nice sentiment. But iambic pentameter makes me sick. Thank the Lord that the Word is in plain verse.” And before you can make a case for the Bard again, he picks up one of the oversized stamps on his desk, rocks it across an enormous ink pad, and plunges it downwards onto your bibliography: REJECTED. Then he slides them back to you across the table. 

You pick up the forms. The REJECTED stamp has seared all the way through the packet, through every sheet of paper. You’ll have to start all over.  “Thank you,” you say, and leave. Outside, you chuck the forms into an empty fountain. Maybe they’ll clog the drain and Gabriel will have to file another Maintenance Request Ticket.  

Next week, you repeat the exercise with the bibliography of Charles Dickens: surely his depictions of poverty and humility in Victorian England harmoniously complement the ten commandments? Gabriel thinks not. “I can smell Ebenezer Scrooge from the pages,” he says, which is unlikely, because he’s never mentioned your box-wine bouquet. “He’s not allowed to pollute the Archives.” Rejected.

Perhaps Gabriel secretly longs for the romance of days long gone? You compile a list of novels by Jane Austen. Who would’ve thought that the mastermind of the 1810 Clarkewell diamond robbery dabbled in authorship? Gabriel does not find the incongruency notable. Rejected. 

Maybe comparative religion is more the archangel’s speed. Sun Wukong’s journey of redemption certainly parallels parts of the Great Plan. But Gabriel says, “He’s a monkey. Why would I care about a monkey?” Rejected. 

Fine. What about entertaining stories borne of the holy lands, like The Book of One Thousand and One Nights? Gabriel wrinkles his nose. “Sounds like someone needed an editor,” he says. Rejected. 

At least Gabriel seems to be enjoying himself. The selection of stamps on his desk grows each time you visit. He also acquires some red red chisel-tip markers, which he uses to energetically cross out your selections, one by one. 

In a fit of pique, you start using cheaper ink for your forms, if only so that the ink will stain Gabriel’s lacquered desktop and smear on his sleeves. The latest packet of forms includes a bibliography of Andrew Lloyd-Webber. Gabriel can’t possibly have opinions about twentieth-century be-bop. 

The archangel is ready for you when you approach. He strikes down all your suggestions, but halfway down the list he takes pause, red marker hovering in mid-air.  

“Jesus Christ Superstar?” he says. 

Your heart leaps, but your mind goes blank. You hadn’t even realised that was on the list. “It’s, ah. One-two-three-four glory glory to the son of God, Hallelujah, that kind of thing,” you conjecture. 

“Hmph,” says Gabriel. “Suppose a bit more worship music wouldn’t go amiss.” He makes a large, careful checkmark, and continues more cautiously down the list. “And... Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?” 

You definitely have not heard that one either. “More praise music.”

Gabriel circles that entry on your list. “I remember Joseph. Clever little human. Now, he knew how to swing a prophecy.” He picks up a smaller stamp, rocks it in a modestly-sized inkpad, and stamps your requisition order in black: APPROVED. “Off you go, then,” he says. 

You clutch the signed forms, unable to believe your luck.

“By the way,” says Gabriel. 

You turn around slowly. 

 “Are those sunglasses new?” he says. 

Only about a hundred years old. Gabriel can remember every prophet, but he can hardly be expected to remember every pair of sunglasses he’s knocked off every fleeing demon’s face. Especially not during the Last Battle. Is that why the archangel got away without any extra war souvenirs? No dirt on his collar, no ink on his blotter, no stains on his conscience. Nothing mars him and his righteousness.  

“They’re new,” you say. 

“Hm,” he says. “They suit you.” 

Chapter Text

Your approved requisition order comes with a Letter of Transit (Attachment A), good for three days outside the Kingdom walls. After that period, Gabriel will send a retrieval squad to extract you (as per Attachment D: Extraction Acknowledgement Agreement), dump you in Purgatory to recuperate, and then audit you so hard you’ll never see daylight again. Heaven forbid a rogue westerly blows a wayward angel off-course.  

To ensure you make the three day deadline, you present the Motorpool Reservation Authorisation (Attachment B) to the Celestial Quartermaster. “I’d like something fast, please,” you say. “Something sleek. Maybe vintage.” 

The Quartermaster peers at the Motorpool Reservation Authorisation, and then turns around to the pegboard of keys behind him. He probably spends his weekly miracle budget on the upkeep of his mutton-chops. When was the last time you sported mutton chops? Thank goodness those went out of fashion two hundred years ago. 

“Here we are,” he mutters, and drops down an inch-long key on the counter in front of you, with a Wall-E keychain. “You’re parked in number three, right by the door.”

You turn around and look beyond the window. A yellow plastic placard bearing the number three is affixed to a dead tree. Below the placard, a bicycle is padlocked to the trunk.  

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you say.

“You said vintage,” says the Quartermaster.

“I also said sleek and fast.” You slump onto the counter, and rub your temples with your fingertips. “Just... come on, there’s a tank right there.” 

“That’s Michael’s private tank,” says the Quartermaster. 

“And is that Michael’s private Corvette? Michael’s private Beetle? Michael’s - even the scooter?” 

The Quartermaster shakes his head each time. “All spoken for. If you don’t like the bike, I can take it back. Fancy walking or flying? Maybe bumping into a raiding party, or getting shot out of the sky?” 

You snatch the little key off the counter. “Bicycle it is.” 

Look on the bright side. In theory, bicycles are perfect for post-apocalyptic travel. They’re simple machines that don’t need to run on fuel, or miracles, or hay. They’re lightweight enough to portage across small streams, and silent at high speeds. 

Unfortunately, you have not been in the saddle since the first time you nestled yourself in the plush seats of a black Bentley. Your new mount is somewhat more humble and uncomfortable: a leather-seated, low-slung, touring bicycle with twelve gears and training wheels. When you give the little horn an experimental squeeze, it wheezes like an asthmatic cat trying to expel a hairball. The bottom of the crossbar is engraved: “Made in East Germany.” 

At least your Request for Supplementary Provisions (Attachment C) was processed without fuss. The Quartermaster supplies you with a school knapsack containing manna, a plastic tarp, a compass, and a single roll of duct tape. You’re one fancy sash away from becoming a boy scout. 

So you sling the pack on your back and wobble your bicycle through the Kingdom of Heaven. The burning slag of the M25 marks the city’s edge in the shape of the dread sigil odegra. Crashed cars and rubble have been piled into a barrier ten metres high. Snipers’ towers swathed in barbed wire and topped with anti-aircraft batteries jut out of the smouldering wall every miles. Gouts of flame erupt merrily from unexploded fuel tanks, which show no signs of running empty. 

There are four gates to the Kingdom. First is the Eastern Gate, which opens directly into the English Channel. The Northern Gate leads to an unexploded minefield, where unlucky angels probe and poke their way through the mud with tweezers. The Western Gate is permanently cordoned off with yellow police tape and guarded by Michael herself. Whereas the Southern Gate merely has Sandalphon. 

The other angel’s domain is a square lift-door in the Wall approximately five times your height. Painted upon the corrugated metal are a series of warnings: 

THE SOUTHERN GATE

Unauthorised passage through the Southern Gate is strictly prohibited. 

Please have your papers ready for presentation for the gate agent. 

The following items are not permitted for transport into or out of the Kingdom: 

Hellfire, demons, humans, explosives, bacon, lard, crystal balls, tarot cards, tattoo needles, theodolites, polyester, clam chowder, Geiger counters...

The list continues onwards in an increasingly small and tightly-kerned typeface, until it ends with a shaky scrawl six inches above the ground: 

... reliquaries (mummified, preserved in formaldehyde, frozen, et cetera), crucifixes, and black pudding.

Have a nice trip! 

A pair of black Humvees flank the gate like dobermans. Sandalphon is nowhere to be seen. Maybe you’ve been lucky. Maybe you’ve just missed him, because Sandalphon has taken a Humvee for a joyride. 

One of his lackeys pops out from inside a rusty toll booth to greet you instead. “Oh, Aziraphale! Are you here for tea?” Her hands are folded neatly behind her back. Together with the perfectly round, white Great War-era helmet and pearly flak jacket, she looks like a bowling pin.  

Are you supposed to know her name? “I have a Letter of Transit for travel beyond the Gate, to acquire supplementary materials for the Archive,” you inform her. 

“Like books?” she says, and positively beams at you from under her helmet. “I’ve always dreamed of reading a book.”

Angels shouldn’t dream. Their fates are already written in the Plan. Every dream is a step off the beaten path. Wander too far and they’ll think to lose themselves in a different story, one where choices are free, and the future is not preordained. But the thing is, all stories are still threads of the Plan. The stories that try to dream otherwise are the ones that end in tragedy. “Did they not have anything to read Upstairs?” you ask. 

“Not really,” she says. “I mean, they had forms and regulations and schedules - I was a Scrivener, you know - but not books.”  

“So why aren’t you a Scrivener anymore?” 

Her face falls, and she unclasps her hands from behind her back to hold them palms-up in front of you. They look normal enough from the knuckles down, but her nails are long and jagged, giving the impression that her fingers are each six-inch paring knives. “I don’t know where they came from,” she says. “I was hiding in a bunker, and it was dark... I couldn’t see what I was shooting...”  

“Oh,” you say. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “Anyway. Outside. So exciting! Have you got the Healthy and Safety Checklist, and the Extraction Acknowledgement?” 

You hand over Attachment D and Attachment E from your packet of forms, and the angel takes them very carefully with huge, clawed fingers. 

One of the pages rips at the corner. “Oh - fiddlesticks - I’m so sorry,” she says, and is that actually a tear in her eye? “Let me get Sandalphon.”

“Don’t get Sandalphon,” you yelp. “I can tape them back together!” 

“No, I’d only ruin your papers.” She holds up her claws at you with a tiny, sad smile on her face. “Good thing I’m just a gate guard now.” The angel turns neatly on her heel and marched towards a small trailer by the burning wall of the M25. She knocks a familiar rhythm: Tap tap-tap tap tap. Shave and a hair-cut.

Utterly pointless. Were they actually American prisoners-of-war, the response should be tap tap. Not Sandalphon bursting out of the trailer in his ridiculous white camouflage get-up. Assault rifles hang from both his shoulders like supernumerary wings. And - is that a grenade launcher in his arms? Who gave Sandalphon a grenade launcher? “Oh, it’s you, Muriel. At ease, soldier!” 

“Roger roger, Sandalphon,” says Muriel in a small voice. She attempts to salute without accidentally poking her eyes with her oversized claws. “Aziraphale’s here about some travel.” 

Sandalphon’s eyes light up. “Not seen you in a while, Zira. Library stuff going well?” 

Again with the Zira. “Mustn’t grumble,” you say. “In fact, it’s going so well that I’ve got an external requisition form to expand the collection.” You present him with the forms that Gabriel has signed. Sandalphon props his grenade launcher over his shoulder and inspects your papers carefully, holding them up to the light, turning them over, pulling down his dark glasses to validate the archangel’s signature more carefully with his triple-pupils. 

“First time outside the walls, right?” says Sandalphon. 

The nerve of Sandalphon, to think you some kind of tourist. Of course you’ve been outside London before. You’ve seen more of the Earth in a month than Sandalphon has his entire life. “First time,” you say. 

“Excellent! Your papers all look in order, but we’ve got some new security protocols. If you’ll just come this way -” Sandalphon beckons you to a concrete birdbath half-full of stagnant water. 

“What is that?” you say, even as an icy, terrible clarity descends.  

“Just a bit of holy water, to make sure you’re not a demon wearing a human meat-suit. And some of our folks out there have picked up so many souvenirs that it’s hard to tell if they’re actually one of ours, or the enemy.” he says. “This is to make extra sure that we don’t let any baddies into the Kingdom. Or let them escape.” Sandalphon chuckles. “Not that any of them would get past me, mind you. So it’s just a formality.” He hands you a long-handled silver ladle. “Don’t tip the font. I don’t want to get audited.” 

A strange calm grips you. Raise the ladle. Scoop the holy water from the basin. 

“Steady now,” says Sandalphon. “Just a little tipple on the back of your hand and then we’ll be done.” 

Beads of water slide down the ladle’s handle like mercury droplets. They pool on the underside of the bowl and drip, drip onto the naked ground beside your feet. 

You don’t have to do this.

The water’s surface reflects your face like a tiny, perfect mirror: dark glasses set over a grimace. A fly alights onto the curved edge of the bowl, and rubs its forelegs together, as if preparing to dive into a pool of moonlight. It lowers its proboscis into the water to drink. The moment its mouthparts touch the surface, it shudders, and then dissolves in a tiny shower of sparks, falling to the ground like a meteor shower.

You raise the ladle and tip the ladle of the holy water onto your head. Gelidity splashes unceremoniously onto your hair and your face and trickles down the back of your neck. 

“Looks like you’re good!” says Sandalphon.

“I’m good,” you say flatly. 

Sandalphon pulls a pen out from behind his ear, scribbles his initials on the Health and Safety Checklist and the Extraction Acknowledgement Form, and stuffs them down the front of his flak jacket. “Muriel, open the gate,” he orders.

“Roger that,” says Muriel. She wraps her hands carefully around a crank and begins to turn it. Sirens blare, warning lights flare, and the Southern Gate rolls slowly open. 

∽⧖∼

The wasteland spills outwards from the burning Kingdom walls like a blight. Twisted trees cling to life amidst overturned lorries and light standards snapped in half like bamboo skewers. The air is heavy with the stink of burnt rubber and ozone and portent. Bulbous clouds bulge with rain over the horizon. But, oh, there is so much horizon, more than you ever saw in the Kingdom, almost as much as you remember. Your head feels light. So much effort has been expended into acquiring the letter of transit from Gabriel that very little has gone into deciding where to go. But does it really matter? You’ve made it outside. 

You push off on your little bicycle, and start pedalling. 

The road unfurls before you like a frayed black ribbon marking the place in a tattered book. Collapsed cottages and ashened hedgerows line the margins. It begins to rain. You stop and cut a hole in the plastic tarp to wear it like a raincoat, but water still runs down your face and your neck and traps itself between the plastic and your skin. Your legs chafe against damp trousers, but you don’t stop pedalling. That rustle in the bushes might be a badger or a gang of cannibals lying in ambush. 

The steady drizzle blurs the broken landscape into a soft grey smear. The sun refuses to break through the clouds. There is no way of knowing how many hours you ride the bicycle, but for the ache in your legs and the chill on your skin. 

Or is there? Here, there are pale blades of grass pushing out from the cracks in the asphalt, narrow shoots sprouting from burnt stumps. Gathered ahead on the narrow road is a village shoprow. Ivy climbs their brick facades in patches, softening the edges of shattered front windows and slumping eaves. One of the buildings still has most of the shingles on its roof, and a sign hanging askew over the door: Friends of Hailsham Charity Shop. 

You circle the cluster of storefronts three times just to make sure no villagers are hiding behind the bins, and duck inside the charity shop with your bicycle. 

The clothing racks have been well-looted. All the coats and jumpers and boots are gone, leaving naught but bathing costumes and evening dresses and boxy business suits. The bookshelves at the side of the shop are also empty: their inhabitants were probably burned as kindling months ago. But there are still some videocassettes piled ramshackle in plastic bins. Gabriel was promised praise music, wasn’t he? You paw roughly through the bins. Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Jesus Christ Superstar are both in stock. The covers are rather colourful for praise music, aren’t they? Oratorios have certainly come a long way since Bach and Handel. You scoop them from the heap, ready to stuff them into a backpack, but pause before zipping it closed. Perhaps it would be a good idea to have an advance screening?

You palm a paper clip from the counter, unfold it, and lockpick your way into the back room labelled “Staff only.” Inside is a break-room, with a kitchenette, a folding lunch-table with some chairs, a couch, and - yes. A squat, dark television with a combination videocassette-and-disc player. The remote is nowhere to be seen. You push a Star Wars DVD case off the rolling console and jab your finger at the buttons on the front of the television to no avail. Is this supposed to plug in somewhere? 

Well. You were saving this week’s miracle for a celebratory drink, but let’s make sure that there’s something worth celebrating, first. You snap your fingers: let there be light. A floor lamp in the corner splutters on. 

You slide Joseph into the VCR player. The machine sparks to life under your touch. You sink into the saggy couch. Over the course of the next hour and a half, you learn that Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat is most definitely Technicolor, and loud, and improbably encrusted with glitter. 

You sit stock-still through the credits. Would Gabriel enjoy it? Does it count as worship music? As you contemplate these questions, you find that you’ve already ejected Joseph and inserted the tape of Jesus Christ Superstar instead. 

You stare at your hands that have betrayed you of their own accord, and slump backwards into the couch. There are strange stains upon its cracked vinyl exterior. You are beginning to feel a strange sense of kinship with the piece of furniture. Like you, this couch has witnessed untold horrors in the name of “relaxation” and “entertainment.” Jesus Christ Superstar brings the name of the Son to your lips, but more in blasphemy than in worship. This is be-bop to the highest degree - no, not even be-bop. It is jingle-jangle. 

The dilemma leaves you cold with catatonia as the closing credits roll. Your mind sinks into a dark, icy ocean of unpleasant probabilities. You are so cold that your body gets up and makes a cup of tea while the names scroll past on screen, and you drink half of it before you realise that it is vile and oversweet, and pour it out into a long-dead potted plant. For once, your nascent survival instinct kicks in. Gabriel will have a stroke if he sees this many bell-bottoms. And then he’d have an aneurysm. And after that, he’d smite you to the ground, angel or not. You cannot show this to him. And you cannot come back empty handed, either. 

Gabriel will get what he was promised, and in this case, he was promised worship music. 

You exit the break room stage left towards the music section of the charity shop. Brittle shelves are stacked with rows and rows of CD cases, all labelled with incomprehensible word combinations like “Arcade Fire” (safety hazard), “Led Zeppelin” (aeronautically improbable and misspelt,) and “Neutral Milk Hotel” (perhaps a cheese shop). Your gaze briefly lingers on the “Q” section, and for a moment, the faint sounds of a falsetto chorus thrums in your ears - 

No. Not now. On the left is a little shelf of classical music, which has already been thoroughly looted, though you cannot fathom by whom. Was it a motorcycle gang, blasting Mozart as they roar down the motorway in search of weapons and ammo? Was it the surviving cast of the Great British Baking Show turned cannibal, playing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at a dinner party? Was it a paintball team of middle managers who put on Wagner’s Ring Cycle to psych themselves up for a stoat-hunt? You’ll never know. They have not left even a solitary Bach tape behind. And you don’t even like Bach that much. He was too much a stickler for the rules of composition, too rigid. A bit more passion, a touch of durm-und-strang, or a few venereal diseases wouldn’t have gone amiss to liven up the Prelude and Fugue in A-Flat Mediocre.

You slam your palm into the shelf and curse the humans for their good taste in music. Your last hopes lie in the “clearance” section, which is two plastic milk-crates filled to the brim with cassette tapes. Maybe you won’t have to try and pass “Black Sabbath” and “Judas Priest” off as worship music. 

Jackpot. The Best of Hildegard von Bingen (as performed by the Bristol Prostate Cancer Awareness Society) will do. One piece of plainsong is nearly indifferentiable from the next, anyway. You’ll eat your bow tie if Gabriel can tell a Hildegard von Bingen apart from a Guido of Arezzo. You open up the audiocassette cases, turn the labels inside out, and write “Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat” and “Jesus Christ Superstar” on them with your biro instead. 

Briefly, you also consider destroying the actual copies of Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat and Jesus Christ Superstar. But some perverse instinct compels you to slip those back into your backpack. 

Well, that has been a productive afternoon. You walk the bicycle halfway out the shop when you hear a teenage voice. 

“Do you think Adam’s seen the last Star Wars yet?” says a boy. His voice cracks at the end of the sentence.  

“I dunno. He’s been missing for ages,” a second boy says. “Do you think he’s - y’know -” 

“Of course he’s all right,” says a girl loudly. “And when he comes back, he’s going to want to watch it.” 

“Then let’s make it quick. We’ve got to get back to guarding the forest,” says the second boy. 

“The forest can take care of itself,” says the girl. 

“Wouldn’t mind finding some Monty Python tapes too,” says the first boy. 

Shouldn’t have forgotten the pre-travel security check. Change of plans: time to duck out the back. You try to reverse the bicycle. Its handlebars catch themselves on the doorframe. You yank the bicycle harder. The horn catches on the latch, and squeals loudly. 

Just as three teenagers appear around the bend of the village road, riding bicycles a little bit too small for them. The spokes have been welded with spikes, as if they were ready to race in a Roman amphitheatre. Vicious nubs stud the fat tyres. They stare at you, wide-eyed, while you stand frozen in the shop doorway. 

A dark-skinned girl in a red poncho, patched up with duct tape and leather and flannel until it’s more patches than poncho, points an accusatory tyre-iron at you. A Bentley’s tyre-iron, to be precise. “Go home, wank-wings!” A pair of deer antlers are mounted onto her handlebars. She accelerates to ramming speed. 

Two other hooligans follow her. On the left, a grubby lad wearing a football jersey encrusted in dirt. On the right, a skinny fellow squinting through a pair of prescription swim goggles. Both of them wield spears, topped with sharpened shivs.  

You push and push your bicycle, trying to dislodge it from the door frame. Its asthmatic cat horn wheezes with every shove. They’re gaining on you. You’re going to get clobbered by a Bentley tyre iron. The extraction team will have to retrieve your discorporated soul in two and a half days. They’ll toss you into Purgatory and audit you until you’re a gibbering mess of supporting paperwork and conflicting timestamps.

Why did you have to spend your weekly miracle on running the television? All that got you was four hours in a forsaken room, trying to make sense of jingle-jangle, a terrible cup of tea, no Bach, and now this. What a way to go.   

The sheer indignity of the situation clears the panic momentarily from your mind. You suck in your stomach, force the bicycle out the Friends of Hailsham Charity Shop, and jump on top. Then you kick off the ground and pedal as if your life depended on it, which it really does. The last year of digging rubble out of pits hasn’t been for nothing. There are real leg muscles in there nowadays. And you’re taller than those teenagers. 

The distance between you and the pack widens. The leader gives a yelp of frustration, and then a grunt of effort - and suddenly, you are nearly knocked off-balance by something hitting your back wheel. You look back to see that the teenage girl has thrown the tyre-iron at you, and knocked off one of the training wheels on your bicycle. 

Keep going. Don’t look back. Are you supposed to know her name? “I saw a Star Wars in the break room, Pepper!” 

Pepper nearly swerves into a broken fire hydrant. Her undersized bicycle rolls to a stop and she stares at you, gobsmacked. And you widen the distance, pedalling faster and faster until the Them are out of sight. 

∽⧖∼

The thin rain has petered out and the sun’s beggared light has dimmed to a wispy sheen upon the drying puddles when you’re finally certain you’ve lost the Them. But by that time, you’ve managed to lose yourself as well. Gabriel isn’t expecting you back in the Kingdom for another two days, but two days is not a long time to make your return when you don’t know which way to go. Low, rolling fields surround you on all sides, dotted with bare limbless trees. The sun offers no guidance either, with clouds shrouding the Isles at all times of day. Have you been here before? 

You dismount and pull the compass from your pack. That way is north, so the Kingdom must be west. Or... northwest? The compass pivot is rusted, and the needle lists to the side rather than spinning freely. You shake the compass and the needle rattles around the rose. Now the Kingdom of Heaven is located in the centre of the earth.  

You chuck the compass into a distant clump of gorse with all your might, and regret it instantly. The Quartermaster will not freely replace that. You drag the bicycle off the road and trudge towards the impact point. Sharp thistles swallow the peeling fence pickets, and bindweed sprawls across the cracked ground and tangles in your wheel spokes. 

At the point of impact, you drop the bicycle into the grass and root through the base of gorse for the compass. Long thorns pull at your hair and snag the plastic tarp-turned-raincoat. Your shoulder bumps a branch and dislodges the compass onto your head with a thump. You yelp and stumble out of the gorse, but with enough presence of mind to grab the compass first. “You’re lucky I’m on a schedule,” you mutter at the gorse, and then look around at the overgrown pasture. 

Have you been here before? The road is distressingly far away, the compass needle is still jammed, and there are no trees in sight but shattered, crumbling trunks. You need some high ground to get a good look at your navigational predicament. Flying is out of the question: no need to make yourself a bigger target than you already are. Who knows what those mounds of weedy vines and foggy hollows conceal? 

There is a broad hill ahead, higher than the rest. That’ll do. You take a deep breath and push the bicycle up the slope. A harsh, wet wind blows across your face. You lick your lips: they are dry and cracked. When was the last time you felt thirsty? Why didn’t the Quartermaster include a canteen in the provisions? Hurry. 

You huff and puff your way over the ridge, and nearly recoil in surprise as the ground drops out mere feet ahead, giving way to sheer white cliffs that undulate in and out of the seastrand, like a great pale snake slithering across the landscape. And beyond that, an endless ocean shimmers silver. Have you been here before? 

The clouds thin and sheer, until the sun breaks briefly through the frayed grey veil. You pull your glasses off your face, close your eyes, and tilt your face to the west. Below, the waves lap at the base of the cliffs. 

Of course you have been here before. Perhaps that time, the sun would have streaked the sky violet and gold instead of wavering as pale as the moon. If you turned your head and opened your eyes furtively, perhaps you would see someone else standing there, squinting at the English Channel and one-handedly loosening his neckwear in the heat. He would tut and say, I suppose it would be more impressive if you were carrying the picnic basket. Perhaps this time you might reach out and relieve him of the basket, so as to take his hand with yours.    

Don’t open your eyes. 

Would his retort - well, about time you put in the work -  be cut short by surprise, or would he merely lift an eyebrow at your boldness? Would he twine his fingers into yours, or pull you closer? When you drop the picnic basket, would the cabernet roll down the grassy slope, or would it break on impact? 

Don’t open your eyes. 

You can see him as clearly as the last time you stood atop the cliff, as the setting sun warmed your skin and the sky filled his face. Bright enough to hurt your eyes and sharp enough to hitch your breath. The sight twists around your heart like lightning. Steal a spark and kindle it inside you. Shelter it from the wind. Feed it your forgotten hopes and dreams. Let it light the way home. 

A cloud passes across the sun overhead. The spark sputters out. Your chest aches with a hollow you had forgotten existed, as deep as your grave and just as empty. But when you open your eyes, they are as clear as the drops of salt water rolling tracks down your dusty cheeks and stinging your chapped lips.

Chapter Text

Two days later, you present a pair of cassette tapes to Gabriel. He snaps his fingers and from under his desk pulls out a tape player that wasn’t there three seconds earlier. It resembles a pink panini press with chrome trim and antennae, and is only recognisable as a tape player by the music-note decals affixed to the top. You obligingly fumble a tape labelled Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat into the machine, and the Bristol Prostate Cancer Awareness Society begins their eerie plainchant. Their tinny unaccompanied voices meander through the melody and fill Gabriel’s office. It is not music to which you would normally listen. But it’s not bad , per se. Perhaps a real choir even sang this exact canticle when Westminster Abbey was still an abbey.  

But the archangel’s face turns sour. “Oh, yeah. This is worship music, all right. Who’s it by? Don’t tell me... Elgar!” 

Incorrect. This was written by Hildegard of Bingen, who is by all accounts languishing in Purgatory for the crime of interpreting theology a little bit too creatively. The Plan doesn’t say, woman may be made from man, but no man can be made without a woman . But Hildegrad did. “You have a good ear,” you tell Gabriel. 

“Shame the humans are still shite at  making it. No wonder some of them had to plagiarise us. What was that one guy’s name... Bicks? Beck?” 

“Bach,” you say. 

Gabriel clicks his tongue. “Bach! That’s it. What an idiot. There was no way he could get away with copying our harmonies: we know this was the best that humans had back then.” 

Bach was born about five hundred years after Hildegard. He had plenty of time to learn how to write his own music, despite seasonal plagues, Mongol invasions, and occasional Crusades. But play along anyway. “I think it’s still very flattering that they put in the effort. Obviously it doesn’t hold a candle to the real stuff. But on the plus side, it makes us look... better. In comparison.” That doesn’t even make sense. Music appreciation is not a zero-sum game. 

“You think so?” says Gabriel. 

“Oh, yes. It might be a useful Exhibit A for the plagiarism investigation.” You shake your head. “Bless their little human hearts for trying.” 

Gabriel listens for a few more seconds to the plainsong before ejecting the tape and tossing it back into your lap. “Go ahead and archive them for the investigation, won’t you?” he says. “Can’t imagine wanting to listen to that otherwise. Not that we don’t appreciate your... initiative. But phew .” 

“Would you like me to take the tape player to Waste Disposal as well?” 

Gabriel startles and points at the panini press on his desk. “Is that what it’s called? Yes, go on, save me the trip.” 

“Of course,” you say.

You return to the Archives as the celestial bells begin to mark another hour in the Kingdom. You set the tape player on one of the reading tables running down the centre of the room, reinsert the recording, and turn the panini dial to its maximum setting, “sear.” 

Again, the chant fills the room. But your Archive is much smaller than Gabriel’s office, and you’ve upped the volume. The voices echo off the bare walls and half-empty shelves, again and again, until an entire ghostly choir is singing in your mausoleum. And they have nearly drowned out the bells of Heaven. 

You slump into the chair behind your desk. That actually worked . Gabriel didn’t suspect a thing. And - 

You slowly slide the bottom drawer of your desk open a sliver. 

Lying in the darkness upon a nest of completed newspaper crosswords are a pair of videotapes: Joesph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat and Jesus Christ Superstar . 

∽⧖∼

Emboldened by your first success, you invent more and more requisition orders to give yourself excuses to leave the Kingdom. Every attempt gives you a better feel for the kind of things that Gabriel will sign for, and the kind of things he won’t. There are three angles you learn to exploit. 

First of all, it turns out that Gabriel is quite susceptible to flattery. Flattery comes in many forms, from wars started on one’s behalf to fawning portraiture. But the most sincere form of flattery is imitation. You return from one expedition beyond the Kingdom walls with some yellowed Papal bulls, “Honk if you love Jesus” bumper stickers, and a very earnest Renaissance painting depicting the archangel himself. “Would you like me to hang this one up for you?” you ask Gabriel. As if the inside of Westminster Abbey wasn’t already plastered with doughy-faced portraits of the archangel retrieved during your expeditions.  

Gabriel tilts his head as he beholds his likeness. “Who painted this one?” he asks. 

“Ah. That would be Francisco de Zurbarán,” you reply. One of the old masters. The Spanish Caravaggio. 

“He’s missing my jawline.” The archangel traces his finger across the painting’s face. “Wouldn’t be caught dead in that outfit, either.”  

“I think it’s rather sharp... he’s got the eyes right, at least.” You’ll eat your bowtie if the painting’s expression of dopey innocence has ever crossed Gabriel’s face. “It’d be a shame to throw it out. Would you mind if I store it in the Archive?” With the other hundred paintings of angels that you have retrieved from various museums, unexploded mansions, and Swiss safety deposit boxes. They are all very large and effective in distracting Archive visitors away from, ah, some more delicate acquisitions. 

“Nah, of course not. Shame nobody ever painted a portrait of you, Aziraphale.” 

“We can’t all strike such a dashing figure,” you say. “Oh. I found something else that you might like. Do you have a television?” 

“A what?” says Gabriel. 

“A moving picture-box. It’s got a hole where you put in discs and videotapes -” 

“Oh, videotapes of pornography, ” says Gabriel. 

“Yes. Exactly. But also , for worship and - ”

Gabriel snaps his fingers, cutting you off. A small, squat television trundles down the aisle of Westminster Abbey on a metal cart. The front-right side is covered in candy-coloured buttons, and there are two slits in the top like a toaster. You obligingly slide in a videocassette labelled Victoria Park Primary Park Nativity, 2004 , and depress the handle in the side. 

Down goes the tape. The slots in the top of the television flare blue. Onscreen, a curtain slides open and a choir of children wearing bedsheets belted around the waist begin to sing Ave Maria while accompanied by a recorder band, all of which are tuned slightly differently from the others. 

Have a Maria, gracias plainer, 

Maria, gracias plainer - 

You hastily fast-forward through this ear-rending performance until a scene where a girl in a dark wig kneels before a boy in a bathrobe and a tinfoil halo. The boy lisps his way through his soliloquy: “Thear not, Mary, you’ve thound thavour with God, and you thall contheith in your womb, and have a thon, and hith name thall be Jesthusth.”

The archangel mouths the words in time to his onscreen actor’s butchered speech. Good. You wait until Gabriel reascends to the heavens via a hop, skip, and jump stage right, before pausing the tape. 

Gabriel turns to you and points at the screen with a grin. “Lookit that! Did you see?” he says. “Wasn’t that just the darndest thing?” 

“Rather so,” you say.

“I’ve got to show Uriel. And Sandalphon. And Michael. I bet nobody’s ever played them before.” The archangel lifts handset of a rotary phone to his ear and begins dialling. 

“Actually, it might be better if, ah, we invite them to the Archive instead,” you say. 

Gabriel pauses mid-dial. “Why?” 

“Because they’ll want to show their subordinates, and then their subordinates will want to show their subordinates, and before you know it there’ll be ten million angels parading through your office, and you’ll never get a whit of work done,” you say. “Better to show it off in the Archive.” 

“Good point, Principality,” declares Gabriel, and slams the handset back into the receiver. 

“Might I also get that television out of your hair?” you add. “A human pornography machine doesn’t quite match the majesty of your decor.” 

Gabriel looks around at all the painted Gabriels gazing beatifically down at him from abbey walls, and then he wrinkles his nose at the television. 

Which is also how you end up with a television in the Archives as well. Like the tape player, it doesn’t run on electricity and weighs about as much as a hunk of styrofoam, because Gabriel does not know that appliances should behave otherwise. All the better for you, since you won’t need to expend any miracles on its operation and upkeep. 

And that television comes into handy when you learn that, second of all, Gabriel enjoys being feared even more than he enjoys being loved. 

“These guys had it right about the pain, death, horror, blood, and earthquakes,” says the archangel, tapping a sweaty man in a powder-blue suit on the television. “But they missed the mark on the Messiah. Jesus is not the telephone repairman on the switchboard of anyone’s life. He’s a carpenter. And imagine if we had to personally go through all of those folk to separate the righteous from the chaff - well, where would we even find the time to go and build the Third Temple? Just stow them in Purgatory, and sort them out after.” He cocks his head at you. “What is this, again?” 

“ Marvin’s Hour of Power,” you supply. 

“Right, Aziraphale. Marvin’s Hour of Power. Can you send some of this to my office? And does it come in Imperial Aramaic? I want to use it for my speeches.” 

“Uh. I wouldn’t advise that, Marvin spends the second half of the tape begging his viewers for donations. Really quite an irritating fellow. And he only does it in English.”

“English isn’t even a real language,” complains Gabriel. “It’s a hodgepodge of better languages. How about Akkadian? Alexandrian? Latin?” 

“Well, I have this in Italian, which is nearly the same as Latin...” You hand the archangel a handsome hardcover book. Not a first edition, of course. Gabriel doesn't deserve first editions. 

The archangel squints at the cover. “Dante’s Inferno . Never heard of it.” 

“Dante delves into the circles of hell with excruciating detail,” you say with false enthusiasm. “Storms of putrefaction, flaying, plains of fire, and best of all, justice.”  

Gabriel has already flipped through the book to behold an artists’ rendering of a man bitten in half by a lion-headed demon. “Ha. That’s better than anything Downstairs could actually afford. I would’ve spent more time on Earth if I’d known that humans had such vivid little imaginations.” He dog-ears the page, and you stifle a shudder. 

And therein lies the final and most important factor working in your favour. The archangel is not actually very well-acquainted with latter-day human culture. The Crusades were such a logistical nightmare that, after the seventh, Gabriel doffed his plate armour, chucked it in the dry cleaning, and withdrew nearly all the field agents from Earth. So although the archangel has managed to keep abreast of current trends in menswear and weaponry, his knowledge of human culture after the development of the printing press wobbles somewhere between “uninterested” and “disgusted.” 

Which is how, one day, you get brave enough to slide over a requisition form for the portion of Dan Brown’s bibliography featuring Robert Langdon. 

“Who’s Dan Brown?” says Gabriel, as draws his finger down the list of titles.  You visit Gabriel’s office often, just to make sure he’s not making too much progress on Dante’s Inferno . His bookmark barely budges, but the book’s spine is cracked and the corners scuffed. Such are the sacrifices the Archive demands. 

“He’s a, ah, scholar. A very famous one,” you say. “Eighty million humans heard his gospel before the Last Battle.” 

“He had a gospel , then?” says Gabriel. “How come I’d never heard of him before?”  

“Well, he’s very modern, you see, and his gospel is in English, so although it was very popular, it was buried beneath the noise of everyone else on Earth.” It all comes out in one rushed breath: you’re usually a better liar than this. 

“And what does the Gospel of Dan entail?” says Gabriel. 

“Uh. The life of Jesus, mostly. His family. His followers. The usual sort.” You leave out all the parts where Dan Brown makes some allegations about Jesus’s torrid affair with Mary Magdalene, the role of the Freemasons, and the crimes that were committed to the Fibonacci sequence.  

“And why is one of them called The Da Vinci Code ? Leonardo was a witch.” 

“Oh. I wouldn’t worry,” you say. “Leonardo is utterly destroyed in this Gospel. His paintings, and his sciences are all roundly mocked. The man was probably rolling in his grave after the Gospel of Dan was published. The title is ironic, specifically to anger his latter-day followers.” May Leonardo forgive us all for the Da Vinci Code . 

Gabriel nods. “That’s what witches get.” Down goes the rubber stamp: APPROVED. 

Thus does your Archive begin to fill with truly interesting acquisitions. A DVD of The Omen . A tape of the Season One Lucifer finale, including commercials. The original Brick Bible . You fancy yourself as a kind of scholar, salvaging apocrypha from the unloved interregnum of the days before the Last Battle. If you can see proof that those days existed and hear their words of a world gone by - there’s no way that your memory will fail you again.  

After all, collecting apocrypha is a fine, time-honoured tradition. The humans did it first. They compiled Babylonian courtroom transcripts, erotic poetry, and letters by apostles not named Paul. Some of them even managed to get it published in the back of their Bibles. Your apocrypha is just a little bit modern. A little bit eclectic. A little bit diverse. 

And maybe a little bit unhealthy. Speaking objectively, collecting Dan Brown books in a box under your desk is not the indicator of a sound, well-adjusted mind. Gabriel begins to get a bit snippy about your attendance in the Archive (“I mean, what if I wanted to refresh my memory on the Book of Revelations, and you weren’t there? What would I do then, Principality? Ask Sandalphon?” As if he couldn’t quote the entire published Word at the drop of a hat.) But anything is an improvement over drinking yourself insensate on box wine every afternoon. 

∽⧖∼

Perhaps you become a little too industrious in composing requisition orders to escape the Kingdom. Perhaps the cardboard boxes bulging with secrets under your desk and behind the back shelves of the Archives and up on the mausoleum rafters and in tiny loft where you sleep are getting just a little too numerous. Perhaps slipping borderline-heretical media through the Southern Gate and into the Archive brings you a little too much wild-eyed, manic delight. Which is not a thing to be said lightly. A drowner will cling to anything and anyone that might buoy them above the darkness, and any joy that can be eked out of this new world should be cherished. A trip beyond the Kingdom walls buys hours outside Heaven’s grasp and a sacrilegious little souvenir to boot is a trip worth taking. But please, isn’t discretion the better part of valour? 

Large, eye-catching paintings of angels triumphing in battle over demons adorning every bare inch of the Archive’s walls and ceiling only go so far to distract your visitors. More than one angel who took a wrong turn on their way to the Third Temple has already stuck a finger into the tape player before you caught and ejected them. What would you say if Uriel asked why The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal is not included in any of the other gospels? What would Gabriel think of the film Gabriel? Could you honestly speak of “dear coworker Moroni” with a straight face after anyone flips casually through The Book of Mormon ? To say nothing of the chaos that would ensue if angelic eyes ever set upon your Broadway bootleg of the musical version. 

This Apocrypha needs real protection. A bank vault protected with laser beams and pressure-sensitive floors would be preferable. Or an underground bunker with autonomous turrets. You’ll settle for gating off half the mausoleum. Angels are naturally law-abiding entities. None of them would so much as dare step over a velvet rope barrier, let alone break through a sturdy wooden gate with a strongly-worded sign on top. 

Well, almost none. 

It still behoves you to minimise the inherent risk of the endeavour by enlisting professional help for the job. The last renovation you undertook was an ill-advised experiment with wallpaper during the nineties. That ended with paste in the computer, paste on the couch, and paste in your hair. You had to wear a hat for a month after cutting it out. Never again. You submit a Maintenance Ticket to Facilities for assistance. 

Three days later, a handyangel shows up at the door to the Archive. He has olive skin, curly black hair, and scarred, callused hands. His tools, poking out of a leather satchel, are ageworn and well-used - a good sign, given the average angel’s proficiency at construction work. He is garbed in cream, long-sleeved overalls, though the leather sandals on his feet offer minimal protection from the danger of stubbed toes or falling hammers. “Hi,” he says in a soft voice. “You are the Archivist?” 

“Is anyone else wearing tartan? Take a seat.” You usher him in and begin to rummage around the shelves to find the blueprints you’ve drawn. 

The handyangel has an extremely elective sense of hearing. He approaches the shelves before you can stop him, ignoring the paintings you’ve strategically placed for maximum eye-catching utility. At least he doesn’t touch the books: he just crouches down at the first shelf of Bibles, inspecting the spines. 

“Have you never seen a book before?” you say. 

“I’ve read a few,” he says vaguely. “I didn’t recall so many sequels.” 

“Same book, different edition Now, if you’re finished, we haven’t got all day -” 

“I suppose that the whole world really could contain room for the books that would be written.” 

Just what you need. A Word-quoting minion. You clear your throat, and for good measure, thump on the top of the study tables. One of them cracks slightly under the force of your fist. Good thing you have a handyangel here to fix it. 

“Sorry,” he says hurriedly. “Old habits die hard.” He sits in a reading chair. 

You unroll your blueprints and pace up and down the corridor between the two columns of Archive shelves. “In the beginning, the Almighty created the heavens and the earth, and also light, and finished up by planting the garden of Eden.” 

The angel furrows his brow slightly at your paraphrase, but nods politely. 

“And around the garden of Eden, the Almighty made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, including the pomegranate tree, the palm tree, the pear tree, the maple tree, the pineapple, the strawberry bush -” Here, the handyangel’s eyes begin to glaze over, so you hurry ahead - ”except the Tree of Knowledge. Afterwards, the Almighty put down a great wall, ten cubits wide, and thirty cubits high, to keep the rabbits from eating all the lettuces, and to keep the lions from eating Adam. You are here to build the fence around my Tree of Knowledge. Erm.” You squint at the handyangel. “You can do woodwork, right?” 

“I’m a carpenter by trade, yes,” he says. 

“So you would be knowledgeable in relief-carving and scrollwork.” 

“Mostly chairs. But yes, if you say so,” he says. 

Those had better be very fancy chairs, to pull off what you have in mind. “Ah. Good. Because I would like you to build a floor-to-ceiling fence to divide the Archive in half. The posts should be spaced a palm apart, and engraved with various period-accurate vines, fruits, and flowers - please write this down.” 

“Sorry,” says the carpenter. He pulls out an ivory stylus and begins scratching away at a wax tablet. 

“Right. And then a pair of double doors, six cubits high, right in the middle of the wall. Here, we’ll want something a little different -”  

But as you gather a breath to explain the exact nature of the ornamentation that should grace the inner gate of the Archive, the bells of Heaven begin to ring. And they don’t stop. They grow louder. The edges of your vision close inwards. You stumble into the corner of the reading-table, bruising your hipbone. The carpet on the ground rushes dangerously near.  

For several moments, you cannot see anything but the black of your eyelids, hear nothing but the deafening bells in your ears. And it is cold in there, as cold as the space between stars, devoid of past and future. Instinct bids you to reach for the nearest solid object before you drown. You reach blindly out, grasping onto something smooth and wooden, and you pull yourself through  the ocean’s surface - 

And you come to, not flat on your back with a throbbing headache, or at the Quartermaster’s office with a fist full of recorporation paperwork, but seated neatly in a conference chair, with a death-grip on the table’s edge. Your hand holds a leaky biro. A drop of ink collects at the tip, like a bead of dew hanging off a blade of grass. It falls onto your blueprints and blooms, feathery petals spreading across the paper. 

The carpenter coughs, and you abruptly turn in his direction. “Yes. Goodness. Where was I?” you say. 

“You were discussing the carvings that you envisioned for the gate,” says the angel. “The Tree of Knowledge.” 

You force yourself to concentrate on a fixed point, and your eye falls on the inkblot that mars your blueprints. The ink spreads and grows like the branches of an impossibly delicate tree. How appropriate. “Of course. It’s traditional. Iconic. Centre the Tree of Knowledge on the door.”

“But you don’t want Adam and Eve under the tree,” says the angel. He isn’t writing on his wax tablet. 

You hesitate before making your next request. Is it, perhaps, a bit much? 

Well, yes, of course it is a bit much. Indeed, you will probably regret it later. Much as you may come to regret collecting Apocrypha within the heart of Heaven. But even a touch of heresy in the Kingdom does not even begin to approach the top of your list of regrets. An extra bit of ornamentation on the Archive gate barely registers. “No. Show the guard of the Eastern Gate, instead.” 

“You?” says the angel. “I guess I could carve you from life, if you pose.”

“Yes. No. I want to look like I was before.” And slowly, you pull a drawing out from your folio. It is a sketch of your face, as drawn by Leonardo on a sunny Florence morning. Part of a set of two, salvaged from a safe in Soho (its counterpart is tucked away safely beneath the mausoleum flagstones.) Look at it. Hardly any worry creases across the face. A cautious smile. Eyes that dare to look forwards to what tomorrow might bring. “War left a few unsightly... marks.”  

“Are you ashamed of them?” he says.

“Excuse me,” you snap.  

The angel doesn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. Faithful are the wounds of a friend.” 

Just your luck to have to subcontract out the renovation of your mausoleum to a Proverbs-quoting zealot. You point your pen aggressively at the carpenter. “At the end of the day, a wound is still a wound. You’d know that, if you’d actually fought in the Last Battle. Did you even see any action? Or did you hide in a trench while better angels - better humans died?” 

“Touché,” he says. “When would you like me to begin construction?”

The sudden change of topic throws you for a loop. “I - ah - when can your team be ready?” 

“Anytime you want,” he says. 

“Is tomorrow too soon?” 

“I don’t have any other work lined up.” 

“Then come tomorrow,” you say. 

“All right,” says the carpenter, and then reaches across the table. He pauses halfway, empty hand outstretched. 

Slowly, unwillingly, your hand jerks forwards to clasp his hand and shake it perfunctorily. His hands are work-roughened, like yours. You pull away as quickly as you can, but the other angel doesn’t seem offended. 

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. He tucks his wax tablet and stylus into a coverall pocket, and opens the Archive door to leave. But at the last moment, he half-turns and looks at you, and suddenly your sunglasses feel neither thick nor dark enough. His eyes are brown and weary and altogether too old for the face he is wearing. You open your mouth to say anything to break his gaze. Maybe, do I have manna crumbs on my face . But then he dips his head before you can respond, and closes the Archive door behind him. 

Chapter Text

You put your requisitions on hold to supervise the carpenter while he builds your fence out of discarded pallet-wood, abandoned Swedish furniture, and charred church-pews. Gabriel compliments you for finally adhering to core hours ("Between you and me, Principality, your absences were not going to look good on your next performance review"), but close surveillance turns out to be wholly unnecessary. To his credit, the carpenter politely ignores the cardboard boxes of Bibles and apocrypha stacked lopsidedly in the Archive corners, resists any temptation to twiddle with the television knobs, and refrains from making too much small-talk. The worst you can say is that the carpenter’s presence prevents you from indulging in day-drinking to the fullest extent. 

He doesn’t even mind when you play music in the Archives. A little bit of Beethoven. Some Handel. Some Hayden. The western canon is full of chorales that, while dreadfully inoffensive, provide a reprieve from the fugue of celestial bells outside. (But no Bach. You have not come upon a single Bach recording in all your trips outside the Kingdom walls. It’s likely they’ve all been destroyed or confiscated as part of the ongoing plagiarism investigation.)   

A month later, the carpenter finishes rubbing linseed oil into the fence, and beckons you to rise from your desk to behold his work. Beyond the double-column of half-empty shelves, an intricate fence rises from the ground in the middle of the mausoleum, dividing the front and back halves of the building. The posts themselves are barely visible, overgrown as they are with carved vines and shrubbery. Those leaves that range from the length of an angel’s thumbnail to the diameter of a hubcap, overlapping so thickly as to leave only fragmented, tantalising glimpses of the shelves beyond. Etched birds and animals frolic amongst their wooden forest. All of this is rendered in all the different colours of wood, from the pale birch of a dove’s feathers to the walnut of a monkey’s fur, with only faint lines of silver gilt to mark the light in a tapir’s eye or the shine of dew upon the leaves. 

Solid double doors in the middle of the fence stretch up to the ceiling of the Archives, and are twice as wide as your current armspan. The boughs of the Tree of Knowledge stretch across its expanse as large as life. On the left side of the trunk, a carved angel sits on a boulder in the shade of the carven branches. No sword hangs from his belt, but a scroll lies unrolled in his lap, while his hand poises mid-air with a reed pen. Whatever he is writing brings a gentle smile to his face, yet unbothered by the swiftly coming storm.  Touches of gold gild his hair and ignite a spark of life in his irises. They are the only traces of gold on the entire fence.  

A bronze lock scavenged from one of the teller cages at the Bank of London is embedded dead centre between the two doors in the trunk of the Tree of Knowledge, within an apple-shaped bezel. It won’t stand up to any real force, but it doesn’t need to, because you’ve harnessed the forces of bureaucracy to protect your tiny kingdom. One index card taped above the lock reads: 

SPECIAL COLLECTIONS

No Admittance Except by Permission of the Archivist. 

Trespassers Will be Prosecuted to the Fullest Extent of The Plan.  

The carpenter looks at you with the manner of a nervous pupil presenting an essay to his schoolmaster. “Do you like it?” 

You reach towards your nominal likeness beneath the tree. To touch its cheek? To pat its hair? Your hand hovers in the infinite abyss between possibilities. 

You pull back. “Mostly built chairs, you said.” 

“I also built tables,” he says. 

“Must’ve been quite some tables.” 

“They were alright,” he says, but wilts under your glare. “I had two thousand years to practise,” he adds. “Anyone could get good at anything if they had that long. With a good teacher.” 

“I know of some houseplants and harpischords that would disagree with you.” 

“As is their right,” says the carpenter, and then sighs. “I’m glad you like the doors. It’s been a pleasure working for you, Archivist.” 

“Suppose you’ll be back to framing the Third Temple and decorating Michael’s throne and such.”  

“Actually, scavenging in the pits,” says the carpenter. 

You recoil. “What? But the pit angels barely know which end of the pickaxe to hold! And you’re - you’re - quite good, really.” Understatement of the year, dear.  

“Good thing I’m around to show them the pointy end,” says the carpenter. 

“No, you’re - you’re the Michelangelo of wood, you could be remaking the Pieta - ” 

“Thank you, but I would really prefer not to,” says the carpenter. “My first choice of assignment was actually to minister to the people outside the walls.” 

“Preaching the Word.” You’d nearly forgotten the carpenter was a bit of a zealot.  

“Well. Also healing the sick, helping them grow crops, building shelters,” says the carpenter. “I have a whole kit of medical equipment I've been practising with...”

“Oh. That must’ve gone over well, what with the budget situation being what it is.” 

“Regardless of the shortfall, Gabriel said I couldn’t go. That it wasn’t safe beyond the Kingdom walls. That he’d hate to lose me to an angry mob or something.” The corner of his mouth quirks upwards. “I mean, he has a point.”  

“There’s nothing out there that couldn’t be handled with that hammer,” you say. “You have built an absolute masterpiece in this garden gate. Let me repay you. I could, perhaps, slip a good word in with Gabriel, expedite your paperwork -” 

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” says the carpenter. 

“- if he doesn’t want you travelling alone, I could - I could specifically request your assistance during my own expeditions.” That came out more easily than expected. Well done, Archivist.   

“No, but thank you for offering,” says the carpenter. Potential crisis averted. “The archangel has spoken, and my place is here. For now, anyway.” 

You grit your teeth. If the carpenter would just let you compensate him for the fine work in the Archive, you’d never feel obligated to him again. That’s how Arrangements are supposed to go. A blessing here for a demonic intervention there. You’ve never had to tempt someone to accept repayment for a debt incurred. Could you even still pull one of those off, for auld lang syne? 

You have four weeks of minor miracles saved up from the month you did not spend scavenging books from lead-lined dumpsters, or drinking alone in the Archive. That’s worth something. In the corner of the Archive is a nearly-empty pallet of bottled water. You heft it up onto a reading table in the middle of the room, point at it and mouth, one: it becomes box wine. 

Two . A decent chardonnay. 

Three. Sparking rosé. 

Four. Champagne brut, in an ice bucket, with two flutes. You pop the cork and pour two generous servings for you and the carpenter. “Have you ever had champagne before?” 

His eyes go wide. “It has been a long time since anyone has offered me a drink. Let alone in the Kingdom,” he says, and takes the flute. Delicate trails of bubbles trail upwards through the champagne.

“Join the club. To - your fine work here.” You raise the glass to him. 

“To the wisdom you have gathered here.” He clinks his glass against yours and sips the champagne carefully. 

“Gabriel’s been the custodian of most of that .” You gesture at the shelves of Bibles queuing in front of the garden gate. “And now, the job’s passed onto me. Do be careful with that, dear boy.” 

“Never had it with the bubbles before,” says the carpenter. 

You swirl the champagne gently around the flute and sniff it. “Whiffs of apple, pear, and brioche. A bit buttery.” 

“Hmm.” The carpenter apes your movements. “I detect a real... fortitude of flavour, tempered by wishful thinking.” 

Your eyebrows go up. “Are you impugning my palate?” 

“Of course not,” says the carpenter, and daintily sips the champagne. 

You finish your glass and pour another. “A refill for you?” you ask the carpenter. 

He puts his flute down and rubs his stomach. “That was delicious, but my thirst is quite quenched now. Thank you.” 

“If we don’t finish it today, the bubbles will go flat and the bottle will go to waste. But if you don’t help me, I might have to try and drink it all by myself, and make myself sick. You would be honour bound to fan me with palms and bring me water.” You lift the second glass of champagne to your lips and tilt your head backwards. It tastes like poached pears with lemon zest and butter croissants, at a cafe in Sarajevo. Or was it Nantes? Doesn’t matter now. Time for a third glass. “Do us a favour, and save me from myself.” 

“Archivist, it’s a bit embarrassing when you put it like that.” The carpenter has a pained look on his face. Good. “I cannot just snap my fingers and save you from yourself , as you put it. Redemption comes from within.”

“Is that on the table now?” Along with the increasingly empty bottle of champagne. Louis Roederer: pairs nicely with seafood, mushrooms, and salvation. “I’m very sorry to break it to you, but my redemption isn’t part of The Plan. Not like the triumph of Heaven over Hell, the return of the Kingdom, the construction of the Third Temple. We always knew those were coming. Maybe in a few centuries. Or a few months. But certainly not today , oh no.” You pour a third glass of champagne. “Funny how that sort of thing sneaks up on you.”   

“Maybe you just don’t want to be saved.” 

You haven’t eaten in ages, the champagne has soured in your mouth, and the bubbles are going right to your head. “That’s right. I never asked to be saved. But here I am anyway. It only cost the entire world .” You sweep your arm at the garden gate. “This is all that’s left. A pile of third-rate, unauthorised scripture.”

“That’s not true. It’s still in here.” The carpenter taps the centre of his chest. “The memory of the just is blessed.” 

Another saccharine proverb. You jab at your own temple with an index finger. “And the name of the wicked shall rot.” Some human cultures refuse to speak the names of the dead, so as not to tempt their souls back to Earth. There is a name which has not crossed your lips in over three years. If you refuse to speak and think it, do you think you might forget it too?   

“You’re not wicked,” says the carpenter. 

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” you say. “Anyway, I asked you to save the bottle from going flat, not to save me from myself. Stop trying to distract from the real issue.” 

“Oh. That’s easy,” says the carpenter. He picks up the bottle by the neck. Congratulations, Archivist, you’ve won. Didn’t expect him to drink right out of the bottle, but you can never - 

Oh. No. He’s tipping it out the window. 

“Don’t you dare,” you howl, and fling yourself at the bottle. “Four small miracles went into that - don’t you dare waste it -” 

“It wasn’t wasted, but we’ve already enjoyed ourselves as much as was wise -” 

You try to wrest the bottle away from the carpenter. His grip is surprisingly strong from all the chair-building. And unlike you, he hasn’t forced three oversized glasses of champagne down his throat. But while you unsuccessfully try to pull his fingers one by one off the bottle, his eyes go wide. “Your hands are ice cold, Archivist. Are you feeling alright?” 

He lets go of the bottle, and you stumble backwards, right into the lovely wooden gate that was finished not even an hour prior. You brace yourself to break through a carving of pelicans and fall into a pile of broken timber. But instead, your skull bounces right off the wood, and you land flat on your back, on the ground. It’s so cold. So dark. Waves crash over your head and leave you reeling. Your limbs feel heavy, dragging you down into the depths below. Come on, get up. 

You blindly pull yourself into a seated position using the leafy fenceposts. Open your eyes. Get your bearings. These are the Archives. That is the gate to your garden. 

And that, twined in the shadows on the right-side of the Tree of Knowledge, is the Serpent. You hadn’t noticed it before. Its scales blend neatly into fallen leaves. But mere inches away, there’s no mistaking the polished glint in its eyes, the forked tongue, the laughing mouth.   

You feel as if you’ve been run over by Sandalphon’s Humvee. A chill settles over your skin. Every hair stands on end. Every instinct screams at you to get out. There’s one exit to the Archives, and it’s far, far behind the carpenter. But there’s something else you need to do first. 

The carpenter bends over you. “Archivist - come on, let’s get some water into you -” 

“No,” you croak, and with the reserves of strength borne of fear, you stand upright, grab the front of his tunic, and shove him up against the wall. He doesn’t resist. “Did you carve that?” you say, jerking your head towards the serpent that profanes the gate. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“Who else knows about this?” Distantly, you’re running through your personal worst-case scenario handbook. It’d be a shame to discorporate the carpenter. You have such respect for his craft. But if he knows something that he shouldn’t - well. You have to look out for yourself nowadays. The recorporation paperwork would take at least a week to complete. In the meantime, you’d have a head start to escape to Timbuktu or something. But where could you go, that the Kingdom would not track you down for your blasphemy? Never perform a miracle again, never speak to another living soul, and they will still hunt you down by your aura and drag you back.   

“Just you. I mean, you told me to carve it,” he says, and coughs. 

Your grip actually loosens in shock. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t have. Why would I want this?” 

“Well, you were giving instruction on what you wanted carved as part of your homage to the Garden of Eden. The Tree of Knowledge was to be carved across the gates, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate in its shade, and the Serpent ‘round the trunk. It’s in my notes - you can check it -”

“Don’t move,” you say, and the carpenter obliges by breaking into another coughing fit when you put him down. His wax tablet is smeared from the scuffle, but you can still make out the essentials: 

lettuce, rabbits, pelican 

double door, six cubits high, big lock

Tree of Knowledge centred  

Serpent of Eden 

Angel of the Eastern Gate, see attached sketch

“I asked for this,” you say. 

“Yes. It seemed theologically appropriate,” says the carpenter, still trying to catch his breath. “As a warning against trespass -”

His account fades beneath the roar of your pulse. The situation has been gravely misjudged. The carpenter doesn’t even suspect anything is amiss, although he might cotton on following this assault. The real problem is that you apparently asked him to carve the Serpent on the door, but you don’t even remember. 

You numbly hand the wax tablet back to the carpenter. What else have you forgotten? What will be the next thing you lose to Heaven’s fugue? 

The waves of an ocean crash in your ears, distant at first, and then closer and closer. It is suddenly cold, so cold. You tuck your hands under your arms to try and warm them, but to no avail. Just another corpse in the mausoleum if you can’t salvage the situation. 

Damage control. You’re good at damage control. “Sorry,” you mumble, while affecting your best thousand-yard stare. It isn’t hard. The Archive around you is barely visible: in the corners of your vision, an icy sea under a starless night is closing in. “I mistook you for someone else. Wartime twitches, y’know. Old habits die hard. I’m closing up early. You ought to go.”   

Mercifully, the carpenter takes his tablet and his tools and makes himself scarce. If you’re lucky, he’ll have a sense of discretion equal to his sense of propriety. If you’re very lucky, you won’t have spilled too much champagne... 

And indeed, the bottle is resting upright against a pile of scrap wood. You tilt it to your lips and drink the rest in long, gulping swallows. It no longer tastes like little pastries. It tastes metallic. Has the bottle gone off already? 

You wipe your mouth on the sleeve of your jacket, and it comes away with a little redness. Must’ve been biting your lip during that altercation. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Your hands tighten on the neck of the bottle. And then you smash it against the carpenter’s exquisite doors. 

The bottle breaks into a hundred pieces on the Tree of Knowledge. Lamplight refracts off the fragments as they are suspended in the air for a moment, quicksilver leaves blown from the tree by a sudden gust.

The bells ring outside. The glass shards fall to the ground. They crunch beneath your oxfords when you cross the floor to retrieve the largest fragment. In a last fit of self-preservation, you wrap it in a rag that the carpenter had left behind. Voila, a shiv.

Then, before you can be tempted to draw it anywhere else, you go to work at the Serpent, scraping its beautiful scales off the door. Splinter by splinter is the proof of your lapse in judgement obliterated. 

Not the price, though. The price was paid. There are no refunds and no exchanges, and Lord help you if you try to raise a fuss with the manager. 

When you are finished, the Serpent has been reduced to a raggedy shadow in the leaves, stalking the angel beneath the tree. Reflexively, you turn around to look at your own shadow. It is exactly where you left it, in the exact shape it ought to be. 

“You stay put,” you say to your shadow, and ease into a chair at the reading table to begin your vigil. Your shadow flickers in the lamplight, blown this way and that by the draft that seeps from under the Archive door and into your bones. You hunch over more to keep in the fading glow of champagne in your stomach, and cover yourself in cardboard like a blanket. 

The Angel of the Eastern Gate keeps you company. The cold does not touch his wooden skin. He doesn’t pull the folds of his tunic around his shoulders to keep warm. The unwritten years still unfurl before him like an opening frond. But the dimming light brings haggard shadows to his face that were not there before. He must’ve known what The Plan had in store, and he didn’t even try to sway its path until it was too late. You will carry those regrets forever. 

The two of you watch your shadow, even as evening darkens into night and frost creeps across the Archive windows, like a thicket of silver thorns closing in. 

This is a fruitless exercise. You can’t keep warm. Your shadow won’t betray you. 

You should have been looking in the glass. 

Chapter Text

You awaken in the morning to the sound of ceaseless bells, with your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, your bowtie sloppy, and your glasses jammed between your cheek and the Archive floor. The Serpent in the garden gate has been reduced to chunky sawdust, scattered across the Archive floor and down the front of your jacket. But a blurry shadow still coils around the roots of the Tree of Knowledge, watching the wooden Angel of the Eastern Gate as he scribes the deeds of the day into his scroll. Unlike the Kingdom, you have not completely succeeded in obliterating the past.

What’s worse, the past has not seen fit to forget your indiscretions. Someone is already knocking at the Archive door. It is entirely too early to deal with angels who got lost on their way to Westminster Abbey. You attempt to lift your head from the floor, only to find that your neck and shoulder have seized up. With one working arm, you pull yourself to your feet using the edge of the reading table. The bells continue to reverberate in your head, while you massage the feeling back into your stiff arm. Is this - a hangover? You’ve never had a hangover before. Not when you’d drunk five drams of laudanum in an Irish graveyard. Not when you’d cleared out half of Louis the Fourteenth’s cellar on the eve of the French revolution. Not when you’d overestimated a new corporation’s metabolic rate while taking it on a New Year’s shakedown cruise in Hong Kong - 

“Archivist? Are you decent?” calls the carpenter’s voice. 

Your stomach churns anxiously, so you sag into a conference chair, pocket your glasses, and pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers. Why him? Just this once, a visit from Sandalphon and his brand new bazooka would be preferable. Or the quartermaster, inquiring sternly about wear and tear to motorpool vehicles. Or even Gabriel, come with reprimands for the Archive’s failure to adhere to core hours. But the prospect of exchanging stammered salutations and nervous niceties is too much to handle. Maybe if you’re very, very quiet, he’ll think you’re not in and go away, never to come calling again.

Another knock at the door sends your stomach roiling anew. Oh, no. You stumble full-tilt out the mausoleum double doors, and out into the thin morning sun. You are not yet so far fallen as to throw up in your own tomb, where the person who will have to clean up the mess is you. 

The tattered remnants of your volition evaporate in the cold light of day. You double over and empty your stomach into a dead bush beside the Archive steps. The exertion leaves you weak-kneed. You reach out to brace yourself on a column, and nearly fall over. 

The carpenter catches you by the arm. “Steady, steady. Let’s get some water and manna into you.” 

“You’re back,” you say dumbly. “Why are you back?” Though you can see his breath fogging the air, he seems perfectly comfortable in the chilly autumn air. You, in comparison, feel like Ötzi the Iceman.

“Yesterday afternoon, you said I’d be honour-bound to fan you with palms and fetch you water if I didn’t help you with the champagne.” The carpenter offers you a canteen of water. 

“It was a joke.” You ignore the carpenter’s offer, but untie your bowtie and use it to mop the sweat off your brow. 

“I know, but jokes are only funny when they’re true.”

“Good thing it wasn’t a funny joke.” You squint at the pale midmorning, pretending to admire the scaffolding of the Third Temple rising over the horizon. It’s hideous, but still better than having to look the carpenter in the eye. 

The carpenter shrugs. “I’ll take what I can receive.”  

“You don’t get out much, do you?” 

The carpenter abruptly doubles over with laughter. He shakes so hard you’re afraid he might discorporate himself. You jerk your gaze away from the Third Temple just to make sure that he won’t, and then start scanning the graveyard in front of the Archive for any passerby tucked between headstones. For a split second you think you catch a glimpse of Gabriel and an army of auditors coming down the cemetery path, before realising it’s just a plastic bag caught in a dead tree. But that doesn’t mean that the archangel won’t hear the carpenter’s guffaws echoing from half a city away. After all, there’s not much laughter in the Kingdom. 

And the carpenter still hasn’t stopped laughing. Has it really come to this? You awkwardly manoeuvre him across the Archive threshold, kick the doors closed behind you, and set him into a reading chair. 

A few moments later, the carpenter’s trembling begins to subside. 

“Finished?” you ask while slipping your sunglasses back on.

The carpenter dabs at his eyes with the sleeve of his overalls. “Sorry. A field agent once showed me all the kingdoms of the world. For my career development, I think. But that was ages ago. Haven’t been out since.” 

“What’s so funny about that?” you ask indignantly. 

“I suppose, nothing. Nothing at all.” But he is still smiling . It’s a perfectly nice, normal sort of smile, like the sort one might see on a Father Christmas mug or an elderly labrador retriever, but somehow even more nice. Even more normal. So why does that simple, guileless expression strike you with such unutterable dread?

Pull yourself together and resist your corporation’s primal instinct to run gibbering out of the Archive. You’re better than some smarmy, jumped-up Celestial Reclamation Specialist with too many carpentry hammers and a poor sense of humour. Now tell him so. “Can’t imagine why Gabriel didn’t let you back out. Especially with the level of composure and professionalism you’ve just shown. Just an absolute paragon of virtue.”  

The carpenter nods. “Actually, that’s exactly what Gabriel said. Right before he told me that I was, perhaps, getting a little overfamiliar with the subjects of Earth, that the planet was getting too unsafe to visit anyway, and that perhaps it’d be worthwhile to shadow different departments to get a feel for how the Kingdom was managed.”

Oh, no. “Wait. Is that why you came back to the Archive? Are you supposed to be... my intern?”  

The carpenter grins, but at least he doesn’t break into peals of laughter again. “Goodness, no. I'm still unassigned. They might open up a new position for me when they finish the Third Temple. But for now, I’m sort of... between opportunities. An extant branch of the organisational tree. Generally left to my own devices, as long as I don’t muck around too much with the Plan.” Then he has the temerity to stand up and pat you on the shoulder. “No, I came back to ask - are you feeling better? I’m quite sorry about yesterday.” 

How dare he steal the first apology of the day. It should’ve been yours, seeing as you’re the one who slammed him into a bookcase and made all sorts of unfounded and unhinged allegations. Now you can’t even apologise back to him properly because apologies beget apologies: Sorry , followed by no I’m sorry, and oh I’m sorry I interrupted, you first, and then no you , all unto the heat-death of the universe. This is why you will never visit Canada again. No more apologies. “I’m right as rain.” 

“That’s good. Things happen sometimes,” he says breezily, and without a whit of acknowledgement for the apology-fugue you thoughtfully averted. “And the future is an open book. Speaking of which, would you mind if I perused some of the books you’ve collected in the Archive? I rather liked all the parts of the world that I did see, and am curious about what has been written about them in the millennia since.” 

Now, this is the point where any self-respecting Archivist could employ an array of strategies to repel would-be visitors, including unpleasant damp smells, glowering looks, and erratic opening hours. Unfortunately this is the Kingdom, and not Soho. Damp smells give you a headache. Glowering looks are somewhat muted by your sunglasses. And core hours are set by Gabriel, not you. Besides, have you really the heart to deny Archive admittance to someone who has rather quickly forgiven you for drunkenly slamming them against a bookshelf? 

Perhaps a few centuries ago, when you had a bit more steel in your spine. When your job demanded that you never give quarter. When you were wholly devoted to your mission on Earth in heart and mind -  

Ah. Who are you kidding? Over the last few thousand years, you’ve broken every rule in the book. Even the ones you write yourself. Particularly the ones you write yourself. Hope for the best, but expect the worst. There’s no such thing as a free Chateau Lafitte. Do unto others before they do unto you. Water plants only when the top inch of soil is dry to the touch.   

You let the Carpenter into the Archive. To him that knocketh, the door shall be opened. 

You can always bar the doors tomorrow. 

∽⧖∼

You do not deny admittance to the carpenter the next day, or the day after, or the one after that. So he arrives at the Archive every morning at nine o’clock sharp, peruses the general collection for two or three hours, and then leaves. By the time you realise his attendance has turned from a matter of guilt to a matter of routine, it feels... inappropriate to begin employing eviction strategies like hovering uncomfortably close to his left shoulder, sighing every ten seconds, or coughing with your mouth uncovered. He’d probably just smile and say, “Bless you.” Absolutely insufferable.

He is so insufferable, that you stop thinking of him as “the carpenter” and just “Carpenter” instead. At this point, it’s too late to call him anything else. Especially by his given name. You and Carpenter are not on a first-name basis, despite Carpenter’s overfamiliarity. (Oh, you’re not unaware of what his full name actually is. But to acknowledge it would make everything weird and you’d probably have to start bowing. It’s so much easier to shove all those notions into the far, cold crevasses of your mind, cover them with a tarp, and just call him Carpenter.)  

Eventually, you resort to leaving him to study alone in the Archive. All of your apocrypha has been safely stowed in the sanctum behind the garden gate, while the shelves of holy texts in the front have been bulked out with the inoffensive literature you accumulated while getting a feel of Gabriel’s literary preferences. No longer do they stand half-empty like racks in a looted charity shop, but neatly house an official record of the Plan in action, occasionally augmented by reputable third-party commentary like minutes from the ecumenical council, census records, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

Lately, Carpenter’s literary preferences tend towards Metatron’s monthly all-hands bulletin, The Word . The newsletter documents notable promotions gained, miracles dispensed, and triumphs achieved over Downstairs in a sickeningly cheery light. There’s only so many ways to write the same story, and Metatron has surely used all of them in his newsletters. And Lo! The angel expelled the demon infesting the Upminster Bridge tube station, and the people rejoiced for the trains that would arrive on time again, and the angel received another pat on the back for a job well done . Meanwhile, the Romford Recorder would’ve run the headline, “Miracle at council: signal upgrades on District line completed only two years behind schedule.” 

“What’s the point?” you ask Carpenter. 

Carpenter tilts his head at you from across the reading table. “Sorry, come again?” 

You flick your wrist at the pile of newsletters and encyclopaedia volumes fanned around Carpenter. “The point of reading The Word . Nothing we did made the slightest whit of difference. The Last Battle still happened. Everyone got reassigned. Besides - shouldn’t you already know what’s in them?” You squint at him. “Not looking for your own name to show up, are you?”  

“Yes. No. Awful lot of the same old faces. But once in a while, I find something really interesting.” Carpenter checks the date of the issue he’s currently reading. “Such as in March 1829. Here -”  He beckons you closer. 

The Word of March 1829 is printed on actual paper, rather than papyrus or parchment. Instead of woodcuts and “artists’ renditions,” it features grainy, overexposed photographs. And there on the second page of The Word is a photograph of Gabriel shaking hands with a pale, curly-haired angel. A medal is pinned lopsidedly to the angel’s tweed tailcoat. His face bears an expression of rapture only slightly tainted with confusion. The archangel gives a thumbs up to the camera with his free hand. 

“Second commendation in a century. Do you remember what it was for?” says the Carpenter.

“Not the foggiest clue,” you murmur. “Probably thwarting the opposition. That’s all I was good for.” You glare at Carpenter, and stride back to your desk. There, you pull out a pair of scissors, and carefully cut that picture out of the newsletter, minus Gabriel.

“I thought it was a rather good likeness,” says Carpenter.

“It was. ” The angel in the photo resembles you in the same way that the Salvator Mundi resembles the Ecce Homo. Same face, same body, but two hundred years - or one battle - will do a number on someone. You thrust the mutilated newsletter back to Carpenter, and march the photo back to the Archive sanctum. There, you unlock the doors with a brass key that hangs around your neck, turn around to glare at Carpenter one more time, and slam the garden gate shut. 

The rest of the Apocrypha has been liberated from storage and stuffed higgledy-piggledy into the shelves, with no discernable schema other than it pleases you to slide your eyes sequentially from The Good Place: Season Four to Paradise Lost to Highway to Hell , or across a shelf of spines in fetching shades of red . Gabriel’s miraculous television and cassette player are shoved in the corner, along with a kettle, a campfire stove, and a purple Easter basket half-full of teabags and instant cocoa. You’re not entirely sure where that basket came from, but it stays because you figure that it’s part of a respectable Archivist’s kit and caboodle. 

Between the shelves of Apocrypha stands a scavenged presentation lectern bearing the sole holy text in the sanctum. This one was not included in the stack that Gabriel entrusted to you. It survived the Last Battle in the safe of a private London collector, and now it lies proudly open to Chapter Five of Deuteronomy. And ye said, Behold, the Lord our God hath shewed vs his glory and his great-asse, and wee have heard his voyce out of the midst of the fire. You glance through the verdant fence to make sure Carpenter isn’t watching. Then you slip the bulletin clipping inside Chapter Three of Genesis, and straighten up a pair of Da Vinci sketches tucked inside the Song of Solomon. Good times. The best. If only you could remember them. 

You shiver, despite the warmth radiating from the half-empty cup of hot cocoa in your hand. Where did that cocoa come from? The mug slips from your grasp onto the floor, and breaks. 

“Not again,” you mumble. You crouch down and soak up as much of the mess as you can with completed Daily Telegraph puzzle pages, wrap the broken mug fragments in yet more newsprint, and shove the entire mess in a corner. 

You can carve out a serviceable little reading nook, but at the end of the day that reading nook is still in the Kingdom , the wellspring of poor gardening technique and brutalist post-anthropocene architecture, all wrapped up in a stifling fugue of fear and forgetfulness. It’s been too long since you’ve ventured beyond the Kingdom walls, searching the Earth for just one more shard of skyline silhouetted against a sunrise, as if to greet you after a sleepless night wandering through its ghost-filled streets. One more crumbling stage, to remind you of the musicians who once played upon it. One more swirl of ash that recalls the memory of snow. 

Somewhere beyond the Kingdom walls, there exists a VeggieTales compilation that would neatly fill the awkward gap on the shelf between Raiders of the Lost Ark and Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade . 

What a shame that you can’t be in two places at once. Expanding your collection would necessitate leaving the Apocrypha unguarded, which is unwise. Gabriel would question your commitment to keeping the Archive open during core hours. And Carpenter - well. He’ll just have to change his morning routine. 

But does he?  

It stands to reason that if Carpenter were going to rat on you, he could have done it a hundred times already. When the chunk of wall bearing the Ecce Homo fresco fell out of the rafters during construction. When you unwittingly asked him to carve a demon into the garden gate. When you tried to pressure him into joining your descent into alcoholism. You don’t need to keep watching him like an ersatz security camera. 

Carpenter could be an asset. 

You exit the inner sanctum and lock the garden gate behind you. “I’m filing another order for requisitions beyond the Kingdom walls,” you announce. “And I’d like you, dear boy, to guard the Archive while I’m gone.” You fling yourself into a chair across the reading table from Carpenter and his pile of open books. 

“Me?” he says, fluttering his hand to his chest. “But - nobody’s ever trespassed on the Archive on your previous trips beyond the walls.”

You jab a finger at the gate. “Magnificent work. I cannot overstate it. But hardly subtle. Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“If you say so -” 

“Honestly, a lot like pointing to the Tree of Knowledge and saying Don’t Touch in big letters.” 

Carpenter tucks his ivory stylus behind his ear, where it is half-hidden by dark curls. “You could still lock up the Archive, like you did on prior trips beyond the Kingdom walls.”

“Ah, yes, but Gabriel’s been getting snippy about the Archive’s availability during core hours. Besides, you’re here every morning anyway. What’s a few more hours?” 

“They might miss me at the pits,” he protests weakly. 

“Oh, yes, the foreangel is absolutely begging to have you back in the mornings. Down there, you’re just a pair of hands and a pickaxe. Here, you could - you could have the opportunity to spread the Word, like you said you wanted to do! I have a dozen shelves of the Word, and hardly enough time to disseminate them properly in the Kingdom.” Your voice turns pleading. “Look. I’ll fill in the transfer paperwork. Say that the Archive is getting too big for one angel to handle. We can give it a trial run.” 

“Surely one of your other visitors would be more suited to the post. Maybe Sandalphon. Or Muriel. Lovely angels.” 

“I highly doubt that Sandalphon has ever willingly read a book. Or that Muriel would be able to turn a page without ripping it out.” You shake your head. “No, it has to be you. Gabriel won’t have any problem with it. Didn’t he tell you to shadow different departments? The Archive is a department.”  

“Ah -” 

“If you want, I’ll tell him that you’re going to spend every day dusting off his portraits. Or you could be my second-in-command. Whatever you want.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“I’m thrilled at the opportunity; thank you, Archivist for thinking of me; let’s get the paperwork started right away?” you supply. 

“Sorry. No. I’m not actually interested in that kind of position.”  

“You built me the gate. What’s one more job? What’ll it take? Name your price.” 

“Some things can’t be bought,” he says. “But I’ll do it for free if -” 

“If?” If you give him all twelve back-breaking tablets constituting the first edition of Metatron’s Word . If you file a glowing Task Performance Assessment with the celestial quartermaster for his work on the Archive. If you take him with you outside the Kingdom gate on your VeggieTales quest -

“- if you try to be kinder to yourself.” 

You squint at Carpenter through your sunglasses for a good ten seconds. “All right, I give up. What’s your angle here?” 

“Well, not beating yourself up too much. Asking for help, sometimes. Finding yourself again.” 

“No. What, exactly, are you playing at? Wherein lies the rub? When will the other shoe drop?” 

“I don’t drop shoes,” says Carpenter blandly, a statement somewhat undermined by the fact that he extends a foot from under the reading table to show that he is currently wearing sandals. And that he is smiling again. 

Inhale. Exhale. It’s a nice, normal smile. Coincidentally similar to the smile of a Father Christmas ceramic, or the smile of a contented, elderly dog, neither of which are things to fear. Surely, Carpenter doesn’t mean anything by that smile. He must be trying to lighten the mood. Or perhaps he finds English idioms peculiar. Or he simply can’t help the way his face is shaped. “ Asking for help . Have it your way, then. Would you please, kindly, watch the Archive when I’m out of the Kingdom?”  

“Yes.” Carpenter’s smile widens into a grin, and you are struck with the unwavering certainty that the other shoe has just dropped.  

And you haven’t the foggiest idea where. 

Chapter Text

Is it a blessing that Gabriel signs off on Carpenter’s personnel transfer form with such aplomb? “Trying to move into management, Archivist? You’ve got a long way to go. But this is a good first step!” Then he punches you in the arm, which hurts. But deputising Carpenter frees you up to pursue all the requisition orders you can write.

You leave him with keys to the Archive and the sanctum. “If there’s a fire, save the Great-Asse Bible,” you order. There’s a moment when you consider appending a first to the end of that order - save the Great-Asse Bible first - but that moment passes. No point in confusing your new assistant for diminishing returns in cellulose and celluloid.  

Carpenter has graduated from taking notes on a wax tablet to taking notes on sheets of foolscap. A pair of tiny wire-rimmed reading glasses are perched at the end of his nose. He can barely reach your keys over the fortress of Encyclopedia Britannicas and Metatron’s newsletters piled around him. “You know the Bible doesn’t actually say that ; it’s just an inkblot -” 

You waggle a finger at your new report. “Doesn’t matter! You have your orders. Guard the Archive with your life. Nobody else enters the sanctum for any reason.” And thus you leave Carpenter in charge of the Archive, while you depart on a series of unglamorous adventures beyond the Kingdom walls and acquire a complete set of Veggietales tapes. 

He performs well enough in his new role. The Archive doesn’t burn down in your absence. Nor are you mobbed by auditors upon your return. In fact, the Archive looks cleaner than when you left it: a new broom leans against a corner. You’re still waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“ Something must have happened,” you bemoan. 

Carpenter scratches his head. There are dark circles under his eyes, and the edge of his thumbnail is ragged. He’s probably not accustomed to this level of responsibility in the Kingdom. “The angel Muriel visited and asked for something to read.” 

“But she’s got claws! She’d just rip everything to shreds.” You crook your fingers into talons of your own and pull at your face. 

“I know. So I read a book to her.” 

You pause mid-pull, fold your hands behind your back, and straighten your back. “Well. That’s nice. You get to minister to the masses after all, spreading the Word and such.” 

He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t think she wanted to hear the Word.” 

You laugh harshly. “Everyone wants the Word.” 

But not you. You invent more and more excuses to take you away from the Kingdom. 

You commandeer a dinghy to the Trinity College Library in Dublin under the auspices of retrieving a copy of The Screwtape Letters , where moss and ivy hang in thick sheets through the collapsed ceiling and swallows nest in the sagging eaves of the Long Hall, as far as the eye can see. Under the cover of night, you fly to the Cineteca di Bologna to rescue Ben Hur from a deserted town of red-tile roofs, nestled in the shadows of the Apennine mountains between abandoned vineyards hanging heavy with grapes. You even make a quick detour to Vatican City, turning quickly back when it becomes apparent that the enclave is an enormous smoking hole in the ground, beset on all sides by a dark, stinking fog and unexploded landmines. 

But no matter how long you search or how far you venture, you never quite find what you’re looking for. Oh, you ably track down The Parable of the Shower and Other Short Stories, a libretto of Godspell , and even some maniac’s dot-matrix printout of Unsong in a three-ring binder . But each addition to the Archive is admired for less time than the last. Sojourns in the Kingdom become shorter and shorter, lasting only long enough for you to assemble another slapdash requisition order. 

You hunger for the songs that you and the Kingdom have both forgotten, but whose echoes still reverberate through the world beyond the walls. The hoofsteps of wild horses running through the Constantinople hippodrome, as carefree as if they were racing each other across the Anatolian steppe. The roar of the Nile, at long last unshackled by upstream dams, broadening to consume the cities built of hubris on its own crumbling banks. Even the rustle of branches in a forest at night. (But still no Bach.)

Yet no matter how vines tumbling down a crumbling facade sway like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, or how the fire in a lonely lighthouse recalls ancient Alexandria, you can’t shake the feeling that they are only pale reflections of the days when the world was still fresh and new, when the joy of laying eyes upon the myriad wonders of the world was overwhelmingly fierce and foreign and fearsome. And despite the Earth’s most fervent attempts to overwhelm you with unfettered beauty, you were never afraid, because you knew beyond a shadow of doubt that there was someone who felt exactly the way that you did.  

No longer. Try to walk memory lane too many times and the original tracks of two travellers taking a serendipitious stroll along the garden path will be worn down by the mad furrow of a lone walker trying to recapture the old joy of days long past. Read a book too many times and you’ll tear the pages. Try too hard to restore Ecce Homo and you’ll end up with Ecce Mono. 

In the deepest corners of your mind, you worry that one day you’ll realise that this brand new world truly has nothing more to offer you. That the well of old memories will run dry, and the meagre joys of hoarding scraps of the blasphemous past will dwindle into dust. That you’ll find that all your best days are behind you, and that the infinite tomorrow holds nothing but fading echoes to be drowned out by Heaven’s jubilant fugue of bells. It frightens you to think of what will happen when that day comes. 

It frightens you enough to try to stave that day off. To push yourself out the Kingdom gates, to fill up the emptiness with one more shard of déjà vu or one more tome of unauthorised scripture. Enough to fool yourself into thinking that maybe life in the Kingdom is not so bad. Enough to keep yourself too busy to think of the alternative. You feel like a traveller wandering through the desert, rationing drops of water between oases that are growing fewer and further between. 

For now, anything is better than spending your days locked up in the Kingdom like a rare book behind glass, unread and forgotten.  

So are you really surprised when you return from your last venture to find your Archive solidly locked? You knock on the exterior mausoleum doors. “Carpenter. Carpenter!” Gabriel must’ve tried to audit him. Or Sandalphon’s Shanghaied him into gate duty. This is your fault, for leaving him all alone. You need to get back to Gabriel and beg him to sort it out - 

“Present,” he calls softly. He sits between the tombstones, half-hidden by the pale weeds sprouting between rows. Pigeons cluster at his feet, pecking at manna crumbs. They freeze as they sense your approach, and then explode into flight. Carpenter lifts his head from his hands to look up at you with slightly misty eyes. 

“What are you doing out here?” 

“Taking a break.” He draws a deep breath. “I mean, I always knew it was all part of the Plan. It just didn’t sink in how - unpleasant the whole lot was until I read about the details all at once. Like the Crusades. And the Inquisition. And the Conquistadors. And the Minutemen.” 

“That’s the Plan for you,” you say.  

“I know it wasn’t all bad. That the Metatron just enjoys a bit of patriotic spectacle in his newsletters. But I have to wonder -” 

“Whether it was worth it?” you supply. The questions bubble out of you like blood from an old, festering wound, seeping through crisp white bandages and trickling into the earth.

“No. No. If they knew how much choice they had in the matter. If they ever knew they could say, no. ” 

“Of course they didn’t have any choice,” you say. “The spin and wobble of every atom from inception ‘til the heat-death of the universe has already been written in the Plan. Everything has already been known from the beginning, from the outcome of World War Two to the colour of my bow-tie this morning.” You spread your arms at the weed-strewn graveyard lit by the cloud-choked sun. “That’s how we got this happy ending.” 

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” And then Carpenter absolutely dissolves into a torrent of tears.

What would Gabriel think if your direct report ends a shift at the Archive twisting a handkerchief so tightly that it looks like a noose? Do you think you’d have half a chance testifying during the harassment investigation while Carpenter stands there with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained overall sleeves as Exhibit A, and a grim-faced Sandalphon lays out the blasphemous contents of the Archive as Exhibit B? Do you think Gabriel would be merciful enough not to reassign you to guarding Purgatory until the end of time? If so, well done. 

You take your glasses off and wipe the nonexistent dust off them with your jacket sleeve. “I mean, there’s still some ways to go yet, but, ah, we’re all trying as hard as we can -” 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Carpenter sobs. 

Why would you be able to convince Carpenter? You can’t even convince yourself. The glasses go back on your face. “Uh. Would you feel better talking about this inside -” 

“No, no, I don’t want to be a bother -” 

The pigeons are returning. One fixes you with a beady, judgemental eye. It’s only a matter of time before other winged nuisances investigate. You shift your weight guiltily between your feet. “Er. You know what, I think I left a kettle on inside. Why don’t you come back inside and have a cuppa?” 

“Really, I should just go -” 

“I insist.” You bodily shepherd Carpenter back through the Archive doors and into a rickety reading chair. Then you make him a cup of tea in your favourite angel-wing mug. Carpenter obligingly sips from it, but he weeps the entire time. Fat teardrops roll down his cheeks and off his chin. Earl Grey tea is certainly quite nice - especially with a bit of lemon, and a buttery scone on the side - but not nearly nice enough to cure existential angst. And salty tears will definitely throw off the delicate citrus flavour. 

Tea is just a stopgap. Though perhaps you might consider having a cup? Your throat has been growing rather hoarse of late. Perhaps something with plenty of honey. 

No, you need a more permanent solution, and you need one now. Carpenter won’t drown his sorrows in wine. You aren't existentially equipped to play priest in a confessional booth. And perhaps you’ve grown soft, but it just feels wrong to lock Carpenter in the closet so nobody can see him cry.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. 

You circumnavigate the mausoleum twice to check for any interlopers. Then, you bar the Archive doors. With shaking hands, you unlock the sanctum gate, take out Gabriel’s television, and set it atop a reading table. 

Only one choice remains. Your hand hovers between Sister Act 2 and Bruce Almighty , before reaching towards the latter . Is it really a choice, when the outcome has already been written in the Plan? Surely the Plan wouldn’t debase itself by lowering itself to the level of the conundrum facing you now. Surely you could do better than Bruce Almighty. And surely, Carpenter could not take offence with events of two thousand years prior. 

You grasp the yellowed video case before your better judgement can assert itself, nudge the garden gate closed, and push the tape into the top of Gabriel’s television. The television crackles to life, and a nativity scene begins to play.

Carpenter looks up from his mug of tea. “Oh. This isn’t necessary. Bit self-indulgent, really -” 

“No talking in the cinema,” you bark, and Carpenter quiets as the nativity sequence proceeds. Frankincense, myrrh, and gold are gifted in a manger. The three wise men pay the infant homage and make a graceful exit. 

Then they abruptly return and shake down the infant’s mother for the return of their gifts. The opening credits roll. A choir sings:  

Brian. The babe they called Brian, 

He grew, grew, grew, and grew 

Grew up to be, grew up to be 

A boy called Brian. 

A boy called Brian,

He had arms, and legs, and hands, and feet, 

This boy, whose name was Brian,

And he grew, grew, grew, and grew... 

Carpenter stares enraptured - or horrified, it’s hard to tell - at the hand-animated opening credits. Why is that the cheeriest thing stored in the Archive sanctum? There were so many other options, like - like - Year One, or Dogma -

Right. No.  

But what does it say, that leaving Carpenter to watch Monty Python’s Life of Brian was the best of all possible options? 

Your fingernails dig into your palms. Your mouth is dry, and your head is light. A stiff drink and a lie-down would do wonders at this point. Maybe outside. There’s no reason to stick around. Especially if someone comes in while the onscreen prophet is preaching about cheesemakers. 

You back out of the Archive and close the door behind you. Just in time to intercept Muriel’s approach on the mausoleum steps. She clutches a small red-and-beige book to her flak-jacketed chest. You can barely make out its cover from behind her claws. Didn’t know they printed The Darby Bible in paperback. 

“Oh, hello! Is the Archivist in?” she says cheerfully. 

“ I’m the Archivist,” you say. 

“Well, since you’re back, I suppose I meant the other Archivist. The Assistant Archivist.” She folds her hands behind her back and shifts her weight from foot to foot. Her smile returns with alarming alacrity. “But is he in? It’s time for my reading session.” 

You glance back at the mausoleum, and then at Muriel. “I’m afraid that he’s indisposed.” 

“Well. Er. Then maybe you could read to me, Archivist?” She beams as if that suggestion were a strike of brilliance on par with the discovery of penicillin or gravity or cocoa.

“I’m afraid that I, too, am indisposed.” Yes. You have an hour blocked off to fret in the shadows around the mausoleum steps, fend off visitors to the archives, and to tackle Carpenter and lock him in a closet if he comes barrelling out screaming about blasphemy in the Kingdom - 

“But - oh - we’re on a cliffhanger, Rob-” 

“If it’s so important, have Sandalphon to read to you instead,” you snap. “In fact, don’t come back until you’ve both finished. We have important Archive business going on.”

“I’ve never seen Sandalphon read,” she says. 

“Certainly, he can read all my travel forms without any issue. Why don’t you give it a try?” You make a show of looking at your wrist, though you don’t wear a watch. “I might worry about you, though. Is it time for your shift?” 

“Do you think so?” Muriel also rolls up her sleeve and inspects her empty wrist carefully. “I just came from the Southern Gate -” 

“Then think of how good you’ll look when you come right back to Sandalphon for overtime,” you say. “You might get a commendation for the hard work. Metatron might take your photo for the Word . Then you can read that instead of the Darby Bible.” 

“But we're not reading the - a commendation - you really think so?” 

“Yes,” you say. You’ll burn the Archive down before Muriel gets a commendation.  

Tears well up in Muriel’s eyes. “Thank you for believing in me, Archivist. Nobody’s ever believed in me before.” 

Your stomach suddenly feels uneasy. “Well. I’m sure Sandalphon will be thrilled to see you again. Off you trot, then,” you say uncomfortably. 

Muriel salutes you and all but skips back down the cemetery pathway. Leaving you alone to pace furrows between the graves for the next hour. Carpenter hasn’t come out of the Archive yet, which could be a good sign, or a terrible one. He might just be trying to collect more evidence of your wrongdoing before finally reporting you to Gabriel. But that’s alright. You’ve been in tighter spots than this. 

You cease treading a trench to China and rest your head against the wooden double-doors of the Archive. Music. Must be the closing credits. 

You fling the doors open and shout, “You’re complicit. I mean, all this time you knew I was harbouring blasphemous materials in the Archive and you did nothing. In fact, you built the fence walling off the private collection from everything else. If you try to take me down, I promise I’ll take you down with me if it’s the very last thing I do.” Mutually assured destruction worked for the Soviets. It’ll work for you too. It has to - 

Carpenter looks up from his wax tablet. “Archivist - which button do I need to use to rewind?”  

“Pardon?” He must be trying to hornswoggle you off-balance. Typical interrogation tactics. Changing the subject until the subject’s head is spinning like a rotor. 

“I’m afraid I missed a few seconds of the film when you came in,” says Carpenter, “and we’re at a very crucial point in the narrative.” 

“Eh?” You glance at the screen. A dozen crucified men are performing a synchronised dance while singing: 

If life seems jolly rotten 

There's something you've forgotten 

And that's to laugh and smile and dance and sing 

When you're feeling in the dumps 

Don't be silly, chumps 

Just purse your lips and whistle - that's the thing 

And - always look on the bright side of life. 

You don’t know how you should arrange your face in present company, and look to the Assistant Archivist for a cue. Carpenter’s gaze is thoughtful, and he’s scribbled down dense notes on his sheets of foolscap. 

“What did you think?” you venture. 

“Perhaps the slapstick was rather broad at points.” he says. “But otherwise, the authors have really shown their work.” 

“You... liked it?” 

“I think I would need to watch this a few more times to grasp the nuances of the thesis from a mortal perspective. Including the significance of the ending number.” 

“It’s a very popular funeral song for Britons,” you say faintly. 

“Hmm,” says Carpenter. “Well. Would you mind showing me how to rewind the tape?” 

∽⧖∼

A question you have never asked yourself until this moment was, “How many times can you watch Monty Python’s Life of Brian until you go stark raving mad?” To which the answer is: ten. 

You gladly allow Carpenter to spend the rest of the day in the Archive, buoyed by the elation that he does not presently seem interested in blowing the whistle on you. And you merely tolerate the second day, when he begins chuckling to himself and humming along to the musical numbers. But you reach the end of your rope on the third day, when “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” takes up residence in your ear canals. It’s almost as bad as the tintinnabulation of the celestial bells. 

“That’s enough,” you shout at the beginning of Carpenter’s eleventh viewing. The exclamation actually strains your voice. You clear your throat. It is bone-dry. That can be fixed later. 

“Excuse me?” he says. 

“I’ve had it up to here with Brian. One more lisping governor, one more crossdressing Judean rebel, one more pointless alien spaceship , and I will go to Gabriel myself and tell him I’ve been keeping blasphemy in my Archive so he will strike me down and finally, finally put me out of my misery.” You lick your lips as well. A bit cracked. 

“It’s not blasphemy,” says Carpenter mildly. “Blasphemy is critical of the Almighty. Some of your materials might be a wee bit heretical - that is, to say, critical of an institution - but that’s hardly your fault.”

“Oh, yes, Gabriel will care so much about that distinction.”

“Maybe just - one more time, though?” asks Carpenter. “I think I almost understand the absurdity of the final music number -” 

“You’re not supposed to understand absurdity.” 

“ - and why it was so meaningful to a mortal perspective, particularly in the face of the perceived ineffability and predestination inherent to the Plan -” 

“It’s just a silly little film to make people laugh. Writing fifty thousand words about some deeper meaning just takes the fun out -”  

“- or maybe, true meaning and choice can only be felt in the absence of any apparent Plan at all. Which is why the manner in which one greets death is both the most important and most unimportant choice at all -”

“One more time, and you can play it at my funeral!” 

“You won’t have a funeral,” he says solemnly. 

Arguing with Carpenter is like arguing with a fencepost. It’s time to take matters into your own hands. You fumble the sanctum lock, grab the nearest tape from the shelf, and rip it from its casing. “Just. I’m glad you’re feeling better. But please. Could we put something different on?” And before Carpenter can say no, you eject Life of Brian and jam the new tape into the top of the television. 

"You didn't even rewind," says Carpenter. 

"No talking at the cinema," you respond.  

Solemn string music begins to play over the opening credits, indicating that this is an extremely serious adaptation of the Word. Probably Noah or The Prince of Egypt or something equally earnest that you collected while trying to get Gabriel accustomed to rubber-stamping your requisitions. 

You settle happily behind your desk and enjoy a pleasant half-hour of completing paperwork for the next requisition unmarred by Pontius Pilate’s lisp. Alternating strains of strings and movie dialogue soothe your ears. Though the roiling in the stomach has not stopped. In fact, it feels rather like an empty pit, and has started making gurgling noises. Perhaps you should check that Carpenter hasn’t started crying again? You look up from the clipboard -

Oh, no. Tom Hanks is rushing through the Louvre with Audrey Tautou. The Da Vinci Code is playing.  

Carpenter doesn’t look too offended yet. Maybe it’s not too late to salvage the situation. You vault over your desk, feeling increasingly light-headed by the millisecond. “Stop! Stop that movie!”

“I thought it was another trick to get back in touch,” says Audrey Tatou. 

Carpenter leans towards the control panel on the front of the television and begins to mash buttons. He succeeds only in turning the volume up higher. “I don’t know how to make it stop!” 

“It seems when he couldn’t speak to me... he reached out to you,” says Audrey Tatou. 

You prepare to jump on top of the reading table, but slip on the polished stone floor. Damn Carpenter for sweeping up. The momentum of your run carries you forward anyway. You bellyflop painfully onto the tabletop and keep sliding head-first at the television screen. 

You wrap your arms around your head to protect yourself from the impact. Gabriel had no grasp of electronics when he imagined that television from the firmament. The plastic box could be full of wires and plastic, but it also has an equal chance of being stuffed with spaghetti primavera and pornographic magazines. 

You break through the screen. Glass scrapes your skin and tears at your jacket. But you just keep going . 

On the other side of the glass is a long fall into a black sea, churning beneath a starless void. You plunge into water cold enough to stifle thought and volition. All is silent, except for the faint pound of the pulse in your ears. By shock and by instinct you thrash upwards, trying to reach the surface. But the pale square light of the Archive on the other side of the broken glass grows watery and dim and then gives in entirely to darkness. Only the abyss remains. 

And then, not even that. 

Chapter Text

Three.

The Leipzig Botanical Garden was normally quite lovely in summertime, particularly when strolling beneath the shade of the chestnut trees, or when sprawled on a blanket upon the grand lawn, or when seated on a bench beside the lily pond fed by a burbling brook. 

But not in the orangery, where there was more glass than masonry in the octagonal structure. The sun beat through the glass-dome roof and the tall arched windows alike. The windows were swung open, but the weak breeze did little to dispel the hellish humidity or the heavy scent of blossoms that seeped from the dozen citrus trees growing out of elevated brick planters. Despite the heat, Crowley looked perfectly temperate in a rich crimson waistcoat over a billowy white shirt as he stalked through the grove brandishing a pair of garden shears. His sole concession to the temperature was a black velvet ribbon tying his hair back at the nape of his neck. The demon spotted a leggy-looking branch out of place on a lemon tree, and raised his shears to prune it.

“I’ve been thinking about taking clavier lessons,” said Aziraphale, who was feeling the heat. The angel had already draped his jacket and his gold-embroidered waistcoat over one arm, clutched a white-plumed tricorne hat in the other, and was still sweating right through his ruffled shirt. 

Crowley’s garden-shears froze in midair. “Clavier lessons? Why the Hell would you want to take clavier lessons? You already know how to play a clavier. There’s an entire harpsichord in your bookshop!”

Aziraphale spotted a pair of wicker chairs besides a spindly iron table. He piled his discarded outerwear into one chair and collapsed into the other. “Yes. Well. Of course the harmonies of the spheres thrum through our veins, but I shouldn’t pass up an opportunity to improve my technique. And you know, they do like music Upstairs.” 

“Yeah, but it’s all bells, all the time!” Crowley tossed his shears into an empty rain barrel. They clattered to the bottom, and the lemon tree behind him quivered in relief at its unexpected reprieve.

“Well. It’s all bells now . But who’s to say that in a few centuries, Upstairs might not collect enough composers to... switch things up a bit?” Aziraphale began to play scales and arpeggios across an invisible keyboard.

Crowley glared at the chair piled high with the angel’s clothing, but pulled a third wicker chair out of the firmament to sit across from Aziraphale. “I’ll eat my tricorne hat if they ever stop ringing the bells. But fine, let’s pretend that harpsichords are the next big thing, and that clavier-playing is the key to your career progression. Where are you going to find a teacher?” 

“At the Thomaskirche in Leipzig. You may have heard of the cantor, Johann Sebastian Bach.” Aziraphale beamed, as if he was introducing the new Pope.  

Crowley pulled a face. “Of course I’ve heard of him. He’s still writing the polyphonies of last century -” 

“Perfecting them, you mean,” said Aziraphale. 

“Terribly old-fashioned -” 

“Terribly brilliant.” 

“- and naturally perfect for someone like you.” 

Aziraphale’s cheeks grew rosy. “I’m glad you think so. Because I’ve already hired him -” 

“Of course you have.” Crowley lowered his head into his hands.

“- and I’ve told him that we could use the fortepiano in your private salon for the lessons.” 

“What?” squawked Crowley. He jerked upright. “Why not use - the church organ, or your own harpsichord -” 

“I wouldn't want to practise in public before I'd perfected the technique. It wouldn't be proper. And my own harpsichord, as you’ve pointed out, is in London -” 

“Use a miracle to bring it over.” 

“Ah, but then it might detune in transit,” said Aziraphale, and tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Cogito, ergo sum. I’ll see you on Wednesday, then?” 

“The hell you will,” mumbled Crowley. “I’ll burn the salon down before some Thomaskantor sets his grubby churchmouse fingers on it.” 

“I don’t see what harm it’ll do. It’s not like you know how to play the fortepiano. Yours is just decoratively collecting dust in the salon.” 

“I’ll have you know that I do know how to play a clavier, and that there isn't a single speck of dust in my salon.” 

And then it was the angel’s turn to snap to attention. “Really? I didn’t know they held keyboard lessons Downstairs...” Aziraphale’s face grew pale.  

“I remind you that all the best composers are in Hell. Especially all of the cutting-edge, avante-garde ones that aren’t still stuck in the sixteenth century,” said Crowley. 

“But - you’ve never played for me!” 

“Because you like frilly church music, written by holier-than-thou maniacs who’d love the chance to burn at the stake to prove how righteous they are -” 

“- and I’m sure you’d like it too, if you would bother to come and hear a piece.” 

“That sounds like a ploy to burn myself up at the threshold, how convenient for your year-end performance review.” 

“You know very well that won’t happen, it might just itch a bit -” 

“Yeah, because constant itching - more like stinging, by the way - is so conducive to musical appreciation,” said Crowley. “Nah. I prefer secular music. Like madrigals. Chansons. Dances.” 

“Be-bop,” supplied Aziraphale. 

“Angel, you can’t just call all the genres you don’t like be-bop .” 

Aziraphale flushed. “Look, Crowley, could you just - please - lend me the use of your fortepiano for the masterclass? I would really prefer not to embarrass myself in front of Herr Bach before the lesson even starts.” 

Crowley drummed his fingers on the arm of his wicker chair, letting the angel sweat while he deliberated. A languorous moment later: “You know what? Sure. I’ll show you and your choirmaster how real music is supposed to be played.” 

“Thank you,” gushed Aziraphale. “I’ll pay you back, I promise -” 

Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll reap what I sow, one way or another.” 

Two. 

“Do you think it was all worth it?” said Crowley. 

“What do you mean, was it all worth it?” said Aziraphale indignantly. His nun’s habit was ripped and torn, and he clutched a scuffed, leatherbound book in his arms. 

“All of this.” The demon threw his dusty wimple onto the ground and stomped on it. The wimple burst into flames. “Do you know, I nearly got stabbed by a Gendarmerie rapier? Missed my liver by this much.” 

“Oh, this ,” said Aziraphale, and he patted the cover of his book fondly. “Well, everything dear has a commensurate price.” 

Crowley gestured emphatically at his midsection. “And I have been stabbed before. Hurts like the heavens. Suppose you wouldn’t know anything about that, you blessed pampered angel, haven’t even held a sword since the last crusade -” 

Footsteps rumbled outside the alley in which the angel and demon were colluding. Aziraphale and Crowley pressed themselves flat against the brick wall as another squadron of guards thundered past. 

Aziraphale ventured a peek outside the alley. “Oh, goodness. I think the Swiss Guard have been conscripted into the investigation as well.” 

“Just my luck,” groaned Crowley. 

“Well, it’s not so bad,” said Aziraphale. “There’s only a few dozen of them.” 

“And what if one of them’s gotten his hands on - say, your missing sword? Or the Spear of Destiny? Or - or wallops me with a piece of the true cross? Then we’d have worse to deal with than recorporation paperwork.” Crowley’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Because we’d be dead!” 

“Don’t be silly. Gabriel has the Spear of Destiny. And the Pope certainly does not have my sword. I’ve already asked.” But the angel still looked a little uneasy.  

“Easy for you to say. There’s probably a font of holy water in every atrium ‘round here to patch up your wounds. Can’t say the same about Hellfire. How am I supposed to cauterise my own wounds without Hellfire?” Crowley dropped his head into his hands. “This could all have been avoided if you didn’t forget the letter from Pope Clement authorising transfer of that thing.” 

“Sorry,” said Aziraphale guiltily. “The letter must’ve been in the pocket of one of my spare clerical robes.” 

“ Spare clerical robes ? Of course you’ve got more than one set.” 

“Well, I do patronise several universities in the continent. And it often gets rather draughty in the study halls. The formal robes keep a scholar warm while sitting and studying.” The angel swept the sleeve of his nun’s habit around him to underscore his point. 

“And what about the parchment-roll of biscuits that was in your pocket instead?”

“Studying makes me peckish,” said Aziraphale.

“Surrounded by absolute amateurs,” mumbled Crowley. “One of these days I’ll put together a crew of real villains. What’s that we stole from the Vatican library, anyway? The Great-Asse Bible?” 

“Oh. Yes. This Bible,” said Aziraphale, and a slight guilt crossed his face for the first time that day. 

“Say its name, Aziraphale. Say its name.” 

“Rumours of that edition’s existence may be overstated. It’s possible this is merely a Wicked Bible - but a fantastically preserved copy, if I do say so myself -” 

“I swear,” said Crowley. “If we got shot at with crossbows by both the Swiss Guard and the Gendarmerie for the wrong Bible, I’m going to request desk duty.”

“You wouldn’t,” said Aziraphale, though he was starting to nervously sway from foot to foot. 

“Don’t tessssst me. Open it up,” hissed Crowley. 

The angel and the demon huddled around the Bible in the alleyway, and Aziraphale opened it up to Exodus. “ Thou shalt commit adultery ,” he read. “So far, so good.” 

Crowley looked over his shoulder at the alley’s mouth impatiently. “We didn’t come all the way to the Vatican for a bit of hanky-panky. Check Deuteronomy.” 

Aziraphale flipped several chapters ahead, and then they both squinted at the text. 

“Does that look like the letter A or N to you?” said Aziraphale. 

“Hm,” said Crowley. He cranked his neck clockwise another ninety degrees to get a better perspective on things. 

Aziraphale’s optimism was deflating like a saggy meringue. “I’m worried that it looks a bit like an inkblot.” 

Crowley tilted his head another ninety degrees, so that he could read the Bible upside-down. “Yeah. I’m certain it’s an A. Clear as hellfire. Says Great-Asse instead of Greatness.” He patted the page fondly. 

“You really think so?” said Aziraphale hopefully. 

Crowley took the Bible from Aziraphale and jabbed his finger into the typo. “Read it and weep, angel. Read it and weep.” 

A giddy smile began to spread across the angel’s face. “Oh - I think you’re right, dear - I can’t believe the rumours spoke true. This is a legendary misprint, and it’s here , with us - ” Aziraphale was now smiling too hard to speak. He pirouetted gleefully once, then held his hands out as if to take the Bible from Crowley. But his stance was too wide, his arms lifted too high, the distance between rapidly diminishing - 

Another stampede of booted feet thundered by the brick alleyway. Aziraphale jumped back and clasped his hands together like a prayer. Crowley hunched his head and lowered his gaze to the Bible. Just two devout nuns in an alley, holding an impromptu study session. Nothing to see here. 

When the Swiss Guards’ footsteps had faded, Crowley slammed the Bible closed and bestowed it on Aziraphale with two hands and a mocking bow. “Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of perhaps the only Great-Asse Bible in existence, formerly owned by Pope Clement the Thirteenth. That makes - what, the hundredth in your collection?” 

Aziraphale turned the Bible over slowly in his hands, as if he was memorising the leather cover’s embossing with his hands. “Actually, I was hoping it might be the first in your collection,” he said slowly, and held it out to the demon. 

“What? But - but - it’s very rare -” Crowley backed away from the Bible. 

“Yes. A one-of-a-kind, actually. And, in my humble estimation, suitable remuneration for agreeing to host a clavier lesson with Herr Bach.” Again, the angel offered the Bible to Crowley. “The most wicked Bible, for the most wicked demon I know.” 

“The most wicked. As if there were any other contenders. But. Uh.” Crowley’s face was vacillating rapidly between triumph, smugness, and nauseated panic. “Aziraphale. Angel. You know I don’t even own a bookshelf.” 

“You can just tuck it away in a safe. I don’t mind,” said Aziraphale, even though they both knew the angel kept all his favourites behind amber glass doors, spines properly supported, out of direct sunlight.  

“I mean, really, I’m not even sure that’s a misprint - it’s starting to look like an inkblot, but what would you expect from a philistine opinion -” 

“We both know it’s not an inkblot,” said Aziraphale. 

“I only found Bach a little insufferable!” 

“If you don’t want repayment, then consider it a gift,” said Aziraphale. “Otherwise I’ll - I’ll throw it in the Tiber River.” 

“You don’t mean that.” If Crowley had looked stunned before, now he looked absolutely gobsmacked, as if he had been clobbered over the head by Jesus’s flip-flop. 

“I mean it.” Aziraphale was gaining confidence. “If you don’t take it, I’ll - I’ll sell it to the used wares shop on Petticoat Lane. I’ll gift it to the Spanish Inquisition. I might even burn it!” 

“You think I don’t know what you’re playing at?” muttered Crowley. And then more loudly, he said, “And you’d regret it later. Look. I’ll take the Great-Asse Bible from you, for safekeeping, all right? And you can come and get it when you’re not - out of your blessed gourd.” He took the Bible from the angel’s hands. 

“Oh, you scoundrel,” said Aziraphale with equal loudness and substantially more enthusiasm. “Stealing away the gem of my collection. You wicked, wicked demon. Just wait until I get my hands on a sword.” 

“Do you want all of the Vatican to hear?” hissed Crowley. 

Aziraphale lowered his voice. “Oh. I’m sorry, dear. But now we’re even.” The angel did not look sorry at all. To the contrary, he looked as if he’d just conducted a five-hour rendition of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion to thunderous applause. 

“If that’s what it takes for you to repay a favour, I think I’d rather get stabbed again,” said Crowley, but he disappeared the Great-Asse Bible into the sleeve of his habit anyway. 

One. 

For six days and six nights, the Earth was shrouded in bomb-smoke and gunfire. Heaven and Hell fought on the beaches, they fought on the fields and in the streets, they fought in the hills. They fought in Tadfield, until - well - they couldn’t anymore. 

On the seventh day, the battle began to slow. The nukes had all been launched. The armies of all the kingdoms of the Earth were decimated, and the armies of Heaven and Hell were flagging. 

Crowley had missed out on most of the battle. Right as the apocalypse broke out, he'd made the executive decision to abandon ship as per the original plan and head for Alpha Centauri. He didn’t take anything with him except the torn clothes on his back and the tyre iron of his dearly departed car, and he didn’t look back for two days. And he even managed to stay the course for three days before losing his nerve, making a U-turn around Charon, and heading back to Earth. 

The celestial quartermaster finally expedited Aziraphale’s recorporation paperwork so that the angel could shore up the London offensive. He was assigned a new position as Gabriel’s aide-de-camp, which was Aziraphale’s worst career move to date. His new role entailed following the archangel around with a rucksack of whetstones, blade-oil, and rags, so that Gabriel would not inadvertently dull his weapons by stabbing too many demons. They hadn’t even given him a new uniform - just a helmet that kept slipping down his forehead, and a scorched, bullet-ridden flak jacket that had served its prior owner poorly. But Aziraphale spent less time sharpening Gabriel’s weapons than searching the rubble for something he hoped not to find. 

Gabriel, on the other hand, was having the absolute best week of his life sending demons to meet their maker in the radioactive rubble of Berkeley Square. In a way, the last six thousand years meddling and micromanaging from behind a desk had prepared him for this very moment. And he looked fantastic doing it, like a revelation incarnate in gleaming plate, a silver spear in his right hand and a fiery shortsword in the left. The shortsword was a recent addition to his loadout for fights in tight corners, but it was also dulled and dented because Beelzebub had run it over with a tank in Tadfield. Gabriel much preferred his spear as he tramped through London, flushing demons from their foxholes. The Plan assured him that victory was inevitable, but he occasionally worried that Michael might be getting a higher killcount. 

So on the seventh day, Aziraphale and Crowley both found what they were looking for in a rainy, muddy alley behind a Chinese restaurant. There was just enough time for the angel to mouth the word, run , before Gabriel also found what he was looking for.  

“Look at that,” said Gabriel. Raindrops glittered like tiny diamonds on his plate armour. “Another demon that thought he could escape justice. Watch my back, Principality.” The archangel smiled and lowered his spear at Crowley. 

Crowley pushed long, wet strands of hair out of his eyes with one hand, and readied the tyre iron with his other. He glanced at the alley's exit far behind him. He might make it if he ran. But the cobbles looked slippery. Gabriel looked fast. And Crowley still had questions. Questions like, What happened, I was expecting you in Tadfield , and How did you get caught up with that wanker and Why does he have your sword . Though none of the answers really mattered. “I came back,” he said instead. 

"I'm sorry," whispered Aziraphale. Sorry I didn't make it to Tadfield. Sorry I got caught up in this battle. Sorry I didn't opt for Alpha Centauri. 

“What? Don’t worry, you can buff the dents out of the sword later. And you -” Gabriel turned to Crowley and intoned, “Repent or die.” But nobody ever repents at the point of a spear, so the archangel didn’t bother waiting for the demon to respond. He hurled himself at Crowley with the force of a storm, spear flashing as quick as lightning.

Only to scrape it against the orange dumpster. Sparks flew as the spear tore a jagged hole in the side of the bin. Used take-out boxes and food scraps fell onto the asphalt. Gabriel gazed at the debris in disgust. Damnable narrow alleyways. It would take ages for his new squire to get the grease off the spearhead - 

Crowley cold-clocked the archangel on the side of the head with the tyre iron. Gabriel went down like a sack of turnips. And the demon just could not resist the temptation to grin at that little victory. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and glanced at the angel, who smiled tentatively in relief. And for a moment, it was as if it wasn’t the end of the world, as if Gabriel wasn’t lying face down in the mud between them. It was just another chance meeting. Fancy running into you here, again.  

“Nice helmet,” said Crowley. 

“Oh. Thank you,” said Aziraphale. “But I think I preferred my old tricorne.” 

“So did I. Catch up with you later, when you’re less busy?” Crowley tilted his head at the fallen archangel, who stirred feebly.

“I’m not sure there will be a later,” said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. “There’s always a later.” There wasn’t much conviction behind those words. Only a paper-thin fiction that everything might somehow work itself out, nevermind all the falling ashes and bombs and craters, because the alternative was unthinkably worse. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “You’re right. Of course there’s going to be a later .” There was still so much to do. It wasn’t too late to get Upstairs and Downstairs to call an armistice. Or to fly off to Alpha Centauri. So of course this wasn’t the end. This was just - just a little bump in the road. They’d gotten through worse. The fourteenth century, for one - 

The archangel hauled himself up using his spear as a support. Blood trickled down his left temple, and mud streaked across the front of his armour. “Good try,” he said. And then he sucker-punched the demon backwards. Crowley’s head hit the side of the orange dumpster with a sickly thud , and the glasses fell off his face.  

“Alright. Ouch,” the demon croaked. He struggled to sit up, but his eyes were dazed and unfocussed, and he fell sideways into the mud. “Uncle. I surrender.” 

Gabriel unsheathed the dented shortsword, and it ignited dutifully in his left hand, even as the rain fell upon it in hissing sheets. 

Aziraphale finally found his voice again. “Look, Gabriel, he’s surrendered and unarmed, can’t we move on -” 

“So trusting! I was like you once,” laughed the archangel. “No, I’m not letting him go so that he can un-surrender and re-arm himself later.” 

“It’s not that,” hurried Aziraphale. “But - haven’t you got some far larger hellspawn to smite? This one’s just a peon. I heard that Mammon and his minions are rampaging through Buckingham Palace as we speak. If we go right now, you might get to them before Michael does.”

“Just a peon, ” muttered Crowley into the mud. 

“Bloody Michael. She’ll never shut up about her body count,” said Gabriel. 

The demon rolled onto his stomach and started dragging himself away from Gabriel. 

“Right. Exactly,” said Aziraphale. “We’ve got to show her up.” 

“It’s just a numbers game,” murmured Gabriel. 

Crowley had nearly crawled out of the alleyway. 

“Yes. Think about the numbers,” said Aziraphale. “Beating the Commander of the Heavenly Host at her own game? Then she’ll never live it down. So we'd better get a wiggle-on -”  

“But each demon still only counts as one,” said Gabriel. He strolled up to Crowley and kicked the demon in the ribs. 

Crowley yelped and curled instinctively onto his side. 

“No! Mammon must count for double points -” Aziraphale nearly tripped over a muddy cobblestone as he ran after Gabriel. 

Gabriel kicked Crowley again, rolling him over on his back. Then he planted a silver-clad foot on the demon’s chest and bore down. 

Crowley gasped. He kicked and flailed his feet at anything he could reach, and scrabbled at Gabriel’s leg with all his strength, but his movements were oddly weak and uncoordinated. Like a fish flopping on land. A dog with only three legs. 

Something broke under the archangel’s boot. Crowley’s neck arched backwards. His mouth gaped open in a silent scream, and his struggles faltered. 

Aziraphale grabbed Gabriel’s shoulder. “You can’t,” he said. “Please.” 

The archangel met Aziraphale’s gaze with wild eyes. “Hey, isn’t this the demon who’s been thwarting you at every turn? Crawley or something?” 

“No. Yes. Maybe. It’s hard to tell with all this mud, maybe we ought to all stand back to get a better look -” 

Gabriel stared at Aziraphale for several moments, and then grinned through bloody teeth. “Oh. I see how it is. You want first dibs!” Gabriel offered the sword to Aziraphale. The blade glowed red and sullen beneath the flickering flames. 

“But I -” Aziraphale’s eyes darted between the spear in Gabriel’s right hand, the sword in Gabriel’s left hand, and the demon on the ground. Crowley's struggles had grown feeble. His face was sickly pale underneath his red hair, and his eyes were nearly closed. 

Gabriel’s smile chilled. “Principality, I’m on a schedule here. So if you don’t do it, I will.”  

And the bells began to ring over London. 

Zero. 

Chapter Text

You awake screaming. Your arms thrash and your chest heaves, as if you were fighting to keep afloat in a darkened sea. Cold envelopes you like an icy shroud. Only the midmorning light seeping into the Archive assures you that you are not being drowned. That, and the ringing celestial bells. 

Your eyes attempt to focus on your environs. How did you end up lying on the floor? Gabriel’s television has fallen off its cart, and lies beside your head in a smoking ruin. Magnetic tape unspools from the cracked wooden chassis like viscera.  A videocassette case charred beyond legibility rests by your knee, whereas your glasses have fallen by your elbow. Glass and capacitors and metal springs are scattered across the ground. Some of them dig into your back. Carpenter kneels by your side, clasping one of your hands in his own. “You’re awake, thank goodness. Stay with me -”  

You jerk your hand away from your overfamiliar subordinate, and try to stand up. What a shame that your limbs feel as numb and heavy as bags of turnips. It takes all your strength to prop yourself up onto your elbows. Standing is too jejune anyway. You shall recline like a Roman senator upon his lectus. “What happened?” you say, with a slight slur.  

“You fought the television. It was a valiant effort. Hold still, there’s glass everywhere.” Carpenter pulls a brush and dustpan from under a table, and sweeps debris from the back of your jacket. 

You bat the brush away, but that leaves you with only one elbow to support your torso. Very well. Carpenter may continue to fuss over the minutiae of your deportment. “Why would I fight the television?” Right as your words exit your mouth, your mind successfully puts the picture fragments back together. Tom Hanks. The Louvre. The Da Vinci Code . 

Carpenter pauses his ministrations. “It’s not important. Let’s sit you up properly. There’s quite a bit of glass on your front.” He reaches under your arms and shifts you across the floor, so that you can lean on a bookcase instead of your elbows. Then he lifts your left arm to pluck stray bits of glass from your sleeves. 

But any relief granted by Carpenter’s apparent lapse in memory and not having to support your own bodyweight is drowned out by the clamour of the bells, echoing over and over in a skull that seems too small. “Forget the glass,” you mumble. “Just stop those infernal bells.” 

Carpenter stops inspecting your left arm. “The celestial bells,” he says, “are not ringing.” 

You cock your head. “They aren’t?” But they are. The phrasing is unsteady. Melodies veer off from their familiar cadences at the last second. Some of the bells aren’t in key, adding a dissonant voice to the fugue. The harder you try and listen, the more distant their refrain. You can barely feel as Carpenter moves on to your right arm, where he tweezes shards of glass from the back of your hand and bandages it. 

“How does that feel?” he says. 

“Nothing that a dab of holy water wouldn’t fix,” you say.  

Carpenter is unmoved by your flippant façade. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to check your ears.”  

“Check your own ears,” you say. 

“Ah, I didn’t dive head-first into a television. Stay put.” Carpenter stands up, and disappears around the side of a bookcase. 

Your subordinate’s brief absence gives you the opportunity to try once more to stand, and fail. You settle for saying, “No.”   

Carpenter ignores your refusal and returns with a rusty stethoscope looped over his neck, and a mercury thermometer which he hovers in front of your mouth. “Say ah. ” 

When your corporation starts cooperating again, you’re going to search the Archive top-to-bottom for antique medical paraphernalia. Eyes fixed on the thermometer, you speak from a small, tight corner of your mouth. “I’m quite certain that nobody ever used a stethoscope in the Bible. It was all very simple. Laying-on-the-hands cured everything from leprosy to epilepsy.” 

“Sorry, you know there have been some cuts to the miracle budget,” says Carpenter. “These are from my private kit. I’ve been collecting supplies for when they send me out into the field again.” 

“In the field, with the humans. Stethoscopes are for humans. I am not human. Quod erat demonstrandum .”

“Now, let there be light.” Carpenter snaps his fingers, and a tiny glowing orb appears at your ear. “Follow the light with your eyes, please.” 

You respond by slipping your glasses back onto your face. Undaunted, Carpenter moves the light towards your ear. You try to wave it away with your hand, but your fingers pass right through the light. Carpenter squints at your ear, closing one eye and tilting his head this way and that, all while dangling the thermometer by your lips. You daresay it would be impossible for him to actually see anything in your ears while multitasking so aggressively, but Carpenter remains undaunted by your lack of cooperation.

Perhaps a different approach is in order. “I’ll be up and hopping again in no time at all. Just you see. No need for this fuss at all.” You turn your ear away from Carpenter’s inspection, but even that slight rotation makes the Archive spin merrily in your field of vision. 

“Hmm,” he says absently. “Have a drink instead?” He hands you a glass of water while still gazing at the side of your head. 

You take the glass, but what you really need is wine. At least this week of your miracle allowance has not yet been expended. You grit your teeth at the water. It flushes pink, as if a drop of ink had been dropped in it, but refuses to darken to burgundy. You drink it anyway. It sticks to your teeth and tastes like the contents of a weak punch bowl at the end of a long party: the acrid tang of artificial grape flavouring, watered down by melted ice.  

Carpenter puts down the thermometer, but then hooks the stethoscope to his ears and lifts the brass bell to chest-height. “Now take a deep breath in, and a deep breath out -” 

You’re too disappointed by your wine to protest, but you can passively resist. What worked for Gandhi will work for you. You clamp your mouth shut and spitefully cease to breathe. Breathing is optional for this class of corporation anyway. You can hold out infinitely longer than Carpenter’s patience will stretch - 

- Except that you can’t. Your chest tightens and your heart hammers against its ribs like a rabbit in a cage, and less than a minute later you’re gasping air into your lungs, red-faced. 

“Just as I suspected,” says Carpenter. 

“And pray tell, what is the diagnosis? Overwork? Blunt-force head trauma? Unsolicited medical advice?” A shame the sarcasm is punctuated by wheezy gasps. 

“You’re becoming human.” 

You manage to say, “Surely you can - do better - than a cliche -” before falling into a coughing fit. Your breath feels thick and heavy as you attempt to heave your traitorous lungs out. 

Carpenter offers you a handkerchief. You grab it with trembling fingers and hold it to your mouth. When the coughing stops, the handkerchief comes away with dark stains, lightening to red at the margins. How curious. How trite. Your head feels awfully light. Probably because they’ve been ringing the bells for quite a while now. “Is this some sort of fire alarm test?” you say. 

“Afraid not, Archivist.” Carpenter’s expression is as solemn as a priest performing last rites, and similarly without guile. It’d be easier to believe that he was lying... but that would be an untruth in itself.

All right. So he isn't lying. But he might still be wrong. Carpenter's medical knowledge must be a thousand years out of date. It’s a miracle he didn’t apply leeches to your stomach or prattle about the imbalance of humours. In fact, he hasn’t produced a single shred of evidence to support his diagnosis. 

Your corporation, on the other hand...

You have walked unscathed through leper colonies and quarantine wards. The Black Death passed you by without even a cough. Pestilence once sent you a congratulatory note following a commendation. Never once have you feared that your corporation might fail of its own accord, unless it was stabbed first.  

So perhaps you already suspected the truth of your metaphysical condition. It would explain the odd aches in your stomach, the dryness in your mouth, the occasional lapses in memory. It would explain why you still can’t seem to get your bearings in your own Archive, and why the quality of wine that you can conjure with a miracle is deeply diminished. It would explain why the beat of your heart - one that you have always disregarded - feels now like a ticking pipe-bomb. 

How long has mortality been creeping up on you? When did hunger first gnaw at your stomach, or thirst parch your throat, while you wrote them off as grief for a missing world?   

Maybe you can push through it. Ignore the slowly failing body until it leaks blood and collapses midmeeting with Gabriel. The pipe-bomb’s ticking accelerates. You draw deep breaths into your lungs and try to slow the countdown in your chest. You’ve never been so disturbingly aware of your lungs in your multimillennia-long life. It is not nearly as discombobulatingly unpleasant as the idea of spontaneously discorporating at Gabriel’s desk. “So this corporation’s hydraulics may be malfunctioning a little bit,” you say. “Well, doctor, what are my options?” 

“Normally, I’d advise you to have the corporation swapped out,” says Carpenter. 

That would be easiest, wouldn’t it? No need to alert Gabriel to your little problem. Just explain your predicament to the quartermaster. Achieve a neat, permanent solution. Get it all over with at once. Too bad you’d need to get discorporated from your existing body to get slotted into a new one. In your experience, discorporation has been an exceedingly painful transition to be avoided at all costs. 

“But that would only treat the symptom, rather than the cause,” hurries Carpenter, as if he overheard your thoughts. “This is an affliction of the soul. It won’t matter what corporation you wear - it will develop all the ailments of this one.” 

“Might you be able to, oh, requisition a miracle to patch things up for now?” you suggest. That eating and drinking are about to become necessities rather than indulgent diversions does rather take the fun out of it. But having to eat manna and drink barely alcoholic fruit punch is not the end of the world. All you need to do is avoid coughing up a lung in Gabriel’s office.  

“Only if you want to get audited,” says Carpenter. 

Of course. And then you’d have to explain to Gabriel what was wrong with your corporation, and what was wrong with you. Maybe Gabriel might brush it off as a momentary malfunction. Or maybe he’d pull your field status on the basis of “safety.” It might be centuries getting sidelined into accounting before you get field status reinstated, by which time Heaven might’ve spread beyond the walls of London and obliterated anything worth seeing again, and you might already have died of old age besides.  

“Could we, perhaps, steal a miracle?” The Archive’s rotation has slowed. You dare to stand, slowly, one hand gripping the edge of the bookcase. 

“Theft would be a violation of the Seventh Commandment,” says Carpenter stiffly. 

“Right. Sorry. Just testing you.” You tentatively let go of the bookcase to stand on your own two feet. 

“Anyway, there are hardly any to steal right now,” says Carpenter. “Angels expend them as quickly as faith creates them. I assure you, any unauthorised miracles will be missed, unless you somehow know how to draw power from the stars, or ley-lines, or raw belief -” 

The comment about the stars triggers something in your overcrammed mind. A young woman with a theodolite. Doing a spot of astronomy, were we . “Or witchcraft,” you say decisively. 

Carpenter’s voice quavers for the first time when he says, “Yes.”  

The mangled threads of a plan begin to weave themselves together. Carpenter is as loyal as they come in this Kingdom, whether through promises of mutually assured destruction or the strength of his own improbably dutiful character. And thou shalt not snitch is only a hop, skip, and jump away from the heart of the Eighth Commandment.  

You wobble unconvincingly towards your desk. Left foot. Right foot. “Good thing I won’t need a miracle after all. I’m feeling much, much better. Well enough to requisition another item for the collection Would you be a dear, and watch the Archive for me?” 

Carpenter nods slowly. “May I ask where you’ll be going this time?” 

You smile, exposing a mouth full of red-stained teeth, and the bells in your ears crescendo into a roar. “It’s better if you don’t, dear boy.” 

∽⧖∼

Leipzig, 1736.

Sebastian’s newest student appeared after the Sunday performance of his St. Matthew Passion chorale at the St. Thomas Church. He introduced himself as Herr Fell with an English accent , and then insisted that Sebastian give him music lessons at his home. “What you were doing with all the different voices in the Chorale was brilliant - I’d never heard anything quite like that before! You simply must help me understand your creative process!”   

“Well, Herr Fell, my melodies come from the Heavens themselves,” said Sebastian. He appraised Herr Fell’s creamy velvet jacket of last decade’s cut, and his exquisitely - though perhaps overabundantly - frilled shirt. This man was likely a wealthy merchant of some sort, or a minor member of the landed gentry. A bit rustic, but respectable nonetheless. 

“I can assure you, they most certainly do not,” said Herr Fell. “So do you give lessons, by chance?” 

The casual blasphemy combined with Herr Fell’s earnest smile threw Sebastian off-balance. “I do indeed teach private lessons at the Church,” he said cautiously. “The organ has been specially tuned to accommodate many of the exercises I present to my students.” 

Herr Fell’s smile faltered. “Oh. Rather not, you see. I’m a little performance-shy. Rather not any of my colleagues hear me plunking away until I’ve gotten the hang of things!” He tapped his fingers along the top of the pew. “But fortuitously, I may possess access to a private salon. And of course I would compensate you for the extra travel.” 

“Many of the etudes my students learn can only be played on well-tempered claviers. Would you happen to know the maker and the tuning of your own clavichord? Or harpsichord?” persisted Sebastian. 

“It’s, ah, neither. I think it’s a fortepiano. From Florence. With the newest tunings, of course. Do you think that will suffice for two hours, perhaps on Tuesday?” said Herr Fell, and slipped him a heavy pouch of thalers. 

Sebastian pursed his lips slightly, so as to prevent himself from sucking air through his teeth in awe. Not because of the advance payment, though he could feel that it was ten times what he might charge for a lesson from any other student. And a concertmaster’s pay was not so much that it could not be supplemented by private lessons - especially when Anna, praise the Lord, was with child again!

No, Sebastian knew of only one Florentine manufacturer of fortepianos, Bartolomeo Cristofori. It was improbable that even a wealthy merchant such as Herr Fell would be able to afford a commission from Cristofori. But it was improbable that Sebastian would ever have another chance to lay his hands upon a Cristofori fortepiano again. The Leipzig city council was frugal beyond hope, if Sebastian’s own salary was any indication. They would never buy a fortepiano for the church.  

So Sebastian could not turn this offer down any more than he could have stopped praying every evening. But in retrospect, the promise of the fortepiano was what should have alerted Sebastian that this student was indeed one of God’s little tests. 

At least the instrument did not disappoint when Sebastian arrived at Herr Fell’s salon a few days later. Its resonance and temperament exceeded all of Sebastian’s expectations, of course. The range did not have the weak treble or heavy touch of the Silbermann fortepianos. The casing was absolutely pristine, with the wood polished to a mirror-like shine, and still possessed of a faint smell of lacquer. If Sebastian did not know better, he would have sworn that no man had ever laid a hand upon such an instrument of grace. 

The salon in which it was housed was equally beautiful. Sunlight streamed in from tall windows, which faced the manor's vineyards. The room itself was sparsely furnished but for the musician’s bench, but richly adorned with a fresco of painted leaves upon the ceiling, marble vines twining up the neoclassical columns, and acoustics that could only be described as divine. Sebastian would have liked nothing more than to compose a concerto on the spot to thank the Lord for allowing him to touch those keys. 

However, it turned out that Herr Fell did not himself own the fortepiano. His friend Pfalzgraf Crowley did. And Pfalzgraf Crowley had been glowering darkly from behind dark glasses in the shadowed corners of his music salon for the past hour. He occasionally broke eye contact to stalk moodily from one end of the salon to the other like a flame-coiffed phantom in a slim-cut black jacket, plain but cut of wool so fine it’d have been obscene to trim it with gold. 

Sebastian much preferred the stalking to the glowering: he was not unaccustomed to criticism, even from the aristocracy, but Pfazlgraf Crowley’s gaze was more unnerving than a hundred hecklers. Perhaps that was why Pzalgraf Crowley’s servants were nowhere to be seen: they were all hiding in the manor attic. Sebastian understood: he had once prayed that he might find a patron who would permit him to play regularly in a milieu as this salon, but now he prayed that the second hour of the lesson would come quickly to an end. 

The lesson with Herr Fell had also gone strangely. The student’s age and wealth meant that he was completely unpossessed of the humility and reverence that a student should show his teacher. He had also paid so extravagantly that Sebastian could not find a way to refuse his request to skip over the simpler etudes meant to strengthen fingers and learn basic technique in favour of “the exciting bits.” And surprisingly, the merchant did possess such a miraculously good grasp of the basics that Sebastian could not deny him a pass at some of the exercises that Sebastian himself had written. 

The choirmaster selected the Prelude and Fugue Number Ten, in E Minor. It was one of the few pedagogical pieces that he’d written with only two-part counterpoint. Sebastian hoped that it would be easy enough for Herr Fell to learn, so that the lesson could be drawn to an early conclusion. 

Indeed, Herr Fell’s sight-read of the Prelude was quite good. He had a delicate touch that seemed to transform the minor-key pathos into whimsy, and stumbled only a little when he had to accelerando into the presto passages in the latter half of the Prelude. But his attempt to play the Fugue left much to be desired. He could play the left-hand part correctly. He could play the right-hand part correctly. But when he combined them, the melody of the right hand grew louder and louder, until it completely overpowered the left hand, while his left-handed fingering grew slow and sloppy. Again and again, Herr Fell’s attempts to master polyphony fell short. 

“You see, Herr Fell, the two voices are equal but independent, and must be treated as such,” said Sebastian. “They are a dialogue.” He began to play. “The treble asks a question.” Then Sebastian brought his left hand into the fray. “And the bass responds.” 

“But what’s left to do once they’ve already answered the question?” said Herr Fell, still lost. 

“The dialogue continues. It evolves into different keys,” said Sebastian, slowing down his performance to emphasise the key changes in each hand. “And then - here it’s the bass that’s asking a question! And the treble who answers. But though they may change order or key, neither is lesser nor greater than the other: they sing and grow together , lifting each other higher and higher until the final coda.” 

“It seems to me that this would all go much simpler if one hand shut up while the other was talking,” said a languid voice, and Pfalzgraf Crowley stalked out of the shadows in front of the fortepiano. “All this conversation is turning a perfectly normal melody into a giant mess.” 

“You mean the countersubject?” said Sebastian, trying to hide his alarm. He had not heard Pfalzgraf Crowley speak until this moment, and he wished he had not.  

The lord’s voice was low and soft, but coiled and tense. Every syllable breathed danger. “All of it,” he said.  

“Nobody is ever completely still in a dialogue,” said Sebastian. “We are always listening to our conversation partners. Nodding, understanding -”  

“Interrupting,” said Pfalzgraf Crowley. 

“Yes,” said Sebastian, but Pfalzgraf Crowley did not seem to care. 

“It seems to me that you’ve wasted enough time and air with your dialogue . Perhaps Az - Herr Fell - might benefit from hearing this piece played by another hand?” 

“Certainly, my lord,” said Sebastian, nearly stumbling over himself to vacate the musician’s bench. 

Pfalzgraf Crowley draped himself onto the seat, hunched over so that his curls nearly touched the keys of the fortepiano. He sat for so long that Sebastian thought that the lord was mocking him, or was daring him to leave, before Pfalzgraf Crowley launched himself explosively into the Prelude. 

Where Herr Fell had played the prelude with a certain delicacy and restraint, Pfalzgraf Crowley had none. He dragged out the right-hand cantilena like a dirge with parodic solemnity, whilst the left hand distantly plunked out the accompanying recitativo like the lone cellist at a funeral that could not afford the other three members of the quartet. The melodic ornaments sounded garish atop the languishing pastiche of grief that Pfazlgraf Crowley inflicted upon the poor fortepiano.

In the midst of this performance of wallowing, Pfazlgraf Crowley turned his head to look at Sebastian and Herr Fell from beneath his eyebrows, with a wicked grin. And that was all the warning Sebastian had before the lord plunged into the presto segment of the piece with all of the speed and intensity of a maelstrom, as if he was determined to drag the prelude, the fortepiano, and everyone in the room into Hell. 

Then with nary a pause after the final cadence of the prelude, Pfazlgraf Crowley tasked himself with the fugue. Yet the frenzy that served him so well in the first movement began to fail him in the second. The left-hand melody crescendoed and accelerated, asking questions that the right hand fumbled and could never hope to answer.  All this while, Pfazlgraf Crowley’s eyebrows drew closer and closer together, as if he knew that something was wrong, and he played faster and faster with every modulation. Sebastian would have sworn that sparks sprang from the lord’s fingers and scorched the keys, until the final recapitulation of the original subject was nothing but a muddled, frenzied whirl utterly devoid of catharsis. 

And then the lord turned to Sebastian and Herr Fell. “What do you think?” he said sardonically, as if daring Sebastian to tell the truth. 

But luckily, Herr Fell was the one who answered. “I think it seemed a bit off?” said the merchant. “Maybe Herr Bach could show us, again, how it should sound.”

Pfzalgraf Crowley glowered at his audience. Herr Fell surely had a heart of stone to stand unfazed by his dark gaze. Sebastian did not: his remaining volition withered. He would rather have been drawn and quartered than spend another moment in Pfazlgraf Crowley’s beautiful salon. 

But luckily, Pfazlgraf Crowley felt similarly. “I think that Herr Bach has a few dozen chorales he ought to be writing,” said the lord with an unpleasant smile. “This is all very old-fashioned besides. Herr Fell, I’m afraid that you’ll need to find somewhere else to practise.” 

As Herr Fell escorted him out, the merchant said, “I’m terribly sorry about Crowley, Herr Bach. He’s not usually like this.” 

“Will you be staying in town, Herr Fell?” said Sebastian. His brow was damp with sweat, and it had nothing to do with the fair summer weather. His eyes blurred, and he wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve. Yet somehow, the blurriness did not abate. His eyes began to sting.  

“Here - use this,” said Herr Fell, and pressed a handkerchief into Sebastian’s hand. 

Sebastian dabbed at his face again, and finally cleared the scales from his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I’ll ask Anna to clean it before you leave.” 

“No need,” said Herr Fell, and peered at Sebastian with piercing eyes. They were so blue - how had Sebastian never noticed before? “You might feel better if you, ah, did not write so much music by candlelight. That’ll be the death of you.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” stammed Sebastian. 

Herr Fell looked saddened and folded his hands behind his back. “Merely a wish for you to take care of yourself and your health. I would be devastated if that was the only lesson you taught me. But business calls me in Austria. So farewell, Herr Bach. ” 

“Farewell,” echoed Sebastian, but at the same time, he prayed to all the saints and all the angels that Herr Fell would never come calling again.

Chapter Text

So you need to find a witch. 

That’s a task typically left to experts. You had one on your payroll for decades: Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwick. Sherbourne? Shakefield. An odd duck prone to glowering at the hand that paid him. You’d like to think he survived the multinational nuclear exchange. You know he didn’t, because you always mailed your cheques to a London neighbourhood that was levelled in the first wave of nuclear strikes. And thus, the noble quest of witchfinding falls to you. 

How does one find a witch? 

By luck, you gave one a lift to her cottage in Tadfield a lifetime ago. With a bit more luck, she may have survived the end of the world with her sorcerous wiles and her bespectacled paramour. And if you’re really lucky, your paths may yet cross again.

But luck takes time, so the first step in finding a witch - the first step in doing anything around here, actually - is to manufacture some paperwork that pads schedules and manages expectations. 

“This form says that you need to go to Japan for the... how do you even pronounce this?” says Gabriel. 

You shift in your seat. Japan practically sits on the opposite side of the world, which buys you at least two weeks to cure your condition. But the third-party scriptural pickings there are slim. “Well. The Takenouchi Documents describe a local belief that the Messiah did not actually die on the cross, but that his brother took his place. The Messiah himself escaped to Japan, changed his name to Torai Tora Daitenku, and became a garlic farmer. And also fathered three daughters. Before dying at the age of a hundred.” 

Recounting each twist in the story makes you cringe. Perhaps you should have made something up entirely. That worked to justify your acquisition of the Star Wars Holiday Special as a documentary of a faraway culture’s celebration of the Messiah’s birth. Though why you actually wanted that thing in the Archive defies logical explanation altogether, let alone displaying it on one of the top shelves in the sanctum - 

Gabriel snaps his fingers. “Heaven to Principality, anyone home?” 

“Sorry,” you say. Deterioration of attention-span and memory is a symptom of old age, isn’t it? It’s a very human condition. One that you now have to contend with. “What were you saying?” 

“Garlic farming,” says the archangel. “Seriously? I could call up the Messiah right now and he would tell you that he has never farmed garlic in his life.” 

“Well, yes,” you demur. “But it’s a rumour worth investigating. Imagine if the Antichrist were behind those claims! Then we might have a real lead on tracking him down.” 

Gabriel leans backwards in his chair. For once, you don’t wish for him to topple backwards and crack his melon against the abbey floor. At least not before he can sign your paperwork. “You’ll need to take precautions for remote operations,” he warns. “It’ll be tough for the Hong Kong team to extract you if you run into trouble.” 

“I’ll be careful,” you say. 

Gabriel scribbles a few addendums onto your paperwork. “Pick up some cloud-camo from the Quartermaster. I’ll make sure he saves you a suit. And don’t sully the temple of your body with raw fish. It's a long wait for a new corporation if you give yourself food poisoning.” 

“Of course,” you say. Do they even eat sushi in Japan anymore? Is Chef Yasu still alive? Would he still serve uni scraped fresh from its eldritch shell? Does he still remember how all his customers liked their nigiri, whether without wasabi or with a touch less rice than average - 

Your stomach rumbles at the thought, reminding you that eating is no longer optional if you wish to forestall your imminent death. So you collect your bicycle from the armoury along with a triple-ration of manna. “Planning to feed the humans on the way?” says the Quartermaster.

“Yes.” Specifically one partial human, that being yourself. 

“Cute. Make sure they pray first though. No such thing as a free lunch!” He hands you a small paper bag covered in crumbs, and chuckles to himself while you heft your rucksack over your shoulder. Thank goodness you’ve omitted the cloud camo from your packing list. That outfit weighs over fifty pounds and looks like a war crime against cotton balls.  

Then, you present your papers at the southern gate, and mouth niceties at Sandalphon by the tollhouse swathed in barbed wire. The other angel doesn’t even question why you’re travelling from England to Japan by bicycle, though he cannot help sharing unsolicited travel tips. “Two weeks in Japan,” he muses. “Phew! That’ll be a real workout. Don’t forget to limber up before takeoff, and do stretches after landing. And powder your skin before rolling on the cloud suit, or it'll chafe something fierce.” 

“Certainly,” you say. “Have you any other tips for intercontinental travel?” As if you hadn’t flown across the Channel and the Atlantic a dozen times in the last year. 

“Nah. I’d say to get your hands on one of these puppies -” he pats the stock of his grenade launcher - “But it’s not like you’re going to Oxfordshire, is it?” Sandalphon shakes his head. The motion causes the rifles slung upon his back to clack together. “Bloody Oxfordshire.” 

“Of course I’m not going to Oxfordshire. You know what they say about that place,” you say with careful detachment. 

Sandalphon drops his voice to a whisper. “Have you been?” 

You also begin to whisper. “No. But I heard what it was like from - oh, I can’t remember for the life of me -” 

“Must have been Uriel,” supplies Sandalphon. “She led a battalion in the first month after the War, to check if the Antichrist was still bunkered up.” 

“But he wasn’t, was he?” 

“No. Oxfordshire was all dead. Beyond dead. Haunted . Uriel swore she’d seen the Red Dragon of Seven Heads and Ten Horns leading an army of ghosts towards the Kingdom.”  

“Did she now?” 

“Well, yeah. So Kalqa’il went to check too. Then Penemue. And finally Michael and me.” Sandalphon counts each angel on his fingers. “We didn’t find hoof nor horn of the Antichrist - don’t see how anyone could survive in there, actually - but Michael did declare Oxfordshire off-limits. More trouble than it’s worth. So that’s that.” 

“What did you see in Oxfordshire?” 

A shiver rolls through Sandalphon from head to toe. “Nothing important,” he says lightly. But his fingers tighten around the grip of his rifle, his legs tense into a half-crouch, and his tri-pupiled eyes dart from side to side beneath his glasses.

“Sandalphon! Are you telling the Archivist ghost stories again?” says a voice. You startle and see Muriel. Her cheeks are flushed as pink as roses, and her freshly-polished spherical helmet gleams like the moon. On her clawed hands she wears a pair of mismatched oven mitts, which partially conceal the cover of the red-and-gold paperback that she clutches to her bosom. 

Sandalphon’s finger slips on the trigger and launches a grenade into the wall of flame marking the M25, where it explodes. Fire bells go off. Sandalphon barely notices. “Muriel! You can’t sneak up on people like that.” 

“Sorry,” says Muriel. “But I was wondering if you’d like to read another chapter with me?” She bounces slightly on her toes, and short black curls spring loose from her helmet. 

You recall the paperback that Carpenter had lent to the former scrivener. “Of the Darby Bible?” 

“Is that how they say it in Italy?” says Sandalphon. “You learn something new every day!” 

“We were saving the next chapter for a rainy day. But the last one was just such a ridge-climber.” says Muriel. “Waiting makes me feel like my corporation is filling up with flutterbyes!”

“I know what you mean,” he says, though you can hardly see how the Bible could have any cliffhangers left.

“But... we don’t have to. If we finish this book too soon, we won’t have anything else to read.” She turns shyly away from Sandalphon, book still clasped protectively to her chest. 

“There’s lots of books out there,” says Sandalphon. “I’ll read any of them to you. Including the prequels and sequels.”

“But what if they’re boring?” squeaks Muriel. Her gaze has fallen to the floor. “I wouldn’t want you to be stuck reading a boring old book with boring old me.” 

“I would read you every page of the Celestial Health and Safety Fieldbook if you wanted me to. If you didn’t think I was reading too slowly. Or pronouncing the words wrong.” Sandalphon’s voice has gone hoarse. 

“Really?” squeaks Muriel. She looks up from her boots and into Sandalphon’s face with huge brown eyes, as if she was seeing the sun for the first time. 

Sandalphon takes his aviator glasses off slowly. The light makes his thalassic eyes squint and water, but he doesn’t take them away from Muriel. “Really.” 

He slings his grenade launcher on his back to join the two assault rifles, and steps closer to the other angel. There is barely a paperback’s worth of space between the two of them. 

And there you are, lingering on the side with a twist in your gut and an ache in your chest. Why couldn’t Muriel have interrupted after Sandalphon stamped your papers? How could it have been so easy for a book to bring the two of them together? Shouldn’t it take at least six millennia of professional rivalry, attendance at seventeen orchestral performances of pieces that one of them barely tolerates, and two jailbreaks before they even consider starting a book club together? What you would have given for someone to have read a book for you. Even if it was only a Bible. 

It’s not an unfair wish. You deserved better from -

From the world. And you still do, dear.  

But it’s so hard to watch them behold each other as if they were each other’s sun and moon and all the stars in the sky at once. As if Muriel might pick up a bowie knife and slay all the ghosts of Oxfordshire for Sandalphon’s peace of mind. As if Sandalphon might lay down his rifles and his pistols and his grenade launcher to take Muriel into his arms.  

So you clear your throat. Muriel and Sandalphon spring apart. 

“Aziraphale! You’re still here,” says Sandalphon. 

“Only until you stamp my papers,” you say faintly. 

Sandalphon sprinkles you with holy water, scrawls his signature across your forms, and cranks open the gates in two minutes flat. You practically break a bicycle land speed record sprinting out of the Kingdom of Heaven. It would be nice to attribute this athletic motivation to your desire to find a witch in possession of a cure to the human condition. Or to a renewed desire to seek out the remnants of beauty in the corners of the world unclaimed by Heaven. Or even to a sense of self-preservation that impels you to flee before Sandalphon notices that the holy water has seeped under the bandages of your hand and stained the dressings pink. 

But then you would be lying, and you’re quite good enough at that already. 

∽⧖∼

Do you remember the first autumn that ever graced your eyes? Humanity had only just begun to venture out of its subtropical cradle. They were innocent of the cooling nights and shortening days, of the killing frost and the hurried harvest. You were not unaware of the coming winter yourself (and really, when was the last time anyone could call you innocent?) but you were certainly unprepared for the land to set itself ablaze. It was only later on when you learned that the end times were not already nigh, and that fall merely revealed the leaves’ true colours. 

And even later yet did you learn that the end of the world was not red and gold.

All pigment seems to leach out of the landscape as you ride towards Oxfordshire. The milky blue of the sky, the sallow green shoots sprouting through the pavement cracks, even the dull brown of the dirt by the roadside give way to white and grey and black. A heavy mist veils the county, snagging in the bare branches stretching over the narrowing motorway and pooling in the roadside ditches. Not even gimlet-eyed crows nor sharp-toothed rats venture here. You are alone.  

But not afraid. If anything, the gothic trappings are indicative that a witch lives nearby, and the fog finally muffles the tintinnabulation in your ears. Cheap theatrics and poor blood circulation will not deter you from your mission today. But a lack of pavement might. Mile by mile, the asphalt under your tires disintegrates and the trees close in, until you’re wheeling your bicycle on a dirt footpath through the forest. And soon enough, the path is indistinguishable from the leaf-litter on the ground. Meanwhile, your handlebar-mounted compass spins merrily around with no sign of stopping.  Aerial reconnaissance might set your bearings straight, but not when the fog has reduced visibility to nil. 

You venture deeper and deeper into the shadowed forest. The trees and the undergrowth muffle everything except the creak of old trunks, the gentle tick-tick-tick of your bicycle’s wheels, and the thin breeze whistling through the branches. It sounds like a voice, humming an old song out of key and out of tempo. 

When night falls and it becomes too dark to go on, you nibble on your rations of manna, climb into the fork of an amenable tree, and then fall asleep enveloped in your wings like a downy white blanket. You mean to keep awake to watch for any witches traipsing about the woods with their theodolites, but exhaustion sends you veering into unconsciousness. And when the icy air wakes you in the morning, you fold your cramped wings back up and start the day all over again. All while the forest sings to you, with the wind as its breath and the deadwood as its throat. 

Your shoes begin to pinch your feet terribly on the second day. They were sturdy enough for a short cycle tour through Dorset or a promenade along the Kingdom streets, but they’ve not got half the arch support that’s needed to tramp through the undergrowth like a jungle archaeologist. But somehow, your bicycle fares even more poorly than you do. The ground is too soft and lumpy for its tyres, and it is only slowing you down. You abandon your bicycle to rest against a broken tree trunk. When you make the mistake of looking guiltily back at your hapless steed, you find the fog has already swallowed it whole.  

Picking your way over the uneven ground has been more physically taxing than expected, so you eat more manna to compensate. Unfortunately, that means you run out of provisions on the third day. Having nothing to eat means you can’t stay warm. Your wool jacket is not nearly thick enough to keep the damp and the cold off your skin. You try walking with your wings wrapped around you, but their weight throws you off-balance and their feathers snag on every outstretched twig. 

There's no choice but to jam your hands into your pockets and keep walking, while the forest creaks and sighs around you. You catch yourself humming along to the wind’s curious lament. Why not? There’s precious little else to do. 

On the morning of the fifth day, the crunch of footsteps on dead leaves startles you from your musical analysis. The melody you were shaping dies in your throat, and you spin around. 

A hulking, seven-headed dragon stalks through the mist, straight out of the Book of Revelations. Its scales have dulled to the shade of dried blood. Holes scatter across its wing membranes like a beggar’s sheets. Viscera spills darkly from a festering wound in its belly, and the iron crown on each brow bites into the swollen, ulcerated flesh around it. You can even see its half-rotted lungs heaving from between its ribs with every breath. But the dragon’s eyes are seething coals in gaunt heads the size of Bentleys, and wet leaves steam and hiss as burning claws rake long furrows in the forest floor as it stalks towards you. It stands as tall as the treetops, and you barely rise to the height of its ankles.

Too bad the smell of brimstone is so hard to get right. You bite back laughter and incline your head mockingly. “Incarceration looks good on you, Lucifer.”

The dragon roars, and a gout of flame erupts from its seven fanged maws. You hardly flinch as its foetid breath rolls over you like fog and ruffles your hair and envelops you in its inferno - 

And then nothing. The beast is gone, leaving only clawmarks on the forest floor. You smirk to yourself. An illusion like that might work on any other angel, but - 

“Did you like my little test?” 

You whirl around to see Gabriel striding towards you, clad in blood-splattered plate armour, spear shining as brightly as a beacon in his hand. He idly taps the haft along the ground like a cane. “Funny seeing you here. Shouldn’t you be in Japan by now, Archivist?” He rolls your title in his mouth like he’s tasting wine. 

“Shouldn’t you be back in Westminster Abbey?” That can’t be Gabriel. Gabriel traded in his armour for overalls, and his spear for a pen. Fumbling, you draw the sword from your belt with your left hand. It flickers weakly to life, no brighter than a candle. 

“Maybe, if the Quartermaster hadn’t told me you never showed up to pick up the cloud camo he reserved for you. So I checked your last few packets of paperwork, had a chat with some of the gate guards, and followed some muddy tracks... Brave of you to visit the forest that spooked Michael and Sandalphon.” The archangel twirls his spear. Silver flame scorches the dead grass at your feet and the bark of the trees, throwing juddering shadows across his face. “But it’s just smoke and mirrors. Like your travel papers, and your third-party scripture collection. Everything about you is a facade, Archivist , from the hair on your head to the soles of your feet. Did you really think you could hide from me?”

Your arm trembles, so you wrap a second hand around the haft of your sword. A cricketer’s stance, rather than a duellist’s. “You’re just a trick. I don’t have to deal with this,” you bluster, and try to sidestep around the archangel. 

Gabriel moves to block your path. He plants the haft of his spear onto the ground with his right hand, and rests the left casually upon his hip. “Yes, you do,” he says, smiling. 

“Fine.” You slash diagonally at Gabriel’s left shoulder. He turns slightly out of the way, as graceful as a reed in the wind. Then while you’re recovering from your followthrough, he whips back upright and grabs your right arm. Your shoulder twists painfully. 

“Did that feel like a trick?” He chuckles and throws you backwards into a tree trunk. 

The impact snaps your head backwards and flings your sword somewhere into the leaf litter to the side. Little stars erupt in your vision. You groan. 

“Not much of a swordsman, either. What a surprise.” The archangel looms over your body. His eyes glint out of dark sockets like witchlights. “Get up. We’re going back to the Kingdom. Then I’ll court-martial you for insubordination. Forgery. Heresy. Fraud. You’ve committed every sin in the Book and invented a thousand new ones.” 

“I’m not going back,” you say. The throbbing pain at the back of your head has obliterated all plans that take more than a few seconds to implement. First you need to stop the world from spinning. You need to reestablish which way is up and which way is down. You need to force your eyes back into focus.  

“Then get up, so you can die on your feet,” he snaps. 

Such grace that Gabriel offers. A shame he didn’t extend it during the Last Battle. And a load of good it will do you here. What are your choices, a valiant death tottering around in the forest, versus a shameful death in the mud? Laughter burbles out of you in little gasps. You’re not too good for mud. “Dying down here is perfectly adequate, thank you very much.” 

“Then die,” says the archangel, and he plunges his spear down towards your stomach. 

You fling yourself clumsily to the side, but not far enough. The celestial spear sinks into your thigh like butter, and silver fire erupts from the wound. They grow higher and brighter, like the weapon was wicking your soul from your body to feed the holy conflagration. Then Gabriel pulls the spear free of your thigh with a wet hiss, but the gash still shines with divine light. As if a fire had been set within a house, and its light was shining out the windows into the night. The brightness throws spots into your vision. You stare at it numbly for a second, and then laugh again. The heat emanating from your thigh seems incommensurate with the incineration of your soul. It is the insult after an injury, the fading echo of an old song, the ghost of an old wound. 

The flames vanish, and Gabriel along with it. You barely had any doubts that he would - so why are you shaking?  

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Wipe the blood from the corner of your mouth. Then, lean to the left, wrap your fingers around the sword’s hilt, and heave yourself back into a standing position.

“Get out of my head,” you tell the forest. 

Then, you keep walking. Someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to turn the forest against you. Perhaps it is the witch, or perhaps it is the Antichrist himself. Regardless, you must be getting close. 

This assumption is vindicated mere hours later, as the forest thins ahead. The wind picks up, starting the trees’ keening melody anew. The groan of the trunks shapes the bassline and the brush of air through the upper branches forms the treble. It rather sounds like a Bach fugue. Perhaps in E-minor?

You stifle a snort. Not a single Bach tape has materialised during any of your expeditions in the last three years. To claim that the rasp and squeak of dead trees resembles one of his compositions would be wishful thinking in the extreme, borne of inadequate provisioning, poor weather, and your own deteriorating condition. You hurry forwards: the sooner you can escape this forest and find a witch, the better. But the wind’s whistling grows louder, until you break through the trees into a small clearing.

Tendrils of sunlight have finally managed to reach the forest floor, but the wind howls around the hollow. Having cleared the mist, it stirs the leaves upwards in frantic spirals around a white-clad figure kneeling in the middle of the glade. His neck is bent towards the ground and his left arm cradles a dark-clad figure in front of him. The right hand grips a piece of shrapnel nearly two feet long.

“Stop playing silly buggers,” you say. 

The wind whips its fugue into a crescendo. The figure raises his head, and your stomach lurches into freefall. You’d recognise that face anymore. After all, it’s awfully close to the one you see in a mirror. The same pale hair, the same blue eyes, the same mouth creased with worry. But unmarred by the worst of the battle.  

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. But still your pulse quickens and your mouth grows dry. A phantom blade wrenches at your gut, twisting your insides until you can barely draw breath through the pain. The forest’s howl swells until it sounds like distant explosions. A building wall shearing off and shattering on the ground. Wounded fighters pleading for aid. The celestial bells ringing above the maelstrom. 

He manages a watery smile. Something red stains his hands and his jacket sleeves right up to the elbow.

“No. No.” You try to back away, but you can’t even feel your legs. “We’re not doing this again.” Where is his sword? Where is your sword? Another wave of agony passes through your abdomen. It feels like a red-hot coal has lodged itself in the pit of your stomach, burning you from the inside out. You nearly double over, forearm clutched to your belly.  

“I’m sorry. You were right, of course. I should have listened.” His right hand tightens on the shrapnel. Its sharp edges cut into his skin. He doesn’t let go. 

“You - don’t have to - do this,” you hiss through gritted teeth. Can he not hear you above the shriek of battle, or does he just not care? 

“Whatever happens next - stay with me,” he says.  Then he lifts the piece of shrapnel and thrusts it into the dark-clad figure’s back.

A second before it makes contact, something small and hard strikes your upper back. You fall to your knees, and the forest’s fugue dissolves into silence. Crimson blossoms upon the velveteen breast of your waistcoat, just below your heart. Dazed, you reach down and touch your fingers to the wound. It comes away red and wet in the misty light. This didn’t happen last time. You didn’t have time to do this last time. This is new. Which means that this isn’t real. Because - 

“None of this is real,” you murmur. Redness blooms not only from your wound, but from the tree branches and the forest floor. Sunlight shatters the overcast sky like a revelation, and the apparition evaporates like morning mist.   

But it’s still too late. The illusion bled you for mere seconds, but that was more seconds than you could spare. You crumple insensate to the ground as a canopy of scarlet and gold leaves unfurl before your eyes and fall reveals its true colours at last.

Chapter Text

You awake with a throbbing head to the rattle and bump of metal wheels across uneven ground and the tick-tick-tick of a bicycle geartrain. Your face and arms are pressed against the wire mesh, and the thin edge of a trolley basket digs into the back of your knees. But efforts to rearrange your corporation into a more ergonomic position seem to be limited by bindings of... electrical cable and laundry line, judging by the texture. You don’t dare confirm your findings by opening your eyes. 

“Don’t see why we’ve got to - oof - bundle him up like this,” huffs an unseen teenage boy. “We’d save so much time if we could just - y’know - shoot him -” 

Your facade of unconsciousness is marred by the indignant twist of your cracked lips. Expediently shot, like an ailing farm animal? How far you have fallen. It’s tempting to unfold your wings and break your bindings - but also exceedingly premature. 

“They don’t stay dead if you shoot ‘em, Brian,” reasons another voice. “He’d just go back to his nest in London and tell his friends about what he’d seen.” 

The trolley trundles over a particularly large root on the ground. You slide from one side of the cart to the other without getting jabbed in the stomach by the hilt of your sword. So one of the Them has your sword, but hasn’t realised that the weapon is capable of more permanent injury than discorporation. Best to keep it that way. 

“What he’d seen?” says Brian. “You mean, the great horking undead dragon? All the others probably gave their mates an earful after nearly wetting themselves and turnin’ tail.”  

“But those guys usually only see demons. Maybe a few dead angels. Even Claymore Lady and Baldy with the guns didn’t see any live angels,” says the second voice. 

“This one - well, he didn’t even flinch at the dragon. It was the two live angels that did him in. Doesn’t make sense. Wensley, let’s switch, he must weigh five times as much as his bike.”

Your captors switch places with a muffled shuffle. Kidnapping, possession of a celestial weapon, and now grand theft bicyclette? Adam would be proud.

“It doesn’t matter what he saw,” says a third voice, more authoritative and higher pitched than the rest. “Adam said that if anybody broke through the forest, that we were to bring them to Jasmine Cottage.” 

You perk up instantly at the sound of your destination, and crack your eyelids open just a slit. At least you’re still wearing your sunglasses. Above, the treetops seem to be growing thinner, with bronze and copper shards giving way to gloriously blue sky. The Them’s conversation is punctuated only by the tick of bicycle gears, the squeak of rusting trolley wheels, the flutter of falling leaves. Not even a note of Bach or the celestial bells. Perhaps things will turn out your way after all.  

“Yeah, that’s what we’re doing. Though have any of you actually heard from Adam since he left to throw the angels off his trail?” says Wensleydale. “I wrote him by raven that we found a copy of the last Star Wars , but he never wrote back.” 

“You’ve got to burn it for him. I sent him some of my mum’s Page Three girls in the barbeque,” says Brian. Bicycle grease is already smeared down the front of his Man United jersey; the Red Devils will never play again.

“I’m not going to burn Star Wars ,” says Wensleydale indignantly. “Suppose he’s dead and doesn’t get it at all?”

The small convoy jerks to a stop, jostling the back of your knees painfully. “Don’t you dare say that,” says Pepper fiercely. “Adam’s fine. We’d know if he weren’t. He must have a good reason for not writing back.” Nonetheless, she pulls the edges of her patched red poncho inwards with one of her hands. 

“But we’re his friends,” says Wensleydale. “Isn’t that a good enough reason?” 

Pepper doesn’t respond, but Brian does. “I trust Adam,” he says firmly. “This wanker -” and Brian gives the side of the cart a kick, sending another unpleasant jolt through your skeleton - “is the only one who’s sniffed around the village in months. One day they’ll leave us alone for good, and Adam’ll come back.” 

“Exactly,” says Pepper. “If Adam weren’t alright, then his lot would be first to hear about it. We’d be able to see the fireworks from China. But there haven’t been any fireworks yet. So Adam must be all right.” 

The expedition sets off again, and soon the cart’s rattle becomes a hum as dirt gives way to pavement beneath the trolley wheels. 

“So do you think this one’s another scout?” says Wensleydale.

A shadow falls upon your face as the Them peer at you. You make an effort to go extra limp beneath their scrutiny. 

“He’s not wearing any armour like Claymore Lady. And he only had a little sword. Not like Baldy’s guns,” says Brian. 

Something whooshes and thwacks into a tree, filling the air with the smell of burning twigs. “I rather like it,” says Pepper. 

“Plenty heavy without all the armour already,” pants Wensleydale. 

The road flattens out, and the cart finally squeaks to a stop. Through slitted eyelids you can see Jasmine Cottage’s red slate roof and wrought-iron fence. A large pie is cooling on the windowsill - steak and ale, judging from the smell. Your stomach twists, until the sight of a small blue car is parked out front dispels your appetite. Its chassis has been “enhanced” by someone with an intuitive but unscientific understanding of how cars should work, and a childhood watching post-apocalyptic movies set in an Australian wasteland. Enormous cowcatchers and roll cages have been mounted over the front. Vicious spikes protrude on all sides. But anything would be an improvement to the factory configuration of a Wasabi. 

One of the inhabitants of Jasmine Cottage is currently harvesting squash from the front garden. She straightens up as the Them push their shopping trolley to the side gate, and brushes the dirt off one hand against her apron. A machete dangles from a belt at her waist. Perfect for clearing brush around the yard for post-apocalyptic planting, but also excellent for self-defence - or better than a bread-knife, at any rate. “Oh, it’s you lot,” she says cheerily. “Find anything interesting in the woods?” 

“Just a lost tourist from London,” says Pepper. Brian rests your - his new bicycle against the fence, and helps Wensleydale to tip the trolley all the way forwards. You try to throw your arms out to protect yourself, forgetting that they are still bound at your sides, and tumble head over heels onto the street in front of Jasmine Cottage. 

“Oh. Good afternoon, Anathema,” you say, while trying to shimmy the electrical cords and laundry line off your body. What an impression you must make, first or otherwise, with your suit rumpled and sunglasses askew. At least you manage to at least stand up before Pepper points your sword at your face. While not quite flaming, it does emit an impressive quantity of sparks. You obligingly cease squirming. 

“The bicycle repairman,” Anathema says, and her brow crinkles in annoyance. 

“No, he’s an angel ,” says Brian with extraordinary patience for someone carelessly swinging a tyre iron in their hand. 

“How do you know my name?” says Anathema. 

“Well, in a small village, everyone knows everyone,” you say vaguely, keeping one eye firmly on Anathema’s machete. The blade is wet - but with sap, rather than blood. 

“Anathema, who’s that?” calls a voice from inside the cottage. It’s slightly muffled and distinctly nerdy, as if its owner was calling from inside a pocket protector. 

“Just the Them, dear,” says Anathema. 

“Newt,” you say. 

Newt steps outside, wearing a pair of jeans and a grey jumper. The jeans are worn-soft and faded. The jumper does not have a pocket protector, but it is frayed at the hems, as if a small dog had been chewing on it, and the jumper owner was too polite to put his foot down. “Uh, hello. I’m sorry, have we met somewhere?” He adjusts his glasses, as if they’ll afford him a better look at your face. 

“I suppose not,” you say, and bow as much as your restraints will allow you. “Aziraphale, Celestial Archivist, at your service.” 

Brian chortles into a fist stained black with bicycle grease. “What kind of name is that?”

“A perfectly good one,” you snap. 

Anathema shifts from foot to foot, on the verge of stepping out of the Jasmine Cottage grounds and taking a very American interpretation of the Castle doctrine. “He’s from the city.” 

Newt’s spine stiffens instantly. “He’s one of them ?” Slowly, he reaches for the spade leaning by the front door. 

“Where’s the other bicycle repairman?” asks Anathema. “Did your folk off him too?” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “None of your business,” you say crossly. 

The Them’s heads swivel between speakers. A delighted grin has spread across Brian’s face, as if he was about to egg on a fistfight in a diner parking lot. Pepper scowls, as if waiting for Newt to get on with things and behead you with the garden spade. But Wensleydale, at least, can be relied upon to follow instructions, whether on the back of a model aeroplane kit or from the absentee Antichrist. “Adam told us to bring you anyone who made it through the woods,” says Wensleydale.

“But why?” says Anathema. “We can’t kill him off, and I won’t have him locked up in the cellar.” 

You straighten your sunglasses with a shrug of the shoulder. “Because we need each other.”

“What?” says Newt. 

You smile, even though there is a garden machete, spade, tyre iron, and a sword pointed at your head. “I’m the Celestial Archivist. My work enables me to travel all around the world, gathering tidings for the Archangels. I have access to the highest echelons of intelligence. And now, so could you.” Your lips move nearly of their own accord, inventing blessings as fast as thought. “All I ask is for some independent occult expertise.” 

“You need a witch,” says Anathema. 

“What, so that you can have her stoned? I’ve checked, and I’ll have you know she’s only got two nipples!” Newt does not even blush as he hefts his spade overhead, readying to cleave your head from its shoulders. 

But Brian and Pepper snicker, and Anathema’s cheeks do turn slightly pink. “Newt,” she says reproachfully. And to you, she says: “Thoughts and prayers not cutting it nowadays?” 

“Turns out we’re short of those lately,” you say. “But I find myself in a delicate condition, and I need... an off-the-books remedy. Something without a paper trail. Under-the-table. You know.”

Anathema’s eyes flicker towards your abdomen. 

“Not that way. I’m becoming human ,” you protest. 

“And what’s wrong with that?” says Pepper. “Being human is great.” 

“Humans have to eat and drink and sleep and die,” you say. “Humans aren’t allowed in or out of the Kingdom. Humans get audited. ” 

Anathema pushes a strand of dark hair out of her face, leaving a smudge of dirt on her temple. “You get used to it.” 

And endure the anxious thrum of your heartbeat in your ears, the roiling in the pit of your stomach, and the lightheaded spin in your head until you burn out and die? “I most certainly will not,” you say. Stay in control of the situation. Turn it back towards the humans. “But you’re the ones who stand to gain the most from this arrangement. Think about it: a constant eye on the inner workings of the Kingdom. A finger on the celestial pulse. Haven’t you ever wanted to know what the Archangels have planned? You could know. I’d keep you appraised, for as long as I live. But - it won’t be long, if I succumb prematurely to my, ah, condition.” You spread your hands as much as you can, against your bindings. “Hence, my offer.” 

The humans all look at each other. Newt grimaces. Brian scuffs his shoe against the ground. “We’ve been managing all right by ourselves,” says Anathema, raising her chin mulishly. 

“Perhaps you need some time to think on this properly -” you say.

“I don’t really care about what your folk are doing in London,” says Anathema. 

 The ground feels like it’s falling out from under your feet. “Wait, I can -” 

“So, have you heard from Crowley lately?” says Anathema. 

“Excuse me?” Oh, not again.  

“You know. The bicycle repairman who nearly ran me over by the orchard. And then showed up in Tadfield to back us up against the Horsemen. Tight trousers. I’d have liked to see him again. What happened to him?” 

Is tight trousers really the best descriptor Anathema can use? “It’s, ah, not quite so easy to explain,” you say. 

She cocks her head at you. “I think it’s really quite simple. Is he alive, or is he dead?” She folds her arms across her chest, but her fingers dig into her bicep, and she bites her bottom lip. 

It would be simple to tell her what you both want to hear. Spin a tale about a miraculous last-minute escape. Assure her that you can be trusted to keep your friends safe. But then you look down at your ruined brown oxfords, and your muddy trouser hems, and your mouth goes dry. “Alive and well,” you lie.   

Anathema nods once, eyes fixed on a point in the distance. “When the fighting broke out, he told us to run back to Tadfield, lock ourselves in the cellar, and not to come out until everything was quiet. I’d hoped he made it to Alpha Centauri after all,” she says. 

So do you. “I really couldn’t say.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly at the end of the sentence. 

“Can’t you?” She turns her black eyes back upon you. You try to keep your face impassively smooth and meet her gaze from beneath your glasses. But there’s no disguising the thinness of your lips pressed together, the swallowed lump in your throat, the squared tension in your shoulders. 

How easily is guilt mistaken for simple concern. “Look, I don’t care about business in London. But I do care about my folks at home, and Newt’s folks,” says Anathema. 

“And Adam,” adds Wensleydale, eyes solemn behind his prescription swim goggles.

“And Adam,” echoes Anathema. “But it’s damn impossible to get news in or out these days. So, yes. Stay with me, and I’ll take a look at your condition . And in return, you’ll send word if you see our friends and family out there.” 

“Thank you,” you whisper. Relief makes you feel lightheaded. You sway on your feet. Anathema’s garden grows dim around the edges, the world spins around you, and - oh no - a screech rises in your ears, like the scrape of horsehair on barbed wire -

“You think he’ll really do it?” says Pepper, fingers still wrapped around the hilt of your sword. 

“I don’t know,” says Anathema softly. “He was with Crowley, who wasn’t on anyone’s side. Then he came all the way out here without telling his folk why. He tried to bribe us, and then spun a yarn about becoming human. It’s not very biblical at all.” She exhales a long breath. “I wish Agnes had written something about this.” 

“Perhaps we could check later. But, er. Dear,” says Newt, and he points at you. 

It’s not the world that’s spinning around you. It’s your head, going round and round on your neck, because your body has finally forgotten how many degrees of freedom a humanoid spine is supposed to have, and the shriek of bone against bone fills not just your ears but the entire garden too. “Sorry,” you mumble through the din, before Newt and Anathema lift your arms around their shoulders and half-drag, half-carry you into Jasmine Cottage.

∽⧖∼

Leipzig, 1750.

The July morning on which Anna’s husband was laid into the ground was cold and rainy, but Anna could barely feel the chill for the strange stillness in her heart. She had wept and wailed at the funeral of each of her seven children, gone into the Lord’s embrace too soon for a mother’s liking. The difference, perhaps, was that Sebastian had always been standing at her side. And for the first time in thirty years, she was left alone. The other mourners had trickled away from the freshly-filled plot behind St. Johannis’s church like rivulets towards a stream. 

Now, her grief seemed as far away as he was. Nobody would beggar her for a few moments of time in this liminal space as the closing strains of Sebastian’s own funeral motet faded away in the wind. Dear Lord God, raise us up. It should have been sung by eight voices with wind and string accompaniment. She had only been able to afford a string trio. At least in Heaven, there would be no shortage of angels to sing Sebastian’s melodies for the Lord’s glory. 

She faintly cursed the physician who had botched Sebastian’s cataract surgery. What had been his name? An English Chevalier, John something-or-the-other - it did not really matter. He had already fled far, far beyond the grasp of the Leipzig city council. Not that council would have been in any hurry to render judgement. His husband had only been worth 500 thalers per year to the city. Sebastian had considered leaving, but the musical demands of the Church had given him the most inspiration in the later years of his life. “What would I do at the court of Dresden? Write allemandes and courantes again? Not when God’s house has inspired me to heights I did not realise were possible.”  

It was a pity that the keepers of God’s house did not feel the same way. Only by supplementing this salary with private lessons, commissions, and performances were Anna and Sebastian able to run a household for themselves and their children, supported by wet nurses, tutors, cooks, and maids. How many of them would she have to release from service after the funeral? 

Her thoughts were interrupted by a murmuring through the rain: two mourners, who had not yet departed. “I told him not to write so much in the candlelight,” said a man in a voice with an aristocratic English lilt. 

“How else was he going to churn out that much bloody church music?” said another man, whose voice sounded like a serpent’s scales rustling through the leaves. “Nobody would’ve noticed if he’d repeated a few cantatas or oratorios. None of them have a proper melody to hang a hat on, anyway.”

“That was his style, dear,” said the Englishman. “You can even hear it in this funeral motet. It’s an old tune. But he’s put such a lush and elegant spin on it... just listen.” 

“Sounds like three violins having a fight. Polyphony’s on its way out,” said the second man. “If you need more than one melody, then your first one wasn’t good enough.” 

“If you can’t hear the beauty, can't you appreciate the craft , Crowley? It’s like... reading a story, happening in three different places at once. Always a nifty little surprise to see which narrative comes up next, and how they all spin together at the end.” The Englishman looked pointedly at Crowley. “But then again, you never got the knack of playing fugues either.”  

“Ngk,” said the other man. “Hey, so Bach’s got to be one of yours now, right?” Perhaps these two were publishers, arguing over the rights to the distribution of Sebastian’s sheet music, like well-paying vultures picking over a cooling corpse.

“Why would you say that?” said the Englishman. 

“No major stains on his record. No venereal diseases. Some schoolboy antics. Once, he called a bassoonist a ‘nanny-goat’ and beat him with a stick.” Crowley sighed mightily. “And all that church music.” 

“Oh. I checked. He’s not actually with us,” said the Englishman. 

“What?” said Crowley, revolted. 

“Plagiarism investigation,” said the Englishman. “He was a little too good.” 

“You take him back!” said Crowley. 

“I’m sorry,” said the Englishman. “Bach is in Hell.” 

Something broke within Anna. She tore off her veil and marched right for the two men, right through the mud. “How dare you,” she cried. “After all he gave the Church, after all he gave to our family. How dare you say that Sebastian is in Hell!” 

Crowley said, “As you can tell, German is not my associate’s first language,” at the same time that the Englishman said, “I’m quite sorry, madam, but I’m sure that the plagiarism investigation will conclude in due time -” 

“And how dare you accuse Sebastian of plagiarism,” she said. “Every note he wrote was inspired by God and his angels, and nobody else.” 

Crowley was shaking violently, and he’d pressed his lips so tightly together that they were white. Anna felt some faint pity for the man, to be burdened by his associate’s blasphemy. But she held nothing but rage for the Englishman, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish.  

“Have you nothing to say?” she said to the Englishman. “Will you not apologise for speaking ill of the dead?” 

The Englishman found his manners at last. “Madam Bach, please accept my sincerest apologies,” he stammered. “I misspoke. Please, take this as a token of my condolences, for your husband’s death.” He held out a purse of thalers. 

Anna counted the coins through the bulging skin of the purse. That silver could probably provide for her household staff intact until autumn. Maybe even until winter, if she really stretched it out. She reached out, nearly, until she remembered herself. “I accept your apology,” she said icily. “But not your bribe. I am not of so few means that I will accept calumny and slander from a stranger and betray my husband’s honour for forty silver.” 

Crowley had been so overcome by his associate’s misconduct that he had fallen to his knees in the mud of the graveyard. He struck the ground with his fists again and again, shaking all the while with shame and rage. “You can’t tempt her,” he said. “You can’t tempt her!” 

“Madam, please reconsider,” said the Englishman hurriedly. “I know that the world is hard for widows.”

Anna straightened her back. “I sang for the court of Saxe-Zeitz and Duke Christian of Saxe-Weissenfels. The Prince of Anhalt-Cöthen showered me with rose petals at his own wedding. I can read and write music, because I have my wits and my own two hands. I have lost Sebastian. But I have not lost my pride.” 

Crowley stood up suddenly. His eyes glittered strangely in his face. “Good for you,” he said, with neither anger nor mirth. “Pride is the last bastion of the self. Never give it up, especially for someone like him .”   

Anna nodded her thanks to Crowley, but she suddenly found that she could not speak around a lump in her throat. Her rage had run out like water from a broken cistern, leaving a frighteningly empty void. She quickly turned and began to walk away from the graveyard. The rain had stopped, but the musicians had stopped playing, and now she could feel the chill of the world pressing down against her from all sides. 

“Dear Lord God, raise us up,” she whispered. That wasn’t how Sebastian imagined his composition. A single voice, unaccompanied? A dam burst inside her at last, and Anna finally began to weep.  

Chapter Text

Anathema and Newt never got around to moving out of Tadfield after the Apocalypse. The landlady had been visiting Corsica on the eve of the Last Battle, and did not return to collect three years’ worth of back rent. But Newt dutifully tucks pound notes and sofa-cushion change into dated envelopes every month, even after Anathema points out the currency is no longer legal tender. 

Newt briefly left to find his family in Dorking. After a harrowing journey, he found that his parents had relocated to a self-sufficient hippie commune in South Downs where sheep outnumber humans ten to one. His parents had greeted him heartily. Unfortunately, one of the hippies was a retired electrical engineer, who had jerry-rigged the old waterwheel to power the electric cattle fence around the compound. And though the fence was capable of repelling wolves or cannibal reavers, it would not last an hour in Newt’s presence. Besides, his heart already lay in Jasmine Cottage. 

Anathema, on the other hand, tore herself to bits trying to figure out what had gone wrong at the end of the world, and disowned divination altogether. She spends her days twiddling with a half-broken radio in a shed at the back of the garden, trying to reestablish transatlantic communications with her parents. Occasionally a fragment of speech or a passage of music breaks through the static, only to be lost the moment Anathema tries to zero in on the frequency. She takes this all with a grim kind of stride: “The Book was very clear. Whether I succeeded or failed, I wouldn’t see them again.” 

In your opinion, Anathema ought to cheer up. One could do far worse than Tadfield when awaiting the reconstruction of the Kingdom of Heaven. You take a stroll into the village while Newt and Anathema discuss your treatment plan, and find that it looks much the same as during your prior visits, albeit with a new veneer of postrevelational modishness. Barbed wire tops picket fences, spiked cowcatchers jut out from car bumpers, neighbours pushing armoured baby buggies greet each other on the street with ammunition bandoliers and hunting rifles criss-crossed on their chests. Were it not for the sudden wont of every Tadfield resident to garb themselves in camouflage and dangle machetes from their belts, one might think the End Times had never even come to pass. 

In fact, the only people who seem bothered by your arrival in the village are the remaining members of the Them, the new owners of Jasmine Cottage, and a mongrel lying in a front garden where the rosebushes look as if they were trimmed with a T-square. It raises its head to growl as you pass, and its eyes gleam like fires from the deepest abyss of Hell. But after a moment of consideration, it cocks its head, and whines instead. 

“Me too, Dog,” you say. “Me too.” 

Dog begins to pad towards you, ears low and tail barely hovering above the ground. 

A man emerges from around the back of the house, wiping his hands on an oil rag. The olive colour of his tactical vest clashes with his red and navy zig-zag cardigan. “Dog! Come along, dog, it’s time for dinner.” Seeing your worried glance, he adds, “Don’t worry, he’s friendly.” 

As if a beast this close to being named Stalks-by-Night could ever be truly friendly, whether he be four or forty hands high at the withers. “Excuse me, Mister... Young. Do you know where your son is?”

“My son.” Mr. Young’s brow crinkles and he sighs like a reflex. “What’s he done now?” 

“Well, he’s -” you begin, but the man’s forehead smooths out like a slate being wiped clean, his mouth hangs slack, and his eyes cloud. 

Dog barks at you. 

“Well, they haven’t found him either,” you say. “So there’s that.” 

Dog’s tail wags in response.

Mr. Young’s eyes refocus. “Sorry, I must’ve lost my train of thought,” he says cheerfully. “What did you say your name was?” 

“Mister... Fell. And I was inquiring as to the location of your son.” 

“My son? Probably out with his friends -” Mr. Young trails off again and he gazes slack-jawed into the street behind you.

One of Dog’s ears flops over, and he barks again, more insistently. 

“I’m undercover. Put a lid on it.” You push your sunglasses upwards so they rest more firmly upon your nose. 

Mr. Young blinks twice. “Mister Fell. Good to meet you! Are you new to Tadfield?” He reaches out towards your hand. 

You shake his hand limply. “Suppose so.” And before the man can offer you platitudes about the weather, or before Dog can blow your cover, you say, “Excuse me - I must be going.” Then you turn tail, and briskly walk back towards Jasmine Cottage. 

Luckily, Anathema and Newt’s gauntlet of cleansing rituals keep you too busy to encounter Adam’s father or Dog again. 

“I don’t know how I missed it before,” she says, as she shuts you up in a sauna which smells of evil herbs. “You have two auras. They’re practically overlapping, and - urgh, what a colour combination - impossible to miss, really.” 

“Why does this cottage even have a sauna?” You shiver from your cocoon of towels as vapour billows up around you.

“I read about them in a National Geographic once.” Newt is red-faced and sweating as he gingerly piles hot rocks into a brazier with a pair of fireplace tongs. “The Finns have them in practically every building. Thought one might be cosy for winter.” 

It’s not nearly cosy enough for you, though. You wrap a fourth towel around your head while Newt returns intermittently to pour water upon the sizzling stones and fan clumps of wilted herbs around your face - the last time whilst wearing a firefighter’s suit, helmet and all. He gazes at your damp and clammy face. “Sorry about the heat. Anathema says that the sauna’s good for sweating out your toxins. Which are almost the same as possessing spirits.” 

“You know that occult spirits generally like the heat, right?” you say.

Newt flips up his firefighter’s mask, and you can see his face is red and blotchy from the heat. “You know, they don’t teach that at Sunday school.”

“Not any Sunday school you went to,” you mumble. 

The day after that, Newt and Anathema lead you in a meditation circle in the garden, surrounded by chunks of quartz, tealights, and potpourri, and the gentle harmonies of Enya. “Feel your breath,” she urges you, after coaxing your legs into a geometrically-improbable lotus position. “Inhale with me to a count of five, one-two-three-four-five. Hold it for a count of six, one-two-three-”

Clearing your mind is difficult when Newt keeps clearing his throat and scratching his back and breathing . Or when Anathema contorts herself into positions that defy biomechanics, while cajoling you to follow suit. Or when you catch glimpses of the Them, making alternatingly rude and threatening gestures at you from the other side of the wrought-iron fence. The only position that you seem to be able to get the hang of is the Upward-Facing Bow, and then you still have to fight your body so it doesn’t spider-walk away from the yoga circle. 

Your patience lasts for two hours - a miracle in itself, bravo - before you crawl to the music player, eject the tape, and will it to become Bach, or Freddie Mercury, or anyone besides a breathy-voiced new-age songstress. Anathema catches you on the verge of giving yourself an aneurysm. 

“Let go of Enya,” she says. 

“Never,” you say. The pressure builds in your head, and in your chest.

“Come on, Aziraph-argh!” She leaps backwards as a pitch-like miasma expels itself from your mouth into the cabbage patch. The two cabbages hit by your projectile begin to melt like wax figurines. 

“Yeugh!” the Them collectively groan. They point at the cabbages bubbling away while tripping over themselves to make distance with Jasmine Cottage. If only you had a miracle left to summon Elisha’s teenager-mauling bear of yore. Alas, you cannot even resist when Newt liberates the tape from your grasping hands while you are being mocked by youths. On the plus side, there is no more yoga for you. 

Instead, Newt and Anathema draw you a steaming bath, with halved citrus fruits and rose petals floating on top. “And what is that supposed to be?” you ask through chattering teeth, as you shiver in a towel and Newt’s swim trunks.

“Ritual bath,” says Anathema, at the same time Newt says, “Yuzu fruits.” They catch each other’s gaze. Anathema giggles. 

You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses. “I wasn’t aware that the latter was a component of the former.” 

“It’s not, but it’s good for the skin. And prevents colds,” says Newt. He and Anathema continue waiting expectantly for you to get into the bath, until you clear your throat loudly.

“A little privacy?” you say.

“Oh. Very sorry,” says Newt. Your two wardens exit the bathroom and close the door behind them. You wait until their footsteps disappear down the stairs. This claw-footed tub is more jacuzzi than mikveh and you have corresponding doubts about its efficacy. But having few other ideas, you tighten the drawstrings of Newt’s swim-trunks protectively around your waist, and climb into the bath.  

The water feels terrifically cold, despite the haze of lemony steam upon its surface. You grit your teeth, and submerge yourself slowly. Not slowly enough, though. Your foot slips at the bottom of the tub, and you crash down into the water. The back of your head strikes the edge of the tub. And you fall backwards into a familiar black sea, lit by remote alien stars and the thin light shining from the windows of a distant shack. 

There is little time to wonder where you’d seen that structure before, before you slip into the silence beneath the inky waves. You float beneath the surface, stunned by the impact. 

But only for a moment. The ocean caught you unawares in the Archive. You will not go quietly into the night a second time. You arch upwards towards the watery starlight, clawing and kicking furiously at the water. Breaths of seawater ream your lungs. You’re not going back, not to the darkness, not to the catacombs of your mind, not to - 

- Anathema’s bathroom floor, glassy with yuzu-water and rose petals. Newt and Anathema’s footsteps thunder up the stairs. You haven’t even enough warning to prop yourself up into a less compromising position before they wrap your lemony corpus up in a quilt depicting kittens a-gambol, settle you onto a squashy floral settee, and push a mug of tea into your hands. Then, they sit bespectacled in matching tweed armchairs like a postmodern Dr. Jung and Dr. Freud, ready to diagnose your every ailment. Newt twirls a pen nervously around his fingers, and then drops it onto the rug. Anathema fiddles with an Ouija board on her knees. 

“I saw something in the water,” you say. 

Did you really? It was quite dark... 

Anathema nods. “I hoped you might eventually. Any idea what it is?” 

“Not really,” you say. “But... are we really going to consult a child’s toy to figure out what it is? Have you got a magic eight-ball in the attic too?” 

“Yes, actually,” says Newt. 

Anathema places the Ouija board onto your lap. “You’re clearly possessed, and I think that it’d be easier to devise a treatment if we knew what we were up against.” 

You take a wary sip of the tea and cough. The smell of turmeric hits your sinuses like smelling salts. You sneeze into a tissue, which burns into ash in your fingers. “Couldn’t we have tried divination before yoga?” you say. 

Newt and Anathema glance at each other. “Relying on divination didn’t work out last time,” says Anathema lightly. “You might’ve noticed, after stealing the Book.” 

“Er,” you say. And you’re not sure what else to add, but instead of tossing the turmeric tea into a yellowing potted fern you set it onto the spindly side-table instead. And you don’t resist when Newt slides a planchette between your fingers and the Ouija board. 

Anathema draws the curtains and lights some incense sticks, which she sticks into pots otherwise occupied by deceased houseplants. The three of you sit silently in the darkness, as the smoke mingles with the oddly soothing smell of brussel sprouts wafting in from the kitchen. 

You tamp down the urge to ask, what now? as the silence thickens into trepidation, and the trepidation threatens to curdle into awkwardness. Instead, you sweep your eyes furtively at the other two participants in the seance. Anathema’s eyes are serenely closed, but her gritted teeth and clenched fingers betray her apprehension. Newt, meanwhile, leans forwards in his chair, gaze fixed on Anathema’s face. He takes her hand and rubs a thumb over her knuckle. Neither of them are watching you. 

You nearly chuckle at the irony. Successfully overlooked, first in the Kingdom, and now at your own seance! You uncoil a little bit within your quilted cocoon, and turn the planchette over in your hands.

Then you startle when Anathema begins to speak. “Alright. We entreat the spirit within this angel to come forth from the darkness into the light, and to answer us these questions three.” 

“Why three?” asks Newt, sotto voce .

“It’s numerologically significant. More importantly, it keeps the visit short,” says Anathema. 

Nothing happens, so you open your mouth to question Anathema’s occult credentials. But suddenly, you gasp. The temperature in the living room drops to subfreezing. Your abandoned mug of turmeric tea ices over. Your arm feels like it’s been packed in snow like a stolen kidney. The planchette smokes and shakes between your fingers. 

“Right. Right.” Anathema springs to her feet, pushes her glasses up onto her nose. Ice crackles around the lenses, and her breath forms clouds in front of her face. “First. What is your name?” 

The planchette skids across the Ouija board of its own accord, jerking your arm to and fro. It spells: C R O W L E Y. 

You try to wrench your hand away from the board, but it is frozen to the planchette like wet skin on icy metal. “Impossible. It’s lying. Ask something else!” 

Anathema’s hair stands on end, a darkened halo around her head. “What are you?” 

And your hand is still moving, spelling out the letters, C R O W L E Y over and over again, faster and faster, heedless of Anathema’s questions. Newt tries to pull the planchette away from you. Frost spreads from the board to his fingers, freezing his skin to the wood. He yelps and jerks away, sending you both clattering to the floor. 

Ice crawls from the Ouija board across the rug on the living room floor. And the planchette is still moving: C R O W L E Y. 

“Newt!” Anathema dashes to Newt, throws one of his arms around her shoulders, and tries to heave him upright. But he’s still stuck fast to the board, and so are you. 

“We need to ask it one more question!” says Newt. “That’ll end the seance!”  

One more question? You’ve always had more questions than the world had answers. That got you into this mess in the first place. How did I survive? Where did it all go wrong? Still think this was worth it? But really, they’re all the same question at their root. “Why?” you howl. 

The planchette skids to a dead stop. Then, it screeches slowly across the board, dragging grooves through the ice and into the wood below, pulling your hand and Newt’s hand along.

And all of a sudden, the candles go out. You and Newt topple backwards as the planchette releases your hands. The frost-lines on the floor linger a moment longer before beginning to melt. Anathema wraps Newt in the kitten quilt. You scramble to your knees, ignoring the cold in your hands, and inspect the Ouija board. 

Embedded within the board is the planchette, over the word “GOODBYE.” 

Anathema, satisfied by her administrations to Newt, inspects the board from over your shoulder. “Well, we’ve learned at least one thing,” she says. “You’re not being possessed by a nice spirit.”

“The board was spelling Crowley ,” said Newt. “D’you remember him from the airfield, Anathema? Raggedy fellow. Wore black... and those glasses...” 

You interrupt Anathema before she can comment on your eyewear as well. “It’s not Crowley.” 

“He begged to differ,” says Anathema. “I’m getting the Eight-Ball.” 

“Forget the Eight-Ball!” you say. 

Anathema’s eyes sparkle gleefully. Her entire heritage of occultism and divination is rushing back after being tamped down in the years after the Apocalypse. Like a grown-up returning to their childhood home, discovering a small and rusty bicycle in the garden shed, and immediately taking it for a test ride down the Big Hill. 

And that last ride down the Big Hill on the top of an Ouija board nearly did you in. You need to nip this in the bud. 

“Asking more questions won’t work. It’s not Crowley. It’s just a liar.” 

“And how would you know that?” says Anathema stubbornly. 

They’re not connecting the dots, and that’s on you. You back up until you’re leaning against the living room wall, and close your eyes. In the shrapnel-littered alley behind a bombed-out restaurant lies a body, bent glasses beside his face, chest marred by a pair of side-by-side wounds. The first seeps blood, and the second fire: the telltale signature of a celestial weapon. The fire spreads through the body’s veins, incinerating it from the inside out. Seconds later, only ashes and the sunglasses are left. The wind blows: then only the pair of shades remain. You pocket them, because what else is there to do? “He’s dead,” you say, as if hearing it out loud absolves you of your weakness. 

In your hands is the foreign heft of a sword hilt, grip slick with blood. It slips from your hands and clatters onto the cobbles below. The clang of stone and metal rings through the alley, a hollow echo of Heaven’s victorious bells above. There’s one more detail to be added, lest your audience doubt your account, and pursue this fruitless inquiry to its barren root. 

You open your eyes, and say: “I killed him.” 

Chapter Text

Berlin, 1829.

Eduard leaned against his cart and clapped his mittens together miserably. He’d tucked himself into the red brick arches at the edges of the market square, which provided a modicum of shelter and stopped the winter winds from making off with all of his folios for sale. But hawking his wares in the market while snow swirled around his feet was not quite the return on investment he’d hoped to obtain after an education at the Singakedemie . Perhaps he would be fortunate and meet an extremely rich patron... but, casting a jaded eye at the lack of foot traffic in the square, he was more likely to freeze to death first. 

He glanced at the clock tower. Another half hour - then he could say he’d made a sincere stab at entrepreneurship, and leave the freezing square with a clear conscience. Shame his afternoon would not entail gathering around the fire with a warm mug of mulled wine in hand. If he recalled correctly, he could look forward to a noon audition for Orfeo , an afternoon rehearsal of Tancredi , and finally an evening performance of Alceste . They said that a busy singer was a successful one, but Eduard wondered if he was doing it wrong, as he still hadn’t made enough money to move out of his uncle Ludwig’s house. 

Hence trying to sell off any of the odds and ends that he could persuade his friends and family to part with. The glass baubles from his former sister-in-law Wilhelmine’s dowry had been first to go. Then the spare silverware. The noxious vials of “alchemical” reagents. Navigational instruments. And now, at the bottom of the barrel, textbooks and sheet music mouldering at the back of the Singakedemie archives. 

Yet the market for used Baroque sheet music was even thinner than that for used silverware. Silverware could be melted down and turned into jewellery or teeth. Sheet music was barely good for kindling, especially when polyphony was passé and oratorio was on its way out.  

A rustling at his cart startled him slightly. Eduard turned to see a man in a tan overcoat thumbing through the brittle, yellowed folios. His brocade waistcoat and tricorne hat were rather last-century, but his buttons still gleamed gold. Eduard’s heart leapt: a potential patron, and more importantly, a steady salary. He didn’t even have to fake his best stage smile. “Anything I can help you with, sir?” 

“Sorry, no, I’m just browsing,” said the man automatically. 

The rebuttal did not faze Eduard. “I see you’re a man of culture. Might I interest you in some of the operas of Gluck or Mozart? Their arias are quite popular in private salons now. I myself am a trained baritone. My Don Giovanni brought women to tears, and some of the men as well -”

But then he caught sight of the second man. He was more liquid than flesh, wearing glasses and a black velvet jacket tailored like a shroud. Eduard caught the glimpse of something yellow behind the lenses. Every instinct bid him flee, like a mouse from a cat. He froze, and fell silent. 

“Doesn’t look like you’re browsing,” said the second man. “Looks like you’ve found a little something-something for your new bookshop. If you pay more than ten pfennigs, you’re being ripped off.” He looked warningly at Eduard. 

Eduard swallowed. “Eight pfennigs?” suggested the actor. Though he’d be happy to give away the folio for free, if it meant never seeing the man in the dark coat again for the rest of his life.  

But such a bargain seemed only to sadden the man in the tan coat. “Ten pfennigs is too little for The Well-Tempered Clavier ,” he said, turning the folio over in his hands. “How did you even get ahold of these? They were transcribed by Anna Magdalena herself. Are you a pianist, Herr...” 

“Devrient,” said the actor faintly. “Eduard Devrient. I’m not a pianist, myself. Those’d be one of Felix’s.”

“Felix Mendelssohn?” said the tan-coated man. 

Some of Eduard’s salesmanship reemerged. Perhaps this man would not be a patron, but a collector . “The very prodigy! Are you an admirer? I have some of his other things in my collection. Here... a first draft of his Die Hochzeit des Camchos, perhaps you saw it on stage?” Eduard pulled out a handful of embossed leather folders. But to his despair, the tan-coated man became interested in a sheaf of parchment so raggedy that the edges resembled lace. 

“ The St. Matthew Passion. What an oratorio,” said the tan-coated man wistfully. 

“Oh. Yes, I remember that. One of Haydn’s finest works,” fumbled Eduard, wishing fervently that he had not skipped that lesson to picnic upon the Spree. 

“Bach’s,” said the dark-suited man, and Eduard withered under his gaze. 

“But Felix - Herr Mendelssohn has no more need for Bach?” said the tan-coated man. 

“Well, ah, The Well-Tempered Clavier is full of fugues, which are just too dry and fussy to be fashionable anymore... not the sort of thing you can sing along to at a salon, you know. And The St. Matthew Passion takes two choirs and two orchestras, and Felix just doesn’t have the cash to put up that kind of production. Especially for a composer that nobody recognizes. Audiences these days don’t want sermons, anyway - they’d rather laugh at an opera or cry during a symphony,” babbled Eduard.  

The tan-coated man turned to the dark-suited man. “I suppose you were right, Crowley,” he said. “People don’t want to listen to Bach anymore. Or his preludes, or his fugues.” 

Crowley clapped the tan-coated man on the shoulder. “It’s not so bad. The nineteenth century has Beethoven. And Schubert. Composers who aren’t stuck fiddling with clavier-tuning and polyphonics. Composers with feeling, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale shrugged off Crowley’s touch, and the dark-suited man jerked his hand away to fold it nonchalantly behind his back instead. “Is it wrong to have enjoyed the last few centuries, and to want to hear its music again? Are you ever afraid, Crowley, of forgetting the past, and what it sounded like?” said Aziraphale.

“Never,” said Crowley decisively. “Not when there’s still so much to look forward to. The new is better than the old. Trust me.” 

“But what about a day when it’s not? Or a day where you just want to sit back and listen and think, look how far they’ve come? ” 

“Nope,” said Crowley. 

“We can’t all be so lucky,” said the tan-coated man. He closed the folio and slid it back into the basket with Eduard’s other piles of sheet music. 

Crowley’s eyebrows arched high over the lens of his glasses. “Aren’t you going to buy any?” 

“I hardly see the point, as I never got the knack for the clavier, anyway. Perhaps you'd have better luck.” The tan-coated man began to walk slowly away from the cart.

Crowley lingered behind, stony-faced. He ran his fingers over the ruffled edges of the discarded Bach folios until Aziraphale disappeared into the falling snow. Then, he whirled around. His coat seemed to suck out all the light from the market, until Eduard was surrounded on all sides by long, looming shadows. 

Eduard backed away from Crowley, until he could feel the brick of the market wall pressing through his coat. “A-a-anything for yourself, sir?” he said, more out of habit than any desire to entreat the other man’s business. 

A sliver of light glinted off the rim of his glasses. “There is something you could do for me, Herr Devrient,” Crowley said softly.  

∽⧖∼

Newt and Anathema sit silently in their armchairs, no doubt stunned by the revelation. At last, you’ve confessed the wretched depths of your failings. Two other souls now know how undeserving you were of the accolades that the Kingdom of Heaven had pinned to your breast, let alone the hospitality of Jasmine Cottage.

Anathema leans over to Newt, and whispers into his ear. He whispers back, and she raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. They’re going to send you packing, aren’t they? The thought leaves you giddy with relief -  

- oh, pull yourself together -  

“You didn’t kill him,” says Anathema. 

“Ngk,” you say.  

“It’s alright, Aziraphale. Just because you couldn’t save him in the battle doesn’t mean that you killed him. I know it’s hard to admit that he’s gone. But it wasn’t your fault. The blame belongs to the angel who held the sword.” 

“And what if that angel was me?” you whisper. Already you can feel the slippery hilt of a flaming sword clenched in your fist as blood steams from its blade, the numb shock of seeing the body before you, the echoing question why -   

“Well, it wasn’t. I remember the way you two looked at each other, the day that he ran me over on the bicycle. I’m surprised I didn’t realise it at first, but, come on , nobody would murder their partner like that.” 

“Partner?” you squawk.  

“It’s alright, it’s not the noughties anymore,” says Newt. 

“He wasn’t my partner!”  

“Flatmate? Bosom friend?” offers Anathema. 

“Bosom?” Your cheeks grow suddenly warm, and you rub your neck self-consciously. “No! Just a friend.” 

“It wasn’t your fault your friend died,” says Newt. “I’m sorry Crowley didn’t make it. We met him when he came back to Tadfield so that he could try and stop the apocalypse. Probably rocketed him to the top of Heaven’s hit-list. You must’ve done everything you could to protect him.” 

“Could’ve tried harder,” you mutter, but you’re rapidly losing control of your tear ducts and in no way are you ready to open the floodgates today. Anathema pushes a box of tissues into your lap. It seems that you’ll need to find confession at another church. Time to change the topic, and quickly. “Anyway. Doesn’t matter. We’ve confirmed that I’m being possessed by... something. And I want it out.”  

Anathema opens her mouth, no doubt to attempt to divert the conversation once more, but Newt speaks first. “Maybe we should have an expert help? Anathema, dear... you know who we could ask.” 

Anathema sets her clipboard down on the coffee table with somewhat more force than warranted. “I’d rather not.” 

“And I’m still part of the Army. He’d have to come. And the Colonel makes such lovely liverwurst.” 

Army? What army would take Newt? Maybe the Salvation Army, or the Terracotta Army, or the Barmy Army. At this rate, getting the devil beaten out of you by hooligans with cricket bats would not be the worst way that you could go.    

“My liverwurst is fine,” says Anathema. “And Shadwell tried to exorcise my salt lamp -” 

Shadwell? Which means that Newt is part of -

“- the Witchfinder Army? You? ” You point a soggy finger at Newt, and his non-military slouch, his non-regulation haircut, and his non-safety glasses. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” says Newt defensively. 

“The Army! My Army!” No wonder they hadn’t managed to track Adam down in time. You’ll be speaking to Shadwell’s commanding officer on the qualifications of its recruits.  

But you have little time to ponder what percentage of your sixty pound per year honorarium to the Witchfinder Army went to Newt’s plastic-sheathed pockets. Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell did not perish in the blast that levelled London. On the day of the end of the world, he’d had a nervous breakdown, collapsed in the spare guest-room of his downstairs neighbour, Madam Tracy, and been persuaded to take a last minute holiday to Dover and clear his mind. 

Shadwell did not make it to Dover, of course. When the M25 flared up, he commandeered Madam Tracy’s scooter and motored over to the Barford St. John bomb shelter at great haste. The facility was mothballed after the Second World War, with a skeleton crew of disgraced airmen to keep the lights on, the hallways clean, and the local children from playing footie on the three grass runways. 

Shadwell naturally believed the end of the world to be the work of witches, and took it upon himself to bring order to the chaos. His first order of business was to grant himself a field promotion to Witchfinder-General. His second order of business was to query Madam Tracy on her nipple count, and, finding the answer satisfactory, to deputise her as Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy. Together, they’d inducted all the shell-shocked staff of the airbase into the Witchfinder Army, and a great number of villagers besides.  

All in all, the Witchfinder Army is the largest it’d been since the nineteenth century.

This is explained to you quite quickly by Anathema, who races around Jasmine cottage to hide her crystals and grimoires, while Newt is out fetching Shadwell with Dick Turpin. “And I’ve just managed to convince him that I’m not a witch, so please don’t argue with him about canned milk or vitamins,” she says. Her advice on managing Shadwell - not that you need it, after having worked with the man for decades - is cut short when the front door of Jasmine Cottage flies open, and the Witchfinder-General himself stomps into the living room. 

A Great War era helmet bearing the scars of multiple mortar strikes crowns his head, and a navy peacoat billows from his shoulders like a flag. Buckled around his chest is a utility harness, to which has been fixed the unabridged Witchfinder Army Booke of Rules and Reggulations , and an enormous cowbell with its clapper wrapped in something pink and woolly. At his belt is holstered a barbeque lighter and the Witchfinder Thundergun, which clank together with each of Shadwell’s strides.  

Shadwell is flanked by Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy, attired much more casually in a floral house dress and an apron, and also Newt, whose already-poor eyesight is now partially obscured by the moulting, floppy crest of a Napoleonic helmet.  

Shadwell peers at the gathered crowd. “Why’re ye all lollygagging when there be witches afoot?” 

Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy rushes forth to hug Anathema and kiss her on both cheeks. “Anathema! I didn’t know we were coming to you for dinner today. Otherwise I would have brought a good rump roast... but, here, a little something that we salvaged from Northampton.” She giggles, and pulls a bottle of wine from her apron pocket. A French riesling, in a glass bottle . When was the last time you saw a riesling in a glass bottle?  

“Sorry, Madame Tracy,” says Anathema. “Newt wanted a consult on Witchfinder business.” But she does not resist when Madame Tracy pushes the wine into her hands.  

“That’s Witchfinder-Colonel to you,” barks Shadwell. 

Madame Tracy titters. “There’s no need for formality, dear. We’re among friends.” 

You were expecting a young priest and an old priest, rather than an old Witchfinder and an older Witchfinder. This does not bode well for your health, but it’s not as if you have anything else lined up for the afternoon. “We need an exorcism,” you say. 

“SOUTHERN PANSY,” roars Shadwell. “Get thee back, devil!” He does not pull the Thundergun from its holster, as you expect, but advances upon you with a quivering finger. “I sent ye to yer maker once in the shop, same as I sent yer shop into the ground, and I’ll do it again!”  

“You burnt down the shop?” you say. “In Soho?” And then the neurons in your head suddenly flare to life, sparking connections through the haze of pain. The discorporation - the shop - the rendezvous -  

With a sudden and disproportionate fury at the indignity at the notion that Shadwell could send anyone to meet their maker, you rise out of Anathema’s sofa with Anathema’s kitten quilt still draped around your shoulders, ready to turn Shadwell to red mist with his own Thundergun. A chivalric gesture, to be sure, but really not necessary, please sit down before all the blood escapes your facial orifices - 

A sudden light-headedness pushes you back onto the settee. You settle for mumbling, “For - ah's - sake,” while Newt hands you a tissue. 

You try to stop your nosebleed, while Anathema explains the situation to the two Witchfinders. Shadwell glowers at you from under overgrown eyebrows, eyes like two embers smouldering at the edge of a witch-burning pyre. 

“Two daemonspawn in one body?” says Shadwell, and rubs his palms together. “Makes no sense. But it dinnae matter.” He holds up one ruddy palm. “Do you know what this is?”

“Poor hygiene,” you say. 

“It’s a hand. Four fingers, one thumb. Yer outnumbered five-to-two.” 

“Surely you jest.” 

“Nae, I dinnae jest on errands of the Witchfinder Army,” says Shadwell. “Even at the turning of the world, we are the thin red line of fire that holds back the forces ‘a chaos and darkness that plagues this bonnie land. It’s yer lucky day: a good Witchfinder should never pass up the chance to do a quick exorcism. Even if ye are a southern pansy, and doubly a devil ta boot.” He says all of this with the utmost solemnity, as if he actually believes that his exorcisms work. But conversely... are you completely sure they don’t work?  

The seed of doubt grows in your mind while the group pushes all of Anathema’s furniture out of the way. Anathema draws concentric rings of salt and brick dust in the middle of the living room. 

“Is this witchcraft?” says Shadwell suspiciously, as he toes the circles with an enormous salt-stained army boot. 

Anathema smiles sweetly at Shadwell. “Just a little occult insurance.” 

“Insurance? Insurance brokers’re scammers, the lot o’ em. Ye pay them in case somethin’ happens, and that somethin’ never happens,” says Shadwell. He hawks up a big gobbet of spit destined for the floor of Jasmine Cottage, but then catches a glimpse of Madame Tracy’s face and swallows it back down instead. 

“Well, this is an exorcism,” says Witchfinder-Colonel Tracey. “And you know how the other one went, Mister S, and it would really be a shame if this building burned down around us after you were done.” 

Shadwell clears his throat, which sounds like a cat being removed from a sofa to go to the veterinarian’s office. “The insurance can stay,” he says gruffly. 

Anathema continues as if she hadn’t heard Shadwell’s protest. “Right, so we’ll just stand outside the little circle and inside the large one, and Aziraphale, you can go stand in the little one.” 

Everyone takes their places, although Shadwell grumbles again: “An exorcism’s not a four-man job.” 

“But it’s an opportunity for us two Witchfinder-Privates to learn the finer points of... witchfinding,” suggests Anathema, who is unable to conceal the irony in her voice. 

The idea of being able to mentor young Pulsifer once more seems to appeal to the cold cockles of Shadwell’s heart. “Listen ye well, grasshopper,” Shadwell says to Newt. “One day ye too will work such wonders as I.” 

First, Shadwell takes the clapper off the cowbell, and he hands it to Anathema. “Ye ring it like yer beatin’ out the devil with it,” he says. 

“Sunwise, or widdershins?” she asks. “Sunwise is more traditional, but seeing as we’re undoing something that’s already been done rather than doing something new, an argument could be made for widdershins.” 

Shadwell looks as if Anathema had put the bell on his head and rung it with a hammer. “Dinnae try te confuse me, wimmin,” he says. Then he turns to Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy and hands her the barbeque lighter. “Even better than a candle. Ye get the lighter for cause that yer the,” and then Shadwell turns a most unseemly shade of beetroot, and mumbles to his feet, “the light o’ my life.”  

Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy giggles only a little, and accepts the barbeque lighter, while she turns a complementary shade of pink. 

“But it’s not a candle,” you protest.

Shadwell spins on his heel to face you. The barbeque lighter in Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy’s hands lights the hollows in his face ghoulishly, as he waggles his finger in your face like a cattle prod. “Silence, witch, a fire’s a fire and a Zippo did ye in the first time ‘round. This’ll send ye back yer maker, same as!” 

Having made his point, the Witchfinder General plants his feet into the floor. Dirt flies from the treads of his boots upon impact and settles around his feet like size-fourteen craters. Anathema and Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy circle around your back. You feel like a sheep being herded by three border collies. Shadwell certainly believes that he’s done this before, and you’re starting to share that notion. And if Adam was any indication, imagination is nine-tenths of the execution... 

“Well, what do I do?” says Newt from outside the circle. His helmet lilts mournfully to the side. 

“Ye’ve still got yer pin, haven’t ye?” says Shadwell. “Once the infernal bugger gets afree of the Southern Pansy, yer going to stick him with your witchfindin’ pin.” 

Newt rummages through his pockets and pulls out a paper bag, containing a jinglebell, a pink birthday cake candle, and a dressmaker’s pin with a daisy-shaped head. Newt looks down at his pin, and then at you, and then at Shadwell. “Have you got a larger pin?” 

“A Witchfinder is always prepared,” says Shadwell. “That’s the difference twixt ye and I, young grasshopper. Ye’ve gotten soft, livin’ off-base.” He opens his armoured Witchfinder Army Booke of Rules and Reggulations . Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy ignites her barbeque lighter, and Anathema begins to ring the bell - counterclockwise, you note. As if she was turning back time. An occultically optimal choice. 

Your hands begin to tremble, so you shove them into your trouser pockets.  

Dear Almighty, you actually believe this exorcism will work.  

“By the powers invested in me by virtue o’ my office o’ Witchfinder,” he says, “I charge ye to quit from this place -” 

Darkness sweeps through Jasmine Cottage, throwing the front door open. But you barely notice: Shadwell’s words strike a terrible, familiar chord in the memory of a bookshop, long ago and far away. Its mahogany-shelved glory unfolds before you, revealing an unfinished mug of cocoa on the reading desk and a glass case of misprinted Bibles in their place of pride. And front and centre stands Shadwell, declaiming: 

“ - and return henceforth to the place from hence ye came, pausin’ not to dally on this earth -” 

You turn around, drinking in the shop with your eyes, but behind you is just Jasmine Cottage and its floral sofas pushed up against the walls, and Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy, clutching her flickering barbeque lighter for dear life, while Anathema doggedly rings her bell, barely audible above the rushing wind. It’s impossible for you to have one foot in Jasmine Cottage and the other in the bookshop - but here you are now, stretched between the past and the present, taut as a piano wire, vibrating with the strain, while a dull roar fills your ears and threatens to drown out Shadwell’s pronunciations:  

“ - never to come again to vex good folk -”  

The distance between Jasmine Cottage and the bookshop increases, drawing you somehow even thinner, while the roar increases in pitch to a discordant scream - your scream. The curtains flap from their rods like flags in a storm. Darkness smothers daylight and swirls around the brick-and-salt circles that Anathema has drawn, so that Tracy’s lighter is the only source of illumination in the room.  Shadwell’s eyes are so wide that you can see the whites all around. But at this point, he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. His trembling finger points at you:  

“ - returning NAE MORE.”  

A final gust of wind extinguishes Tracy’s barbeque lighter, and Anathema screams as Jasmine Cottage is plunged into darkness. At the same time, something inside snaps. Untethered and unmoored, you stumble backwards, and you fall - 

- and you fall - 

- and I fall -  

Chapter Text

- and I fall - 

“Never to come again to vex good folk -”  

How was I to expect that Witchfinder-Sergeant Shadwell might show his face again - for an exorcism, no less? He ought to have been vapourised in the missile strikes on London. You weren’t even there when he got me discorporated in my own bookshop! 

Of course, the notion that his bell, book, and candle are even capable of facilitating an exorcism is objectively laughable. But I’ll admit that I was... startled. In a moment of inattention, I carelessly trod into my own summoning circle, and was discorporated. 

So you might understand why it is unsettling to hear the Witchfinder-Sergeant reenact the circumstances of my demise, rasping out another passage from his rulebook with a bell on his left and a candle on his right. For a fleeting moment, I imagine myself back in A. Z. Fell and Co., teetering on the edge of the realisation that I am about to be discorporated, but unsure as to whether it’s by my own hand - or by Shadwell’s exorcism.  

For a split second, I believe for once that this bell-book-candle boondoggle might succeed. 

“ - returning NAE MORE.”  

Those words are enough to reverse gravity in my moment of doubt, sending me tumbling upwards out of the water. My wings are too waterlogged to unfold and arrest my ascension into the star-smeared sky, while the icy air lashes my skin. The churning sea below, marred only by a small building perched on a wave-battered rock, grows further and further away. And thus I fall - 

- and I fall - 

“First. What is your name?” 

Anathema’s voice cuts through the underwater silence like a clarion, jolting me into wakefulness. A beam illuminates a column of the darkness like a spotlight. 

I need to talk to you, Crowley. That fellow masquerading as a handyangel was right. Something is amiss. I surface more frequently, finding each time that your condition has deteriorated. I awake to find your body poisoned with box wine and in need of detoxification in Anathema’s vegetable garden. I awake to find your body contorted into dangerously unstable geometries, so pardon me if I frightened your hosts when scrabbling to get control of your Upward-Facing Bow pose. I awake to find you soaking in - yuzu fruits! - so evidently you had forgotten the anecdote of my latest voyage to Japan, where I’d recounted my renewed admiration for oshizushi but despaired of my corporation’s mild allergy to yuzu.  

Crowley! Can you hear me? Do Ouija boards have ansaphones? Can you take a message? Bubbles froth uselessly from my mouth. 

“What are you?” Anathema shout vibrates through the water. 

Not you, Anathema! I swim upwards, until I break through the surface.   

“Crowley -” A wave crashes over my head, truncating my shout. I need to talk to you. You need to stop meddling with all this yoga and witchcraft, and get back to the safety of the Kingdom. 

“Why?” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from the heavens. I spread my wings. They are soaked through, but in the light they feel weightless. I beat them furiously, and rise, slowly, towards the light. Just a little bit closer, and then I’ll be able to talk some sense into you. “Crowley!”  

And then the beam narrows and folds entirely into darkness. The full weight of my waterlogged wings hits me at once. I can’t maintain flight - 

- and I fall - 

“Principality, about the carvings on the inner Archive doors...” 

“Hm?” Goodness, it’s easy to lose track of time these days. Judging from the growth in your stack of completed newspaper puzzles, it must’ve been at least two weeks since last I surfaced from the tepid waters at the back of your mind.  But you’ve done well for yourself. Promoted from Celestial Reclamation Specialist to Archivist in only three years, curator of a number of novel additions to the canon, and now architect of an Archive expansion! I couldn’t have done better myself. Though the solution to seven-across is “FLOPPY DISK”, not “FORGET THIS.” I correct the puzzle for you. 

The dun-coloured handyangel sits across from me with his wax tablet propped up against his knee, and passes me a hot cup of cocoa. Dust motes sparkle between the columns of the Archive im a dreamy haze. I take the mug and - ah, that hits the spot! But what was that about doors? “Certainly,” I demur. 

“I’ve already been tasked with constructing doors to protect the special collections. So far, the Archivist has asked me to embellish them with carvings from the Garden of Eden.” 

“The Archivist. That’s me!” I say. 

“Of course,” he says patiently. 

“The Garden...” I drum my fingers on the table. Undoubtedly to immortalise your greatest triumph within the heart of the Kingdom. You sly snake! Well, if you insist. “I’d like you to carve the Tree of Knowledge on the doors, please. With some apples scattered in the boughs, and at the roots. And twined around the trunk, the Serpent with eyes of gold.” 

The handyangel hesitates in scribing down my instructions. He sets down his stylus and stares at me solemnly. “You play a dangerous game, Aziraphale. No need to make it more dangerous than it already is.” 

“Dangerous?” 

“It’s not as easy being the Archivist as it seems. You need to look out for one another. A friend loves at all times, but an angel is born for adversity.” 

I waggle my finger at the handyangel. “You need to brush up on your proverbs, friend. A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.” 

The handyangel sets down his wax tablet. “Time’s growing short. The days are getting cold. And you need to brush up on your theocorporeal chemistry.” 

“What ever do you mean?” 

“Endothermic, not exothermic. Cold, not hot.” 

A chill rolls down my spine. “Of course it’s cold. There’s a nuclear winter on.”  

“You can’t hide in the Archives forever, Aziraphale. But when the time comes - be prepared.” His eyes aren’t brown at all. They reflect the motes suspended between the Archive columns like the starry sweep of a galactic arm, from the red of old stars to the black of new earth to the blue beyond the horizon. In the pupils lie every path that was ever trodden, and all the ones that weren’t. And there are so many . 

“Excuse me, I need to go,” I bluster. And I stand from my chair, but there’s nowhere to step - 

- and I fall - 

“Principality, I’m on a schedule here. So if you don’t do it, I will,” says Gabriel. Fire and ash settle onto his pauldrons. He holds his blazing silver spear in his right hand, and offers me the bloody hilt of a flaming sword with his left.

And there you are, pinned under his armoured boot. Your glasses lie discarded on the muddy alley cobbles beside your milk-pale face. Your hands grasp feebly at Gabriel’s leg, more supplication than resistance. 

And I - I can’t move. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Just let me think. Of course I’ve stabbed you before, in the skirmishes of holy wars and duels between honoured gentlemen, but those were temporary . That flaming sword’ll do more than discorporate you, and I can’t do that . 

But Gabriel won’t stand idly by either, and if I turn him down then he’ll surely finish the job he’s started. Death has become rather commonplace these days to demonkind. I’ve even killed some of them myself, before Gabriel “borrowed” my sword for close-quarters fighting and conscripted me as his squire. I’ve watched many demons die in the battle, Crowley. But I can’t watch you die here.  

So I can’t kill you. And I can’t watch you die. But - oh - therein lies the third choice. I should take up the sword. And I should attack Gabriel instead. He’s quick, and he’s strong, as archangels are wont to be. But perhaps he’s tired himself out after the last few days. His spear’s no good up close, and jams something fierce. I’ll take the sword, then feint towards you, and then - 

- it’s utter treason to suggest. But I would like it very much if you were to open your eyes, stand up, and help me to -   

The bells of Heaven toll, shattering my train of thought. 

Gabriel’s head jerks towards the pealing bells. “Michael’s calling to regroup. Time’s up, Principality.” 

I reach my hand out to Gabriel. “I’ll do it -”   

He’s not listening to me and he’s not looking at you when he thrusts the flaming sword downwards like an afterthought. It falls slowly, flames reaching greedily towards your skin, and then - with just the barest resistance - sheathes itself to the hilt in your torso. Your eyes flutter open, and your lips part in surprise. Then the archangel braces his foot against your chest and tries to draw the sword out of your body. Fire leaks from your wound and singes your jacket. “Blast, it’s stuck! Principality, could you -” 

Fear rolls through me like a blizzard wind, snap-freezing all in its wake, crystallising the moment like a terrible glass tableau. I can’t hear the bells anymore. I can’t feel my hands. I can’t feel anything at all. Because that isn’t me standing in the alley, that isn’t you on the ground, and none of this is happening at all. 

Gabriel finally catches sight of my outstretched hand. “Whoa, sorry buddy. Didn’t mean to steal your kill.” He tries again to pull the sword from your body. Your face twists into a silent scream. 

The tableau shatters, but so does every thought in my head shrieking fear and woe, leaving just one iron-hard hope intact at the heart of the maelstrom. I force a smile and speak before I even know what I’m going to say. “I’ll get the sword. Go to Michael.” 

Gabriel looks relieved. “Thanks, Principality. You’re saving me a world of trouble from the quartermaster. I snatched up the last of his extra corporations on Thursday, he would’ve gone spare to learn we’d lost a sword too...” 

Every second counts. “Not a problem,” I say. Just leave, you’ve already won, just leave - 

Gabriel spreads his sixfold wings, bends his knees, and leaps into the sky like a comet. 

I scramble to your body. You’re still breathing, and your mouth is moving, but the sword’s holy flames are already coursing through your veins. A web of light glows sullenly through your skin. Demons aren’t hurt by heat, but why would a celestial weapon ever burn with mundane fire? All your body can do is delay the cleansing tide. 

And all I can do is buy time. I stand with one leg on either side of your body and grasp the hilt. This is not a two-handed sword: the grip is too short, so I wrap one hand awkwardly around the bloody pommel. Then I grit my teeth and pull upwards, straining tired limbs until they scream, but my hands keep slipping over each other. 

Your breathing slows, and the light has begun to shine out of the veins on your wrists. I reposition my left hand to the crossguard for better leverage. Then I pull again, because I don’t really have a choice - even if the flames from the blade scorch my skin, even if the ridges of the grip cut into my flesh - 

And then the sword slips free. I toss it behind me, where it skids and spins on the cobbles, and kneel to your side again. You make a halfhearted attempt to staunch your wound with your hands, while your mouth shapes words that I cannot hear. And yet the light spreads, seeping out from beneath your nails, creeping across your collarbones, approaching the soul housed within. You convulse when it reaches your neck. It’d be a mercy to take up the flaming sword once more and end your life with a second stroke. 

I can’t kill you, and I can’t watch you die. But for once, I already know what I’m going to do. 

I pull you into a sitting position and grasp your body against mine with my left arm. With my right hand, I blindly reach across the cobbles until I close my fingers across a long piece of metal shrapnel. “Crowley. You’re going to be fine,” I breathe. Gabriel’s dusty boot print profanes your waistcoat. I wipe it from your chest, as if it would make a difference. 

And you whisper raggedly back, “Having second thoughts about Alpha Centauri?” Light limns your gums and glistens on your cracked lips. 

I can feel your heartbeat slowing. “I’m sorry. You were right, of course. I should have listened.”    

Your search my face slowly, the corner of your mouth twitches with the barest glimmer of a smirk, and you close your eyes. “The sweetest words you’ll ever say.” When your eyes open again, they are no longer amber, but full of terrible light. “I can’t see your face, angel.” 

“You’ll see it again. Whatever happens next - stay with me.” I pull you closer, so that your face rests upon my shoulder. You sag against my frame, and I shift your weight - just a little to the left - right there - 

So that I can plunge the shrapnel into your back, through your heart. Then I keep pushing, until it exits out of my back.

It knocks the breath out of my lungs. My head grows light. With numbing fingers I pull the shrapnel out from our bodies and let it drop onto the ground. Darkness blurs the edges of my vision as I begin to slip out of consciousness - 

- at the same time that the last rattling breath leaves your body, and enters mine. 

My body takes a deep inhale and there is suddenly very little room in which to exist. Its next breath sends me tumbling into the abyss. 

But though hot air rushes by my ears and tears at my clothes as I tumble away from the light, I do not fear. My timing was perfect. I discorporated you before the holy fire killed you. And where is a weakened, bodiless demon to go, when Hell’s gates are barricaded and both Heaven and Hell are out of spare corporations? 

You’d need to disguise yourself, and find a body that would appear to the Celestial Host as one of their own. You’d need a willing vessel, since you’re in no shape to fight. And you’d need one close by, so that no angel could intercept you on the way to taking possession. 

Wouldn’t you know, there happened to be a vessel fitting those requirements right in front of you. 

So, were you afraid when you Fell? Or did you feel relief and pride that you’d made the best, truest choice you could’ve made, even when Heaven slipped further and further away from you, until it was wholly out of reach? 

To be fair, I don’t see Heaven. But I see you, somewhere very far away, blindly wrap your fingers around the hilt of my sword. You plant it in the ground, and brace yourself upon the blade. And then you rise like the sun before the Eastern Gate -   

- and I fall - 

-  and the exorcism’s pull abruptly ceases. I fall back through the air towards the ocean. Something tumbles past me and disappears beneath the waves a split second before I hit the surface. 

And, Almighty, the cold is a shock. I sink, stunned, into the familiar darkness. But then a glint floats through in the water - the lenses of a pair of glasses. Your glasses. I snatch them from the current and tuck them in my pocket. But if your glasses are here, then where are you? Shadwell and the others must’ve stopped the exorcism by now. Are you already at the shore?

I struggle back to the surface, weighed down by my clothes and the cold. Water drips into my eyes as I search the horizon.  

But then there’s a yank on the back of my collar. I twist and push, trying to break your grip on my shirt, a feat made all the more difficult for being half-drowned and freezing. I can’t even see you, for the salt in my eyes and the waves that keep crashing over us. This wasn’t part of the plan. I open my mouth, trying to protest, but water just splashes into my mouth and makes me cough. You haul us onto the rocky shore, half-swimming and half-crawling in the gritty sand. I wipe the seawater from my face with my sleeve, and finally get a proper look at you.  

Your jacket sheds like a snakeskin, revealing a shirt and waistcoat as dark as if they’d been soaked in blood. You shiver when you stand, and make no attempt to warm yourself. Starlight carves deep hollows in the planes of your face that were not there before. And your gold eyes stare down at me almost uncomprehendingly, as if I was a stranger who had crossed your path for the first time. 

You have never looked at me like that before. Even when first we met at the Eastern Gate, you greeted me like an old friend. But any trepidation I have is overshadowed by relief and shame. 

It has been three years since the last battle. Three years since I’d refused your offer to leave Earth. Three years since my hesitation got you slain. I am not proud of any of it. And it is all dwarfed by the shame that it took me three years to look you in the eye afterwards, Crowley.

Chapter Text

Berlin, 1829

Felix Mendelssohn tip-toed through his family manor. The grand stone halls that normally echoed with salons, music, and the footsteps of his numerous relations were eerily silent in the wee hours of the morning. It seemed imprudent to disrupt that quiet, especially when he was not of a mind to explain to his parents why he reeked of Glühwein - and not even from his own mug.   

He’d never known Eduard to be in such a state after a performance. Certainly, his friend had flubbed a few of Apollo’s notes. But hardly enough for the crowd to notice, nor justification for the enormous beer hall tab that Eduard proceeded to rack up following the show. Only after hours of cajoling was Felix able to coax a slurred confession from Eduard: 

“I saw ‘im, Felix. The devil dressed as a man, with a cloak of night and eyes like a viper. He sank the sun and wreathed the day in darkness. And - and -”  

“Yes, Eduard?” Felix said, despairing slightly of the actor’s poetic licensure. 

“Then he browsed my wares and made some small talk. Asked me who I thought were the best composers nowadays. Named you, of course. And then he paid me full price for one of your old folios. Full price!”  

“Well, that’s not so bad -” 

Eduard grasped Felix’s shoulders. His eyes rolled madly in his head. “He didn’t even haggle. I ripped off the devil, Felix! Cheated ‘im out of house ‘n home!” 

“I’m sure it wasn’t the devil, Eduard. What would he even do with sheet music, practise the clavier?” 

“... and now he’ll be coming to balance the scales, with my immortal soul. I’ve got to go to church and get a hairshirt!” 

“Let’s get you home, first,” said Felix. 

Guiding Eduard through Berlin’s labyrinthine streets by dim gas lamps was no easy task. The challenge was further exacerbated by Eduard’s lack of coordination and wont to fall to his knees in bursts of prayer. 

But Felix finally managed to deposit Eduard on the threshold of his uncle’s house, and return home. And after easing himself up the rickety staircase and dodging another dozen creaking planks, he slowly closed his bedroom door behind him, so that the hinges wouldn’t squeal. Safe at last. He loosened his cravat in relief, and turned towards the bed - 

Light flared out of the darkness, illuminating a figure as it stepped out from the wardrobe. Felix instinctively raised his hands out to shield his eyes from the blinding radiance. He could not make out the figure’s face for the light that streamed from its body as freely as water, pooling upon the wooden floor and filling the eaves. But the dark silhouette of wings that stretched from his shoulders was unmistakable. And the angel spoke: “Be not afraid, Felix, for you have been chosen.” 

Felix dropped to his knees and lowered his eyes, partially in reverence, and partially because the angel was too painfully lucent for his mortal eyes. “I am not worthy!” 

“Yet the Lord has judged you worthy enough for this task, and He does not make mistakes. How do I turn down the blessed brightness on this thing?” The light surrounding the angel abruptly dimmed, until Felix could properly behold the messenger of the Lord. He was garbed in silver and crowned with flames. His eyes shone gold, and the Great Masters would have wept to sculpt the proud lines of his face. However, his accent was unmistakably... English. Felix had not taken the Almighty for an Anglican. “Much better,” said the angel. “As I was saying. You have been chosen by the Lord. Congratulations. The path ahead is hard, but have faith, and you will prevail.” 

Felix felt faint. The Lord bestowed his chosen with great rewards, but not before testing them with great suffering. What could the Almighty possibly want with him? His imagination ran rampant over his recollection of the Bible and landed randomly in the Book of Genesis. “If it is God’s will, I will build Him a second ark.”  

The suggestion seemed to throw the angel off-balance. “What? No. Of course not. You’re a composer, not a carpenter.”

“Or to sacrifice my firstborn son upon the mount?” babbled Felix. 

“Eugh. How very Old Testament of you. What I ask of you is much simpler.” With a strange furtiveness, the angel pulled a folio out from under his samite robes. He tossed them on the ground where Felix prostrated himself. “Open it,” urged the angel. 

Felix chanced another glance away from the floor at the folio, sat up on his heels, and opened it with trembling hands. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion . Had he not given his own copy to Eduard last week? “I don’t understand.” 

“Bless it.” The angel folded his arms across his chest, and tapped his foot impatiently. Each tap rang through Felix’s bedroom like his death knell. “You are to stage the St. Matthew Passion by Easter. And you’ll play it at... the Singakademie . Not in a church. He’ll want me to see it with him.” The angel’s face was thin-lipped as he delivered this proclamation. 

“But - this is the Bach version,” said Felix. 

“Yes,” said the angel. 

“It’s too long. And a bit old-fashioned.” 

The angel glowered. “I’m very aware.”  

“I can’t afford a double choir and a double orchestra!” 

The angel dropped a heavy sack of coins onto the ground in front of Felix. “Now you can.” 

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather hear something more modern, like, ah, Der Tod Jesu?” 

“No, because the an- Lord works in mysterious ways.”  

Felix stared at the moneybag, and then at the angel. The idea that his Lord and Saviour was patiently waiting on high for Felix to conduct an oratorio recounting his crucifixion imposed crushingly high stakes on this venture. If Felix failed to meet up his divine audience’s expectations, would he be hurled into Hell when the curtain closed? The pressure pressed down on Felix’s temples, and he flattened himself down on the ground again. “I am not worthy! Please, if the Lord wishes a performance, surely one of the celestial host would be available to conduct in my stead? I would gladly surrender my conductor’s baton to you.” 

“I can barely play a Bach fugue on the clavier, and Beel- Lord knows it’s not for lack of trying,” hissed the angel from between his teeth. “But you’re a musician, aren’t you? Eduard called you the greatest prodigy since Mozart.” 

“But -” 

The angel knelt down to place his hands on the composer’s shoulders, and Felix found that he could not look away from the angel’s face, and his gleaming amber eyes. “I’ve got a lot riding on this, and I will be very, very disappointed if you can’t pull off the tiniest Easter miracle of your own. Savvy?”

Felix gulped. “Yes, sir.” 

“Excellent. Chop-chop, kid,” said the angel, and he smiled, so that Felix could see all his teeth, and in his teeth were all his sins reflected again and again in their perfect surfaces as if in Newton’s kaleidoscope, spiralling into darkness... 

Several hours later, Felix awoke on the floor with Bach’s St. Matthew’s Passion clutched to his chest and a brand new understanding of what it meant to fear the Lord. Or at least, His messengers. Surely Eduard wouldn’t mind if he tagged along to get fitted for a hairshirt at church as well. 

∽⧗∼

On this rocky little beach is perched a reasonable facsimile of A.Z. Fell and Co. I have never actually explored my subconscious thoroughly enough to find my own bookshop, which is why the shop’s windows look as if they have been left open during a storm and leached of all colour and warmth. Puddles cover the floor. Loose pages swirl around when the wind blows through shattered windows. Dog-eared leather covers are scattered like dead butterflies. I catch a glimpse of some titles as I ignite a rusty lantern on my desk. The Misunderstanding with Pope Clement About His Bible. The Pedagogical Technique of J.S. Bach. The Time That I Called My Adversary Nice and He Pushed Me Up Against a Wall at the Tadfield Manor Conference and Management Training Centre.  

I surreptitiously open a weather-warped desk drawer, drop that third volume in, and close the drawer again. It barely fits. Goodness. 

Luckily, you don’t notice, as you are trampling through the back room to rummage through my wine cupboard. In fact, you’ve barely even spoken to me in the entire time since we’ve made it to land. Thought you might’ve asked for your sunglasses back already. I ought to lend you my eyeglass chain so that they stay on your face.

“Aziraphale. Why is your wine collection...” You trail off. The bottles are labelled things like “Picnic, July 9th, 1991,” and “Bookshop Binge, a Week Before Armageddon,” and “Monastery Tour, August 25th, 1600.” 

Rather good vintages! I set the oil lamp down on a side table and reach for “Berlin, March 11th, 1829.” 

And then you rub your forehead and say, “Damn. No. There’s not enough time. Need to have a clear head for this -” 

My hand stops short of the bottle. “For this?” I say unsteadily. 

You grab my lapels. My knee bumps into the side table, but the impact barely registers. “What the hell? I thought you were dead, Aziraphale! Why didn’t you tell me you were still in there?” 

Well, I suppose it might’ve been too much to expect a Tadfield Manor sequel after three years. “It seemed better this way. You were doing so well. I didn’t want to complicate things.”

“I was doing well? ” you say. You release my jacket, leaving the frosty imprint of your fingers on the wool, and sink into a threadbare chaise lounge. Your head drops into your hands, your shoulders begin to shake, and it’s a moment before I realise you are laughing and not crying. “You thought I was doing well?” 

“Relatively well,” I say uncomfortably, and take a seat in the armchair across from you. “You survived to join the winning side. Gabriel thinks the world of you. And I couldn’t have done a better job with the Archives myself. You ought to be proud of that.” 

Your head lifts slowly from your hands. “Aziraphale, pride is the last thing that the Archives bring to mind.” Your eyes brim with brittle mirth. 

“I think that sneaking The Da Vinci Code into the Kingdom is something to be proud of,” I say. “Can’t imagine why you would’ve wanted it in there otherwise.” 

“Spite,” you say. 

“Oh. For the institution.” 

“Mostly,” you admit. “But a bit for you.” 

“For me?” I say incredulously. “What did I ever do to deserve the dedication of Dan Brown to my name?”  

You pause, brushing imagined grit off your knee. “When you were in here, you couldn’t hear what I was thinking, could you?” 

“Not really. I mean, I’d know you were annoyed at Sandalphon, or shouting at Carpenter, but I wouldn’t always know why . It was like listening in on an oratorio from outside the theatre, or trying to remember a dream I had last week.” 

“Hm.” My answer seems to fill you with a modicum of relief. “Don’t get me wrong, Aziraphale. I’m glad I’m not dead. But the whole time I thought you’d died trying to -” You wave a hand vaguely around, searching for a suitable phrasing, and find none. “Trying to save me. Why would you do that?”

How am I supposed to explain one of the easiest choices I’d ever made? “Is this some kind of a trick question?” 

“No. Why would you do that? How could you think that I - it was worth it? Do you still think it was worth it? With the Earth in shambles, angels taking over London, and demons exterminated?” You stare into the lantern on the side table, and then cup it with your hands.

“Of course I do,” I say, but you’re not listening.  

“There’s just not much point to it anymore. And after three years of shovelling rocks and shelving Bibles, bam , your body’s falling apart anyway. Remember when you were discorporated, and said, Pity I can’t inhabit yours, we’d probably explode ?” You wave vaguely at the ice on the windowpanes and the shadows in the corners of the bookshop. “Nobody exploded, but see for yourself. Time’s growing short. The days are getting cold.” 

Far away, Carpenter echoes: and you need to brush up on your theocorporeal chemistry.  Oh, fiddlesticks. “I was wrong in my initial assessment of probably explode .”  

You lift the glass globe of the lantern, and then scoop up the flame so that it smoulders in the palm of your hand. “Nobody’s perfect.”

A thousand disparate shards of thought begin to coalesce into a revelation, like an explosion played in a reverse. “Sometimes, when you mix two volatile things together, they explode. They burn.”  

“Classic exothermic reaction. My favourite.” You let the flame roll over your knuckles, and then slide it back into the lantern.

“But sometimes, they’ll freeze instead of blowing up. An endothermic reaction. Like what happens when you mix an angel and a demon together in one corporation.” 

You shove your hands into the pockets of your waistcoat and watch me with narrowed eyes. “And what does happen if one mixes an angel and a demon together in one corporation?” 

Ten million angels and ten million demons mixed together made a nuclear winter, didn’t it? I should have thought things through. It’s so obvious, in retrospect. I’ve abandoned any semblance of dignity and begun rambling, but if I stop, I’ll probably start crying. “They don’t explode, Crowley. But they get cold. And eventually, they’ll freeze to death.” 

You smile humourlessly. “So we’ll both be dead, instead of just me. That isn’t worth it.” 

“Stop saying that. It was worth it, Crowley!” I ball my hands into trembling fists. You were worth it.

“Dunno why you saved me. No chance that one demon could raise Hell, nowadays. Let alone stop Heaven from steamrolling London.” 

“That has nothing to do with anything!” Deep breaths, Aziraphale. Let’s get back on track. “Regardless. Crowley, you need to get out and exorcise me again. Or else you’ll die.” 

“Exorcise you from your own body? I don’t think so, angel. This is your body. That’s probably why the Witchfinders had so much trouble getting you out in the first place. So the safest bet is to let you keep it, and take it back into the Kingdom.” Your sigh curls outwards from your mouth like cigarette smoke.

“And leave you whipping around the planet, finding people to possess?” I retort. “Sandalphon and his hit-squad will be on you, lickety-split. They caught Dagon in Tibet. They caught Satan in Memphis! A whiff of demon and they’ll be on you like - like a -”

“Like a principality on a poached pear.” 

“That only happened once!” I clap my hands together and stand up. “Regardless, that’s why I should be the one to be exorcised. You should return to the Kingdom and keep your head down. I’ll find another vessel later and catch up with you.”

You rise from your seat too, and point towards the open window and the sea beyond. “Really? The world’s not what it used to be. You’ve got a snowball’s chance in Hell of finding a willing human, travelling overland, and forcing your way through Heaven’s gates - in fact, you’d probably go full Legion before the week was done, babbling about yourself in the plural and rushing into the sea to drown.”  

“Better than your chances of shaking Sandalphon. His hit-squads can move faster than you think.” 

“All the reason that I should be the one to go on the run. I’ve actually had experience as a persona non grata. And I’m faster than you.” 

“You most certainly are not.” 

“You couldn’t even catch up with me in Tadfield!”  

“I tried!” I shout. “And I’m - I’m sorry that I didn’t make it in time, and I’ve been trying to make it up to you since, so can’t you just - just take this chance I’ve given you and live, please.” 

You bark out a single, brittle laugh. “Live? That’s a poor tradeoff for everyone. You could’ve been home in the Kingdom, building the library of your dreams, gloating over your victory, and forgetting all the years you wasted lollygagging on Earth.” 

“That time wasn’t wasted.” 

“I did my best to try and take your place. But what a cheap copy I was. Walking around the Kingdom on tiptoes, hiding in a mausoleum, dressed in the clothes of an angel who I thought was dead ? I’m surprised every time Gabriel doesn’t try to run me through again.”  

Hot tears sting my eyes. I wipe them away with my sleeve. “But he didn’t. You’ve got to go back. There’s nowhere else as safe as hiding right under their noses.” 

Your gaze darts down to the splotch on my jacket. You don’t sit down, but your voice softens slightly. “Maybe for you. But I’m a demon. When would I ever really be safe?” 

“When -” When Sandalphon and Gabriel won’t hunt you down. When the Kingdom of Heaven collapses on the far end of eternity. When the Plan is rewritten. 

“Yeah,” you say. “Nowhere’s safe. But if I slip outside the Kingdom, it’ll take more time for Gabriel to catch up to me. Due to the transit paperwork and all. So let me give you your life back, and then maybe it’ll all have been worth it.” 

My legs tremble, and I collapse into the back of the chaise lounge. You hesitate only briefly before taking a seat at its foot. The sea breaks upon the rocks outside, again and again, filling the silence between us. 

You tilt your ear towards the back door. “Is that Anathema?” 

I hadn’t even noticed - but yes, there the back door of the bookshop is intact. Watery light shines through the frosted glass, dappled with shadow. Someone is moving out there, and saying distantly: “You’ve got to lie him on his side, they taught us that in Boy Scouts -”  

“It’s Newt,” I say.  

We listen to the distant arguments of the Witchfinder Army as they argue on the best resuscitation techniques, with Shadwell’s being: “Ye oughta hit him a few more times to figger out if the blasted devil is faking it. Put yer back into it -” 

You clear your throat, disregarding Shadwell’s percussive approach to medicine. “Thanks for - for not letting Gabriel kill me during the battle. And for lending me your corporation. It was clever. Guess you didn’t have time to let me in on your plan. Also, I would’ve tried to fight you if I’d known.”

I hiccup. “You were in no condition to fight anyone, Crowley.” 

“Yeah. Could’ve tried to fight you, though. For old time’s sake. You thought I was dying. Might’ve taken you by surprise.” Your mouth, faintly blue, twists into a tiny smirk. “Might’ve won.” 

“You’re right,” I say suddenly. 

“What? Come on, don’t give up the game like that -” 

“No. About the body. Who stays, and who goes.” I don’t think that I was wrong for stabbing you in the back during the last battle to preserve your life. But that I avoided you for three years out of shame is not a symptom of any particular comfort in having made that decision without you. And now that the parameters have changed - shouldn’t a different choice be made? I straighten the lapels of my damp jacket. “Gabriel already thinks the Serpent of Eden is dead. You ought to have a fighting chance as long as we don’t give him a reason to believe otherwise. I could - I don’t know, feed them false leads. Muddle the paperwork. Reorganise the Archive catalogue.”

The look of relief lights up your face better than the tarnished oil lamp ever could. “We’ll still need an exorcism. And a willing vessel.”

“I imagine that the quartermaster is quite stingy about extra corporations nowadays,” I say. 

You shrug, but there’s already a gleam of something small and clever in your eye. “I have a few ideas.” 

It doesn’t take long to sketch out a plan. When we are done, neither of us is in a rush to leave the bookshop. But the day is growing late, and your body would feel as cold and heavy as a corpse’s, were it not for the shivers that you cannot stifle against me.  

“You’re cold,” I say. 

You stretch your mouth out to approximate a smile, but don’t manage to still the chattering of your teeth. “Just a bit nippy out.” 

“Might be wanting to get a move on.” 

You close your eyes. “There’s enough time for this. After all, we used to have all the time in the world. Would you have done anything differently with yours?” Thin slivers of gold are visible beneath your eyelids.  

How can I account for six thousand years? Should I draw a map of the paths that I never travelled? Should I mark the passage of time by the breaths I didn’t take? Could I write a book of the things I never said? 

Actually, the decrepit replica of my bookshop would attest that I could accomplish the latter, very comprehensively. But that’s not what you’re asking. So I say, “No.” And also: “Yes.”  

Your breathing grows shallow. Your face is cloaked in shadow, but the slight glint of ice on your eyelashes betrays their flutter. “Elucidate,” you say hoarsely. 

“I don’t regret the things I’ve done,” I say. “But I wish I’d dallied less. Moved a little faster, as it were.” 

“Oh. Like at Tadfield? S’alright, angel, I know you tried to get there on time, that was a low blow, sorry -” 

“Not just at Tadfield.” There were decades which passed with only a nod or a glance and centuries during which we never spoke. Their sum is writ large in your face, turned away from mine. Who knows what might’ve been accomplished had we found more time? Perhaps we could’ve flown to Alpha Centauri. Stopped Armageddon. Learned to play the clavier. What can possibly be done to balance the books now? 

I do not know, and I suspect you don’t either, otherwise you wouldn’t be staring out the shattered window at the sea while frost flowers across your cheekbones. Certainly no gesture nor word could be adequate for those millennia. But I do know that, on the balance of probabilities, I would still regret not reaching across the silence between us and taking your hand in mine, and saying, “You asked before whether it was all worth it. It was, Crowley. Every moment.”  

“I’ve lost his pulse,” echoes Anathema’s voice from outside the bookshop.  

“He’s dead! We’ve killed him!” says Newt. 

You look up slowly at me, wonder and astonishment and fear all jumbled together, and your hand is cold and insubstantial, like fog given form. But you do not pull away: after all, that was my job, and you’ve made it clear that you will be relinquishing that role to the rightful angel. “Even the ones where I’d thwarted you?”

“Especially those,” I say. “However, you’ll note that the instances where it was I who thwarted you are much more numerous.”  

“When Hell freezes over,” you scoff, and it’s as if the last battle never happened, and we were merely divvying up the supernatural errands roster in A.Z. Fell and Co over a platter of scones and tea, instead of a single body. You tentatively run your thumb over my knuckles. Then, as if tired of waiting, your grasp suddenly interleaves with mine and it feels like I’ve stolen the winter wind from the sky and twined it around my fingers. 

“I’ll keep an eye on the home front,” I say.

“No pressure, huh.” 

“Sorry, dear. Are you ready?”  

“Are you?” You release my hand slowly from your incorporeal grasp, like a tree shedding the last leaf from its snow-laden boughs, and walk towards the back door, where Witchfinder Army remains. But with one hand on the doorknob, you turn around, and straighten up. The hesitation slides off your shoulders, once more revealing the old demonic bravado beneath.  

“Did you forget something?” I say, mouth suddenly dry, standing stock-still because I don’t quite trust myself to do anything else. 

You stride languidly to stand before me, and look me up and down with predatory eyes. Your hand reaches for my chest, and goodness, I’ve stopped breathing because this is beginning to resemble Tadfield Manor very vividly again - 

- and you pluck your glasses out of my breast-pocket to slide them back upon your own face. “Later, angel.” You smile crookedly and fling open the back door. Golden daylight spills from the doorway, burning away the accumulated dust of years and revealing the colours beneath. And best of all, it captures you in silhouette at the centre of frame, making it look like you were walking into my bookshop for the first time instead of leaving for the last.   

Chapter Text

Colour blooms back into your world from the centre outwards, revealing the living room of Jasmine Cottage in disarray. The figures of Shadwell, Tracy, Newt, and Anathema loom above your supine form. The tip of Tracy’s barbeque lighter has split like an exploded musket barrel. Anathema’s bell resembles nothing more than an amorphous brass lump clinging to the end of its charred wooden handle. And worst of all, Shadwell’s Witchfinder Army Booke of Rules and Reggulations is cracked down the spine, as if manhandled by ruffian after ruffian over the decades in some underfunded public library - 

Sorry. I digress. None of them can see your eyes open behind your glasses, though.  

“Failed at a simple exorcism,” Shadwell says to the ceiling. “Ne’ermore shall I call myself a Witchfinder General, nor shall I lead the army. Only 'onorable thing left to do is resign. Me last act in office’ll ta be ta elevate Witchfinder-Colonel Tracy to the rank ‘o Witchfinder General.” 

“Now, there’s no need to be hasty,” says the newly-minted Witchfinder-General Tracy. “You’ve just had a nasty shock.”

“I’m not in shock, woman, I’m in disgrace. I’m not fit ta hold me tools of office. Ought ta be muzzled like a mad dog.” Shadwell holds his hands in front of him like a supplicant, and collapses into the tufted armchair in front of the fireplace. “Private Pulsifer, fetch the oven mitts for yer own protection.” 

“No harm done.” You rise like a revenant from the grave. “Well, no irreparable harm done.” 

Tracy shrieks, Newt and Anathema look relieved, and Shadwell’s eyes bug out of his head. “‘Nother of those occult tricks. Back, ye devil!” 

“I can’t believe it. You were dead as a doornail for five minutes,” says Anathema. 

You shrug, and then crack your neck. “Must’ve gotten better.” 

“So... that means the exorcism worked?” says Newt tentatively. He slides a pair of oven mitts onto Shadwell’s outstretched hands. 

Work? There’s nothing about Shadwell’s bell-book-candle rigamarole that ought to work . Yet it’s twice that a so-called exorcism has sent me flying tail over teakettle. I beg you, don’t indulge his rustic brand of occultism any further.  

“It worked,” you say confidently. 

Anathema gasps and leaps into Newt’s arms, nearly knocking him over. Tracy crouches down by Shadwell’s side, and rubs his arm encouragingly. “See? Mister Fell is right as rain. You can still be Witchfinder General!” 

Shadwell raises his right hand to the heavens. “But I nearly brought the roof down on all’o us. Not just the Southern Pansy. Almost got ye killed too. These five fingers’ve too much power for this small world. Nay, the time is come for me to hand the reins to you.” 

“Well, if you’re sure, General S... I guess I could relieve you of duty,” says Tracy. 

“I am relieved,” says Shadwell. “Great balls o’ fire, no Witchfinder has ever retired with two successful exorcisms to his name. Nor increased the size of the Army tenfold. Not even Witchfinder-Colonel Ye-Shall-Not-Eat-Any-” 

“And as my first official act, I would like to appoint you both Witchfinder-Sergeants -” Tracy points at Newt and Anathema. 

Shadwell leaps out of his chair. “What? She’s a probationer! I’ll court-martial ye, see if I won’t!”

“That’s all right, you old silly,” says Tracy. “I outrank you now. And you can always put your thoughts in the suggestion box at the Army Head Office.”   

“The Army’s gotten ‘long fine for five hunnid years without a suggestion box!” 

“The front desk of my church used to have one,” says Tracy. 

“We are not a church, woman -” 

Tracy raises a finger. You never knew that a woman could look so authoritative in a flour-dusted apron. “Witchfinder-General.”

Anathema offers a slightly dented biscuit tin, recently emptied of sewing supplies. “Would this do?”

“Hold on, I’ve got a suggestion about dental benefits I’d like to add first,” says Newt. 

Shadwell stares into the living room as the newly promoted members of the Witchfinder Army plot. His eyebrows knit together, and his mouth opens as if to decry innovation. Certainly, he could have benefited from a suggestion of dental benefits in the past. But instead, he reaches around for a stone-cold, abandoned cup of turmeric tea - formerly your cup of tea, actually - and sips it. He nods approvingly, and settles backwards into his chair to survey the next generation of the Witchfinder high command at work. 

And you? It takes a moment for you to remember that you are not, in fact, a member of the Witchfinder Army, with all that bonhomie wafting about. However, Newt alluded to some sort of vehicular resources before your exorcism. Perhaps you ought to ask after that Dick Turpin fellow. Hopefully no relation to the highwayman who robbed me of my pocketwatch and top-hat three hundred years ago. Little did he know, it was only my second favourite pocketwatch, and he didn’t even look at my Buggre Alle This Bible! 

You certainly shouldn’t just snatch up Newt’s car keys from the console table on the way out - good, pass them by, let’s not return our hosts’ hospitality with grand theft auto. But maybe stop a moment to glance in the mirror hanging by the door, and tidy yourself up. 

Your jacket - my jacket - has been dragged through a forest. Your bow tie hangs limp and unknotted around your neck. A smear of blood anoints your ashy cheek. You look like an absolute dog’s breakfast, and the guards at Southern Gate will certainly stop you on the way in. But for once, you do not turn away from the mirror, or grimace at the sight of yourself staring out from foreign eyes. Because the mirror no longer shows your own reflection. Instead, it shows me. 

You freeze at the sight. Hopefully I don’t look too shabby. I straighten my collar, and then wave back from behind the glass. Hello. Hello? Can you hear me? Apparently not, judging by your silence. You reach towards the mirror and touch it with a trembling hand. Ice instantly forms where your finger touches the glass. You jerk your hand away, but the frost keeps spreading across its surface, until my image is wholly blurred. 

This doesn’t bode well: Anathema’s tea didn’t freeze upon your lips, nor did the yuzu bath encase you like a lemon ice lolly. My awakening must be hastening your demise in some way - accelerating the endothermic reaction by dint of our proximity in one corporation. You seem to come to the same conclusion, staring at the frozen mirror. “Shit,” you say, and hasten to leave Jasmine Cottage. 

Outside is parked a small blue Wasabi, if the Wasabi had been souped up by someone with an intuitive but unscientific understanding of how cars should work, and a childhood watching Mad Max movies. Enormous cowcatchers and roll cages have been mounted over the front. The bonnet is festooned with vicious spikes. The metal exoskeleton looks like it outweighs the chassis. The driver’s seat is too small - the scabbard of your flaming sword digs into your leg when you sit - but the car still rumbles to life the moment you lay your hands upon the steering wheel. Caesar’s ghost, I forgot that your Bentley didn’t need keys to start either. You press your foot upon the gas pedal, and it takes off like an intercontinental missile.  

Behind you, I see Newt running out of Jasmine Cottage with his mouth agape and growing smaller with great rapidity. Would it kill you to look in the rearview mirror once in a while, Crowley? Do you think that they’re decorative, just like all those knobs and buttons on the dashboard? But no, the only parts of a car you’re acquainted with are the parts that make it go, and the parts that make it go faster. And of course haste is of the essence in rectifying our condition, but - goodness, you drive much faster than I recall. Or were you slowing down for my benefit in the past? Almighty preserve us all. 

As if you could hear my admonitions, you glance up towards me in the rearview while swerving down the lane. The Wasabi handles like a greased brick hopped up on methamphetamines. I stand sorely corrected, Crowley: eyes on the road! Meanwhile, the car beeps, and in a synthesised voice pronounces a haiku warning: 

The vine twines around

The trellis, like the seat belt 

Absent from your waist.

You smirk, and Jasmine Cottage disappears in a cloud of dust behind us. 

But out of the haze, Dog bounds down the street. His ears and tail flap up and down while he keeps miraculous pace with the Wasabi. He barks, and it reverberates through the car’s chassis. 

You wind down the window with some difficulty since the handle keeps jamming with ice, and shout, “Not a chance. They’ll sniff you out in the Kingdom.”   

He whines, a high-pitched keen that threatens to shatter all the glass in the car. 

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a lot of practice. Go home!” And you floor the pedal to dive headfirst into the Tadfield forest.  

The forest does not lead you in circles or show you apparitions of the past, but parts before you like the Red Sea. Perhaps it recognizes Newt’s car, or perhaps Tadfield is eager to wash its hands of you. Regardless, it only takes you an hour to drive from Tadfield to London with hands white-knuckled at the ten and two o’ clock positions.

Muriel is the guard in attendance at the Southern Gate this afternoon. But rather than miserably goose-stepping across the top of the M25 wall like the last you saw her, she sits on the edge of the ramparts, whistling at the sky. Even more critically, she isn’t facing the side she’s supposed to guard. You wouldn’t have caught me woolgathering like that at the Eastern Gate. Ought to report her to Gabriel -

BRAAAPPPPP goes the Wasabi’s horn. An “excuse me” would have sufficed! Muriel topples off the far side of the ramparts in surprise, before remerging with her ridiculous round helmet askew. “Oh, you gave me such a fright, Archivist! Did you enjoy Japan?” 

You lean out the window again. “Very much so. Glad to be home. Be a dear and let me in?” 

“Of course! But I think you’ll have to fill out some incoming transit forms. And we’ll have to wait for Sandalphon to process them.” She wiggles her clawed fingers. “Wouldn’t want me to tear anything by accident!” 

The Southern Gate opens like the jaws of an ancient beast, and you drive slowly into its iron maw. Muriel hops down from the wall with a clipboard full of forms and hands them to you through the car window. 

You fill out the forms quickly, wiping out the Customs Declaration, External Incident Reporting Form, and Corporation Condition Assessment with blazing illegibility. “Where is Sandalphon?” you say, halfway through the Overseas Proselytization Summary. Now, that was an angel who cherished his job, from every glowering gaze to the horizon down to every toothpick chewed. 

Muriel blushes, and twirls a short curl of her hair around a claw. “Remember how Sandalphon was reading a book with me? We finished it! And now he’s gone to talk it over with Gabriel. Do you think he’d like it?”  

So they finished reading the Darby Bible. “What? Of course Gabriel liked it.” You shove the clipboard towards Muriel.

Muriel clasps the clipboard delightedly with both hands. “Fantastic! That’ll be at least six of us in the book club, then. And Sandalphon’ll be popping by the Archives afterwards to get us the next one, if that's all right. I’m quite looking forward to angels and demons.” 

As if we hadn’t all had enough after the last battle? No offence to you, dear. “Hallelujah. Another day, another edition.” 

“Thank you. Now let’s all stay put ‘til Sandalphon gets back to stamp the - wait! Wait, Archivist!” 

With a mighty burst of blue smoke, the Wasabi rockets off down the motorway. Muriel waffles over whether to follow you or leave the Southern Gate unguarded. However, her voice soon fades in your ears, being overtaken by a high-pitched ringing. Wait, that might be me shrieking. Sorry. I’ll get a hold of myself.  

You swerve and honk your way down the Kingdom streets. Angels leap out of your way to avoid getting speared on the Wasabi’s armaments. Dustbins aren’t ambulatory: you demolish three before you cross the Thames. 

You take a rubble-strewn corner on two wheels upon the final approach to the Archive, and come face-to-face with the only entity without a self-preservation instinct in the Kingdom. Carpenter sits right in the middle of the road, dressed in his ridiculous tunic and sandals two thousand years out of date, feeding ducks with the crumbs of a loaf of bread. The ducks’ pea-sized brains detect your approach in time to scatter in a cloud of green and black feathers. Carpenter, on the other hand, stands frozen as your Wasabi approaches. You slam on the brakes, which scream at the concept of going from eighty miles an hour to zero in two seconds flat. 

The Wasabi stops not a duck’s length away from Carpenter’s sandals. The wake of its deceleration barely ruffles his dark curls. Then, somewhat belatedly, the airbag explodes into your chest. 

“Oh. Hello, Archivist,” says Carpenter, who seems completely nonplussed about being this close to getting turned into a latke. He brushes the crumbs from his hands off onto his tan jumpsuit. 

“What - the - Hell - are you doing in the middle of the road?” You try to stuff the airbag back into the abyss from whence it came. 

“I was where I needed to be,” says Carpenter. 

“In the middle of the road, feeding the ducks?” You abandon your assessment of airbag topology and elect to sever the apparatus through with your - my! - flaming sword, and toss the postmodern Gordian knot out the window.  

Carpenter shrugs in an oh, shucks kind of way. “I wasn’t here for the ducks. I was here to find you.” 

Maybe you can reverse out of this conversation? You peer through the rear window, only to find that the ducks have fluttered behind you and arranged themselves in rows like a Spartan regiment at Thermopylae, entirely blocking your escape route. Would it be better to run over Carpenter, or several dozen ducks?  

Carpenter whistles while you contemplate vehicular homicide, and crooks his finger towards the sidewalk. A tall figure with wispy white hair and skin like unbaked dough steps out from behind a dustbin. He wears a jumpsuit made of kraft paper, and his feet are shod in cardboard. He unlocks the passenger-side door, and sidles into the Wasabi beside you. 

“You’re carjacking me?” you say in disbelief. 

“I found you a corporation,” says Carpenter. “Say hello to the Archivist, that’s a good fellow.”

“Hello to the Archivist,” says the corporation, and it blinks genially at you. 

“You told me the Quartermaster didn’t have any free!” you say.

“Well, yes, but it turns out that if I photocopy all of the portraits of myself that you’d collected in the Archive, I can make a fair case that nobody would believe me to be... you know. After all, the depictions of the Messiah are very pale and very blonde, and I am not. So I received a new body to shape as I see fit. And a minor miracle to transfer the soul from the old body to the new one.” He clambers over the empty corporation into the backseat, and returns your squinty stare with a very deliberate wink. 

Sorry, dear. It seems like we won’t need our plan for the elaborate heist from the Quartermaster’s stores in the Tower of London any further. You take out your frustration on the roads of the Kingdom. The passenger door isn’t even closed when the Wasabi takes off. It swings out, hits a lamppost, and falls off to spark and skid several metres down the pavement. The car pronounces: 

No leash holds a bird

Like how no seat belt restrains

Your dear passenger.

“You could’ve saved me a journey to Tadfield if I’d known that you’d pull that off,” you hiss. 

Wide-eyed in innocence, or maybe in awe of your capacity for the abuse of vehicular machinery, Carpenter says, “Didn’t you have a good time catching up with old friends?” 

“I almost died in a bathtub.” 

Carpenter blinks. “I’m sorry to hear that, Archivist. But I needed you out of the way. You wouldn’t have permitted me to photocopy that many portraits otherwise.” 

“And then Shadwell nearly finished the job!” 

Go easy on Carpenter, dear, he just let you skip half a dozen steps in our plan. After all, the Lord provides. 

Carpenter glances at the rearview mirror. “Thank you, Aziraphale.” 

You overshoot a turn in shock. “You know he’s there?” 

Carpenter smiles serenely. “Watch the road.” 

“Bless it -” An angel hauling an armful of wooden pallets jumps out of the way in fright so that you can correct the course by throwing the Wasabi into reverse, executing a sloppy, sod-tearing three-point turn. 

Several harrowing kilometers later, the Wasabi screeches to a stop in a cemetery. The sun has dipped low in the sky, and the hills around the Archive shed long, dark shadows over the graves. You bang your knee on a headstone getting out of the car, but barely notice in your rush up the Archive steps. “Come on,” you urge, waving Carpenter and the corporation into the mausoleum. You take one last furtive look around outside the Archive into the cemetery, but hear nothing but the wind in the grass. That doesn’t stop you from pushing the long reading table up against the doors and drawing the curtains shut when you get inside. It wouldn’t do for your exorcism to be interrupted by an angel who got lost on the way to headquarters, or another Witchfinder with a bone to pick. 

In the muffled dark of the Archive, you rifle through the stationary drawer. I wish you’d possessed some ritual implements more suitable to the task at hand. Chisel-tip markers aren’t very occult, and there’s no way I’ll be able to get them out of your floor after. Why didn’t you ever requisition the good ritual chalks? And why is there a photo of myself at my 1829 commendation under all of these pens? You knee the drawer closed and crouch down to draw some large circles upon the Archive floor, in front of the doors to the Special Collections. Carpenter really outdid himself depicting my likeness - shame you scratched out the carving of yourself ascending the Tree of Knowledge. But I'm quite flattered you've displayed the Great-Asse Bible upon a lectern of honour somewhere behind those doors. Always knew my gift to you would inspire a lifetime of scholarship! 

“Everyone ready?” says Carpenter. 

“Get on with it,” you say, and then position yourself in the centre of the marked circle. Concentric circles of rime spread outwards from your feet. 

The corporation toddles over to loom behind you, while Carpenter stands before you, turns his palms to the ceiling, and begins to chant. “Some things in life are bad. They can really make you mad -”

“You’re pulling my leg,” you say. 

Carpenter pauses his liturgy. “The quartermaster only granted me a very minor miracle, you know, sufficient to move a soul from one body to another. It’ll take a bit of concentration to adjust it for our needs here.” 

“I know that, but why are you singing that -” 

“I’ve grown fond of that song. It helps me focus.” 

Really, Crowley, it could be worse. He could be singing the Veggietales theme. 

You remain unconvinced. “I have some Hildegard von Bingen tapes, really traditional stuff -”  

“It would be self-indulgent to sing my own graces,” says Carpenter.  

You squeeze your forehead with your hand. “Just.. get on with it.” 

Carpenter resumes his chant. “Other things just make you swear and curse, when you're chewing on life's gristle. Don't grumble, give a whistle, and this'll help things turn out for the best.” 

The inked circle begins to glow a soft blue. I feel a small tug near my stomach, like a knot beginning to unravel, or the release of a long-held breath. Your eyes widen.  

“Oh. Hello, dear,” I say. 

We must look like a strange pair - two figures of identical height and build standing face to face in a ritual circle, but it would be impossible for me to mistake you for anyone else. It isn’t the rumpled clothes that give you away, nor the glasses that obscure your face, nor even the way that your neckwear has given up its namesake ambitions of being a “bow” or even “tied”, though these attributes certainly do my reputation no credit. I can see you in the lines at the corner of your mouth, the way you fold your fingers against your palm, the square of your shoulders. 

“Aziraphale,” you say, in a strangely hoarse voice.

I pull a sticky cough drop from my pocket - you look terrible up close, dear - but it disappears when I drop it in your outstretched hand, like a shadow in a sunbeam. 

“Close, but no cigar,” you say. 

“Have you started smoking again, too? It’ll take ages for me to lose that habit,” I say. 

“Always look on the briiight side of life,” sings Carpenter. Oh. I’d already forgotten he was there. He’s not looking at us, which is rather considerate. “Always look on the liiight side of life!”  

You wrench your gaze away from me to address Carpenter. “Hey. This isn’t what we discussed. Aziraphale’s supposed to keep the original body. I’m the one going into the empty corporation.” 

“I’m still warming up fooor, the big switch,” he sings back without breaking melody or cadence. “Trying to sort out alll, of your souls. Now it’s time to get baaack, to the -”   

The mausoleum doors blow open with a clap of thunder and an explosion of splinters. It sends you, me, Carpenter, and the corporation tumbling backwards into the Archive. I recover quickly, being unburdened by a body. Nobody else is so lucky. Carpenter lies dazed against the doors of the Special Collections, beneath the carved Tree of Knowledge. The leg of the empty corporation sticks out from a jumble of chairs at a wretched angle. 

And you have been knocked onto your back in the centre of the room. Your glasses lie somewhere beside the broken reading table, allowing you to behold Gabriel unimpeded as he strides through the cloud of sawdust, haloed in fury. His silver spear is slung upon his back so that he can hold the collar of Sandalphon’s fatigues in his left hand and a tattered red paperback in his right hand. I recognise it vaguely as the one that Carpenter had lent Muriel to read, before remembering myself and darting behind a bookcase of Bibles. 

The archangel says, “Sorry for the mess. But I was recently made aware of a flagrant security breach. Sandalphon here -" he yanks the other angel's collar "- has just tried to tempt me into heresy.” 

“Just wondered if you wanted to join my book club. We meet on Tuesdays,” mumbles Sandalphon. The lenses of his glasses are cracked, and the knees of his combat trousers are torn and muddy. His hands clutch at the collar of his shirt, trying to relieve the strain on his throat. He looks oddly naked without his assault rifles. 

“The gall of you,” snarls Gabriel. “And now it falls to me to root out the traitors in the Kingdom. I thought we’d gotten over that after the Fall, and the Last Battle, but here we are.” He turns to you and smiles conversationally. “Aziraphale. Wow, you look like shit. We’re going to have to talk about the dress code later.” 

“Sorry. Feeling a bit peaky lately,” you say. 

“At least you’re still wearing the sword. Anyway, you’re in charge of all the books in the Kingdom, aren’t you?” 

“I am,” you say uncertainly. 

“So, do you know how Sandalphon got this book? Was it one of yours? Did you lend it to him?” He advances, brandishing it in your face.  

Sandalphon coughs as he’s dragged along the floor, but his triple-pupiled eyes never stop darting between you and Carpenter. “I found it myself on a patrol. ‘Zira’s never seen that before in his life -” 

“Shut up,” roars Gabriel, and shoves Sandalphon to the ground. The other angel sprawls onto the floor before you and groans. 

“That’s just the Darby Bible. A translation that’s out of date, certainly, but not heretical,” you say.

Both Gabriel and Sandalphon look at you uncomprehendingly. “The Darby Bible?” says Sandalphon. 

“It’s not the Darby Bible,” says Gabriel, and he tosses the book to the ground in front of you. It is worn and grubby, and the title is barely legible. But a woman’s enigmatic eyes stare at you from the cover illustration above a fragment of the author’s name. Dan something, not John Darby. The Gospel of Dan? I suddenly recall Muriel’s talk of cliffhangers and sequels and angels and demons. Specifically, Angels and Demons . Capitalised. 

Because fallen at your feet is not the Darby Bible, but The Da Vinci Code.  

Chapter Text

In stupified horror, we behold the book that Gabriel has thrown to the ground. The chain of events precipitating Sandalphon’s possession of The Da Vinci Code emerge readily: Carpenter had been reading Muriel a book to cheer her up. Muriel continued her readalong sessions with Sandalphon. Sandalphon took the book to Gabriel to convince the archangel to join his book club. Which begs the question: “Why?” you say. 

“I thought he’d enjoy it.” Sandalphon begins to stand, his palms raised in acquiescence. 

Gabriel unslings his spear from his back and aims it threateningly at Sandalphon. “Stay down. You thought I’d enjoy that?”

“Well, yeah. The Gospel of Dan is a cracking good read, based on real events! I mean, you totally had a kid with the Magdelene, right?” Sandalphon directs this question towards Carpenter, who has pried himself upright using the pile of broken chairs around him. 

Carpenter shakes his head. “Mary.” 

“Stay out of it, Son,” says Gabriel. 

“You guys have to give it a chance.” Sandalphon’s face shines with fervour undimmed by the fear of being held at spearpoint. 

Gabriel’s head swivels between the three of you, and decides that your appalled reaction to Sandalphon’s literary taste speaks for itself. “Well. Knew that you couldn’t have been wrapped up in this at all, Aziraphale. You’ve always been a good one. But Sandalphon? This really stings. Repent your sins, and tell me who else is in your book club. Then I can have you demoted instead of smited.” 

It’s a fair offer. The rest of his book club would probably get away with a slap on the wrist. Gabriel would not execute an angel except for the most grievous of sins: the Kingdom is short-staffed enough as it is, and losing a whole book club would put construction of the Third Temple behind schedule. “Crowley. Crowley! Tell him to take the deal,” I whisper. 

The disgust has passed from your face. You bite your lip, and say nothing. 

Sandalphon looks at you, and then at Gabriel. “It’s just me. A book club of one, ha-ha.” 

I groan, and belatedly clap my hands over my mouth. Your eyes flick towards me, but neither Gabriel nor Sandalphon seem to notice.

Gabriel makes a disgusted noise and backhands the other angel. Sandalphon’s sunglasses crack in half, and the angel crumples to the ground with a sickening thud. “Sandalphon, Cherubim of Glory, you are charged with insubordination and negligence -”  

And as much as I’d like to stay put and transcribe the proceedings of this court martial into the official record (which is to say, not at all), I creep around the bookshelf to whisper: “Crowley, we should go.”  

You wipe a dark trickle from the corner of your mouth, smearing a track across your dust-speckled face. “I can’t.”  

“Yes, we can! We can take Carpenter and the spare corporation, drive off to Battersea, and finish the exorcism. Dick Turpin surely has enough horsepower to ram through the southern gate with enough of a run-up -” 

“Do you remember when Bach died?” Your hand reaches across the splintered floor to pluck your sunglasses from the ground beside the broken reading table, and blow dust off the lenses.   

“Are you listening to anything I’ve said?” 

“The world forgot about him the moment he was buried, except for you. You went to Bach’s funeral. You played his silly keyboard exercises. You collected his old folios. You told everybody who’d listen how great and underappreciated he was, until Felix Mendehlsson cottoned on and brought his music back to life,” you continue doggedly. “You were Bach’s last admirer for decades.” 

“Hold on, you liked Bach too.” 

You rise slowly from the ground, hand braced on the bookshelf. “Never cared for The Da Vinci Code, either. Too many adverbs. But Sandalphon loves it enough to die for it... ”  

“Then let him!” 

“I don’t think I want to.” You shrug, shedding flakes of ice from the shoulders. 

Why must you be so stubborn? The Da Vinci Code is a hack job, equally lacking in historical basis and literary merit. Nobody in their right mind could enjoy The Da Vinci Code unironically. And I know Sandalphon; he’s not right in the head. That angel left most of his marbles in the salt fields of Sodom and Gomorrah. 

I mean, look at Sandalphon - he’s not fighting, he’s not running for the door, he’s just kneeling there as the archangel pronounces judgement. He’s not even looking at Gabriel, but staring into some beyond, resolute in the face of certain death.

I glance at you, to ask: Crowley, does he look like a rational angel with his priorities in order, or does he look like a raving lunatic?  But the query dies on my lips and my noncorporeal stomach drops, because your expression rather resembles the one upon Sandalphon’s face. 

Perhaps Sandalphon is the President of The Da Vinci Code book club, but you are custodian to a forgotten kingdom, and we are all standing in a shrine to the past that the future has tried and failed to obliterate. Stuffed behind a pair of wooden gates are antiques that you have personally salvaged from beyond the Kingdom walls while risking discovery and dismemberment. Even I wouldn’t have risked myself to expand the Archive like you did. Never in your wildest dreams did you believe that there was another soul that could love the embers of history more ardently than you, risking himself to kindle it anew in the heart of the Kingdom -  

Of course you can’t leave Sandalphon well enough alone. “All right. Fine. What are we going to do?” 

Your lips part into a small and surprised smile before it widens sharp and wicked. “Hadn’t thought that far ahead. But what’s the point of being the last demon on Earth if I can’t raise a little Hell?” You slide your sunglasses back onto your face and unsheath your sword. My sword. It flares to life in your hands, but you wield it like a racquet, holding it too far away from your body, aimed dramatically but pointlessly towards the side. 

“Your form is terrible.” I stand behind you, and draw your ice-cold arm closer to your body.

We’re not stealthy. We’re a bit slow, honestly. I haven’t had a body in years. You’re almost certainly dying of theocorporally-induced hypothermia. Mid court-martial, Gabriel hears our steps upon the debris-strewn ground, and turns curiously around. 

“Hi,” you say. “Actually, I’m part of the book club too.” Your voice isn’t even shaking. In fact, it sounds exultant, as if this was the role you were born to play, and you plan to make sure that your swan song is something to write home about. 

In the corner of the Archive, Carpenter tugs the empty corporation out of a jumble of broken shelving. Its serene expression belies a broken leg and dislocated shoulder. Perhaps we can still make use of it after Gabriel is done with us.

“Et tu, Principality? I stand corrected. But put that sword away,” Gabriel says. “You’ll hurt yourself.” 

The duel is ours to lose. Gabriel has the advantages of reach, regular conditioning, and the state of being unburdened with an extra soul in his corporation. He abandons Sandalphon to lazily await our clumsy charge down the hallway of the Archives, past the shelves and shelves of holy books. When we lunge with the sword, he gently brushes the blade aside with the silver haft of his spear. When we attempt a textbook riposte, he steps gracefully aside, his free hand tucked behind his back. “When we’re finished, I expect you to sign up for a swordsmanship refresher with Michael,” he says in the same tone he’d use to criticise misspelt paperwork. “But more likely, I expect you’ll be dead.” 

He meets our next chop with a two-handed, arm-jarring parry. Gold and silver sparks erupt from the impact of metal on metal to kindle in the shelves of Bibles. He sighs disappointedly when you stumble off-balance. Fighting you is barely any sport at all, so he thrusts the spear towards your kidneys. You don’t dodge the blow so much as trip miraculously out of the way. His spear plunges home into a bookshelf instead of your torso. Silver fire runs up the cracks of the dark wood and ignites its laden shelves. In a distant corner of your vision, Sandalphon has wisely undertaken a tactical retreat on his hands and knees, though not before rescuing The Da Vinci Code from the oncoming conflagration. Carpenter follows with the empty corporation draped over one shoulder. I might suggest you do the same, if it weren’t for the fact that Gabriel would chase you out of the Archive - and catch you. 

You scrabble backwards in the Archive while Gabriel pulls the spear from the burning shelf. Annoyance at your good luck has already replaced his curiosity. “Stand still, won’t you?” Then he charges at you, spear extended in front of him. 

The archangel thunders close, and you exhale. At the last second, when it is too late for Gabriel to alter his trajectory, you step to the side and fold yourself inside his guard. Chest-to-chest, he is too close for you to use your sword. 

But it is not too close to pull a pen from your breast pocket and stab Gabriel in the eye with his own biro. 

Blood spurts from his socket and runs down the archangel’s face. He flails towards you with his spear, howling and clutching at his face. His wild strikes gouge burning furrows from floor to rafters. 

And we run like the dickens, of course. Unfortunately, in different directions. I follow Carpenter and Sandalphon towards the exit, realising too late that you aren’t behind me. 

Instead, you dash further into the burning Archive and wedge the shortsword into the carved doors of the Special Collections.

“Crowley, there’s no time!” I call, already halfway out the front door of the Archive. 

With a twist, you pop the lock open and rush for the Great-Asse Bible propped open on the central lectern, so that you can shove it inside your jacket. Your commitment to scholarship would be admirable if the Archive wasn’t on fire. 

Some of Gabriel’s composure returns: he leans heavily on his spear, with one hand still pressed to his face. Blood is smeared around his eyes like a ghoulish half-mask. He blocks your exit route through the burning Archive. “All these books around. Bet you thought it’d be clever to slip Sandalphon a bit of heresy and make him Fall. Very funny, Aziraphale,” he rasps. “Ha. Ha, ha.” Gabriel stalks towards you. A rafter splinters, sending burning cinders fluttering down. Your eyes dart from eye to side, searching for an escape route but finding none. I need to do something, anything -

I windmill my arms like a dervish. “I’m over here!”  

Gabriel spins towards me. “How did you -”  He turns his head towards me - first to no avail with his good eye, and then with his bloody socket. “How are there two of you?” 

You rush past the archangel in his moment of confusion, and not a moment too soon. The overhead beam cracks with a spray of sparks. Gabriel looks up in time to see half the Archive roof collapse on him. The rush of fresh air from the new hole in the roof causes the fire to flare. You shield your head from falling debris with your arm, and we run out of the burning mausoleum, down the stone steps, and across the cemetery green until we catch up with Sandalphon, Carpenter, and the empty corporation all huddling behind Newt’s Wasabi. 

“That must have discorporated him,” I say, peering back at the conflagration. 

You shake your head, not even bothering to look behind you. “You don’t make it to arch-anything by being that easy to discorporate. We’ve got to go. Sandalphon - can you fly?” 

Sandalphon's triple-pupiled eyes are squeezed nearly shut. “My glasses - it’s too bright.” 

You hesitate slightly, slip your sunglasses off your face, and offer them to Sandalphon. 

He puts them on with trembling, reverent hands. “Thanks, Zira.”

“Can’t let you take a Fall without me,” you say. 

Sandalphon wrinkles his forehead at your phrasing, but Carpenter interrupts. “The corporation and I can’t fly.”

“Shit.” Your frantic gaze falls on the Wasabi. Should we carry them, or take our chances in the three-wheeled deathtrap? An inhuman screech emits from the Archive as another portion of its roof collapses. “Get in the car!”  

Carpenter and the empty corporation pile squash into the passenger seat, while Sandalphon and I pile into the back. I don’t even have any time to put on my seat belt, before you rev the engine and the Wasabi explodes down the road towards the Southern Gate. 

“Where are we going?” says Sandalphon. 

“I don’t know,” you say. The Wasabi slaloms around the headstones and carves a new thoroughfare across a drainage swale, but your hands tremble as frost spreads over the steering wheel. 

I lean over the driver’s seat. “We only need to get out of the Kingdom. Then Carpenter can get you into the other body.” My breath fogs by your ear. 

“But then where’ll you go? It’s not like when they lost track of the Antichrist. Gabriel knows you’re alive. He’ll stop at nothing to hunt you down. Imagine a million angels with flamethrowers, marching through Oxfordshire...” you say.

“Hey, I can handle myself,” says Sandalphon. “You don’t look so great, though.” 

“Watch the road!” Carpenter seizes the wheel. Ahead is an angel frozen in the middle of the road, eyes as round as her shiny helmet. Muriel’s jodhpurs are dusty and scuffed - did she run this whole way to intercept you? 

Carpenter wrenches the steering wheel to the left, and the Wasabi skids in a wide donut around her. You slap Carpenter’s hand from the wheel - the nerve of him - and yank on the gearstick to reverse down a narrow laneway, scraping long gouges in the flanks of the Wasabi. 

“Muriel!” calls Sandalphon, leaning out of the window. “We need to go back, in case Gabriel asks her about the book club too -” 

“There’s no more room in the car,” you say, neck cranked to steer using the back window. Can you make a U-turn, or should you reverse all the way down the lane? 

“There’s a whole seat beside me -” Sandalphon points at the seat beside him, which is occupied by yours truly. 

A shadow falls over the Wasabi. “Shit!” You handbrake-turn into an even narrower alleyway, and Gabriel embeds his spear into a brick wall instead of your spleen. The archangel’s dungarees are burnt and torn, and his wellies little more than half-melted lumps of rubber, but the glint in his remaining eye is fever-bright. He pulls his spear from the wall, dislodging lumps of charred mortar. 

You gun the engine to squeeze the car forwards through the narrowing space, until the alleyway is so tight that it grinds off Wasabi’s wing mirrors in a twinned stream of sparks. Suddenly the alley falls away from us. The Third Temple’s unfinished dome juts from the courtyard like the ribs of a gargantuan beast, while angels cling to the flimsy scaffolding around it. It dwarfs the Tree of Life, which looks like nothing more than a dead stick in the temple’s shadow.

Gabriel crashes upon the Wasabi’s bonnet like a falling star. You yelp and jerk the wheel from side to side to try and dislodge him, but the angel plunges his fiery spear into the engine compartment and holds fast. The car splutters and smokes, but doesn’t give up the ghost. Instead, the Wasabi accelerates. Its steering wheel begins to jerk back and forth of its own accord, knocking its passengers around like skittles. The archangel’s empty eye socket turns right towards me. 

You shout, “Bail out!” 

Carpenter doesn’t need to be told twice. He opens the passenger-side door, pulls Sandalphon out of the back seat, and all but throws the angel out of the moving vehicle before executing his own tuck-and-roll. You reach across the centre console towards the empty corporation - but instead of tucking it under your arm and jumping, you close its soft, pale hands around the wheel to steady the Wasabi. Only then do you dive out the driver-side door. 

I look once more at the empty corporation, blithely steering the Wasabi towards the Third Temple. My hand passes through its flesh when I try to bundle it out of the car. Gabriel chuckles darkly above the engine’s roar, his blind eye fixed on me. With one hand he clings to the hood of the Wasabi by the spear, and with the other he punches a hole in the windshield. Glass shards glint from his bloodied knuckles as he reaches towards my throat. “How did you think this was going to go, Principality?” he says. “Did you think you could really pull a fast one?” 

His hand passes right through my body. “Moving fast isn’t my speciality,” I say. “But it’s his.” I push my way through Gabriel’s arm as if it were made of mist, and jump out of the moving car. The impact barely registers. 

Gabriel tries to dislodge his spear from the Wasabi to follow, but it’s stuck fast in the car’s infernal workings. Again he pulls with both hands. When the spear rips free of the metal, it occurs to the archangel to look behind him - 

- just in time to see the Wasabi crash into the Third Temple. A scarlet mushroom cloud erupts on impact and engulfs the car, the archangel, the unfinished temple dome. The shockwave of dust and debris blasts us across the courtyard. Half of the silhouetted dome shears off and the angels on the scaffolding take flight into the burning haze like a flock of starlings. The steering wheel of a Wasabi thunks into the paving stones beside my head. 

Distantly, the bells of heaven begin to ring from the Kingdom spires like distorted air-raid sirens - the explosion must’ve knocked them out of key. I pick my way across the smoky courtyard to your fallen form. “Are you all right?” 

You roll over, revealing a shadow of frost on the cobbles beneath, like the chalk outline at a crime scene. Your hands are turning blue, and near-frozen around the hilt of the sword. Ice cracks around your pantlegs as you struggle to stand. The air glows orange from the burning temple, and ashes fall from the sky like snow. “Never better,” you croak. “How’s the book club president?” 

Two celestial masons help Sandalphon limp away from the Third Temple. “He’s fine. But I don’t see Carpenter.”

“We need to find him so he can finish splitting us up. Shouldn’t have shown him Monty Python. I’m starting to think that he just wanted an excuse to show off.” You cough, and something like tiny frozen rubies spills from the corner of your mouth.  

“He’s probably up there.” I begin to dash towards the knoll where Sandalphon is being carried by his compatriots, to rest with the other wounded angels. Carpenter wouldn’t pass up a chance to practice medicine on his colleagues. But I glance backwards after a few steps, and you haven’t gone anywhere at all. Instead, you sway slightly while leaning on the sword. “Crowley!” 

“Just catching my breath,” you say raggedly. 

“I can’t go without you.” 

“It’s no time to be maudlin.” 

“I’m not being maudlin! He’s going to need us both to finish the job. Come on -” The figures of Sandalphon and the masons have turned back around. He must not have been injured that badly. Damn his sudden sense of altruism. And it appears that Muriel has joined them too. Just what we need - 

“This far you may come, but no further.” A dark silhouette with six wings emerges from the burning temple. The explosion has torn Gabriel’s overalls to rags and knocked his gumboots right off, but his wings are as pristine as ever. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Aziraphale. I haven’t had this much fun since the Last Battle! And whatever witchcraft you’re using to conjure a double of yourself - great job. Really clever. But it’s time to get back to work.” He flourishes his spear with finality. 

There’s nowhere to run. Your eyes are wide with terror, and your teeth clenched. Come on. Legs apart. Square your shoulders. Lift your sword. Hold the guard position. Watch Gabriel’s weapon, but also his eyes - eye - then you’ll know where he’s going to strike. Don’t look at me, Crowley, stop, look at Gabriel - 

You drop the flaming sword. “I surrender.” 

“No, we don’t,” I protest. 

The archangel contemptuously kicks the shortsword away from you. “The smartest thing you’ve said all day.” 

You kneel at the archangel’s mercy. “You got me. I’m not Aziraphale. I’m Crowley. Serpent of Eden, the Corrupter of Man, et cetera, and I’ve been possessing the angel’s body the entire time.” Your voice is barely audible above the din of the celestial bells, screaming out of key and out of time. Goodness knows what the other angels must think as they circle us. Unable to hear your confession, they would only see the Archivist kneeling before the Left Hand of the Almighty. 

Gabriel turns his head from me to you, unsure of whom to believe. “I killed the Serpent in the Last Battle. Is this some kind of joke?” 

“Pick up the sword,” I shout. “Stop this - Gabriel, of course it’s a joke, C- I’ve just had a few too many boxes of wine to drink.” 

“Do you think that the real Aziraphale would’ve brought The Da Vinci Code into the Kingdom on purpose? He’d be too soft to try and sneak it in under your nose. Not to mention, too soft to take the Son of God hostage, bomb the Third Temple, or drive over the speed limit.” 

Consternation crosses the archangel’s face for the first time during this misadventure, and he appraises me anew with his empty socket. “You wouldn’t have had the nerve.”

“Exactly. So go ahead and finish the job you started - but first, miracle Aziraphale out of here.  The angel had nothing to do with it.” 

Nothing to do with it? That assertion is technically true. I didn’t assemble the Archive. I didn’t go haring off for Apocrypha. I certainly didn’t bring The Da Vinci Code into the Kingdom. 

Gabriel raises a miracle in hand. The air thickens around me, and I can see it all unfold. He’ll send my soul into one of the quartermaster’s spare corporations, and then lock it up in the Tower of London. He’ll execute you on the spot for your confession. If I play my cards right, I could pin all of our misadventures on you and claim ignorance for everything that’s transpired since the Last Battle. Indeed, I had no hand at all in the Archivist’s exploits.  

It isn’t as if you recreated my bookshop in the Kingdom. You never ran into a fire to retrieve the misprinted Bible I gifted you. You certainly didn’t carve my face into the Archive itself.  

“Liar,” I say fondly. 

You open your mouth to argue. 

So as a closing argument, I cup your freezing face and kiss you. It’s more than likely to be our last, but you spent three years under Heaven’s yoke and I’ll be damned if a demon of your calibre should die on your knees, begging for someone else’s life. You shudder, but when you clasp your hands to my shoulders as if you were drowning in the black sea beneath a starless sky, I wonder if this is how it feels to Fall.  

I’m unsure as to whom is more astounded when we part: you, or Gabriel. The archangel recovers slightly more quickly. “Fuck it, you’re both guilty.” 

“Yeah, fuck it,” you say. 

Gabriel raises his spear, and plunges it down towards your kneeling form - but at the same time, you reach into your jacket to pull out the Great-Asse Bible - 

The spear impales the pages and sets them alight, but you push the Bible to the side so that its momentum carries past you and not into your chest. Then with what must surely be the dregs of your strength, you lunge past the archangel for the discarded shortsword.

Not quickly enough - Gabriel recovers, and thrusts again, and this time there is nothing between you and the silver spear - 

- until Carpenter throws himself between you and the archangel. The spear slams home in his chest. Crimson splatters across Gabriel’s rags, and his hands, and his wings. 

Gabriel’s face turns pale beneath his bloody mask. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he says. 

Muriel steps forward from the circle thronged around us, and points at the archangel with a single, wavering claw. “Your wings, they’re - they’re -” 

Carpenter’s blood is soaking across Gabriel’s six wings. The archangel grabs his lowest wing and scrubs at it with the palm of his hand, and then grabs the feathers and pulls them out with a howl, but the red stain just keeps spreading. Gabriel rips out more and more of his feathers and throws them to the ground. “This isn’t - this wasn’t part of The Plan,” he croaks. And he spreads his scarlet wings, and throws himself into the darkening sky. 

The archangel’s departure shatters the circle of angels. They rush to Carpenter’s side, as if there was anything that they could do to staunch a mortal wound from Gabriel’s silver spear. 

Carpenter smiles faintly at you. “All according to Plan.” 

“Only if the plan involved losing the spare body and nearly dying!” 

“Actually dying,” he clarifies. 

“You meant to - to -” Your voice sputters and fails.  

Carpenter coughs. Sparks fly from his mouth and singe his lips. “You are all worth more than this,” he says, but he is no longer speaking to us, or the dozen of angels gathered over his body, or even the Kingdom. Then his unseeing eyes slide to a spot somewhere over your right shoulder, as the silver flames crawl up his body. “Forgive him, he knew not what he did,” he whispers. His eyes close, his chest falls, and then nothing is left but ash and Gabriel’s spear embedded in the ground. 

One of the celestial masons begins to wail. She sets off a wordless chorus of moans and cries: the song of old battlefields and sacked cities that I never expected to hear in the heart of the Kingdom. The bells of Heaven continue to toll out of key, every peal adding a new voice to the screaming fugue. 

You pick up the flaming sword and the ruined Great-Asse Bible and push your way out of the crowd. Burnt pages fall from the Bible’s spine like dead leaves behind you. Your legs carry you out of the Third Temple’s courtyard, beyond the splintered trunk of the Tree of Life, and down a rutted footpath, before they fail and spill you across the ashy ground beside a sludge-brown pond. 

I grab your hand, trying to steady you, but your flesh feels like smoke one moment and ice the next, flickering more and more quickly between states. 

“I guess this is it, angel,” you say, and the Great-Asse Bible’s empty cover drops from your hand.  

“This is not it,” I say. “Just - pull yourself together, Crowley, we can go to the Quartermaster in the Tower and beg him for a spare miracle -” 

You glance towards the Third Temple, in time to see the east wing slough off and undoubtedly discorporate another half-dozen masons. “Wouldn’t count on it.” 

That’s not what you’re supposed to say. I try again: “We can hide out in the Himalayas. They’ll never find us there. Or Australia. Or - or - Alpha Centauri, I know you’ve always wanted to travel -” 

“I think we’ve been here before,” you say. 

“Of course you have, you’ve been wheeling rubble up and down this path for three years.” I try to pull you upright, but I’m not even corporeal, come on -  

“No, I meant... before. I think there were ducks there,” you say, pointing vaguely towards the muddy pond. “And there was a bench by the path here...” 

I hadn’t even realized that we were in St. James’s Park - not with the trees shell-shattered, the sky burning overhead, and the benches long reduced to kindling. Finding nowhere to sit, you crawl across the path to a car-sized chunk of concrete and pull yourself to a sitting position in its shadow. The sword’s flame flickers weakly in your hand. “I was wondering something.” 

“Anything.” 

“Which pope did we steal the Great-Asse Bible from?” The wind sweeps up the fallen Bible pages, blowing them around your feet like fallen petals. 

“What?” I say dumbly. 

“You know, the time we escaped the Vatican in nun’s robes...” 

“That was Clement the Thirteenth.” 

“Yeah, that sounds right.” You tilt your head backwards to rest it upon an exposed stretch of rusty rebar. The shortsword is all but extinguished: its blade looks like a cooling ember.

“Don’t close your eyes. We just need to turn around and ask the quartermaster for another body, I’ll beg him on my knees if I have to -”  

“And remind me. What was that typo that got your knickers in a twist? I’d look it up myself, but -” You wave a hand sleepily at the scattered Bible pages. 

“This isn’t really the time, come on -”  

“I don’t think there’s going to be another time at all,” you say, and then you say nothing at all. 

“Fine,”  I say, just to ward off the terrible silence. "There was a typo in Exodus: Thou shalt commit adultery instead of Thou shalt not commit adultery. And Deuteronomy said - Behold, the Lord our God hath shewed us his glory and his great-asse.” 

You begin to laugh wetly. “Good Bible. Good times.”

“It’s not that funny.” 

“No. Not as funny as - heh. Last thing. You know the funny thing about a flaming sword?” Your voice is barely audible over the celestial bells. 

“I really don’t,” I say. 

You open your eyes. “If you look at it from the right angle, it’s practically a candle.” At my uncomprehending stare, you cock your head towards the celestial bells ringing across the Kingdom. “Bell.” You nod at the Bible pages strewn around us. “Book.” And then you raise the lambent shortsword slowly, with exceeding smugness. 

“Candle,” I whisper in horror, and the sword ignites into blinding brightness. 

Not this again! Just because Shadwell exorcised me in the bookshop - just because the Witchfinders managed to prise me partially from the recesses of your subconscious - does not mean that the third time’s the charm!

But it’s too late. Fuelled by your belief and my panic, the exorcism erupts like a sudden maelstrom and spins us violently apart. I float unmoored for a moment, before an unseen force slams me back into the corporation like a dislocated joint into its socket. A second later, I feel true cold for the first time in three years. 

You, on the other hand, were barely hanging on to the body in the first place, and thus are not expelled so much as gently detached. And you have the gall to laugh about it. You look almost exactly as I remembered you: dark glasses upon your face, jacket rumpled with insouciance, crowned with pride at having pulled another one over your adversary. But your stint in the Kingdom has added lines of worry around your face, I can see the ashes raining through your translucent form, and your voice sounds oddly far away, like a fading echo. “Thanks, Aziraphale.” 

I leap to my feet - a mistake that leaves me light-headed - and reach for your jacket, as if I could pull you back into safety, but I pass through you like a plume of smoke. “You bastard - oh, you absolute bastard - ” 

You look down at your hands, marvelling at the sight of your own form, and then lift one hand to run your fingers through your ephemeral hair. Then a smoky wind blows through the park and your outline wavers, as if someone had skipped a stone across your reflection. “Damn, even the air’s like pins and needles. Don’t know what I expected, it’s all holy ground anyway -”  

“You - you get back inside, right this instant!” I tuck my hands beneath my arms to stifle their shiver. 

“Nah, it’s pretty cramped in there,” you say with maddening levity, as if you hadn’t condemned yourself to getting churned to paste inside the Bermuda Triangle, trapping yourself inside an oil lamp, or possessing human vessels until you went full Legion or got your clogs popped by a celestial hit-squad. Being incorporeal is no picnic - trust me, I know -

- but I’m not the demon without a body right now, lingering in the Kingdom long past the dictates of necessity. My stomach twists - how did I miss the thin press of your lips, or the twitch of your eye beneath your glasses? You know the dangers ahead as well as I. Meanwhile, a dozen silhouettes in the smoke are slowly growing larger. Their outlines bristle with assault rifles and shine with miracles: certainly enough to apprehend an insubordinate angel. Or an incorporeal demon. 

Your eyes follow mine towards the oncoming angels, but you plant your feet into the ground and raise your chin mulishly, as if daring them to apprehend you. They mustn’t be able to see you yet, otherwise they’d be running rather than walking. But if you don’t leave before they arrive, you might never leave at all. 

“It was rather cramped, wasn’t it?” I say.

“Aziraphale,” you say, with a sudden trace of urgency. 

“You should go,” I murmur. “You hid for three years in the heart of the Kingdom. Tucking yourself away outside it ought to be a piece of cake. When you find a safe place, stay put.” 

Another wind blows through the park. Your silhouette ripples like a torn flag, and you wince. “Angel - you’re clever, I know you’ll come out of this mess without a scratch -” 

Don’t change the topic. “It won’t be my first internal investigation, dear boy. I’ll come out on top. And then I’ll find you when it’s over, no matter how long it takes.” I reach out to clasp your hands in mine. They feel as warm and as insubstantial as sunbeams at day’s end, and I smile with all the fondness that six thousand years of acquaintance can bring to muster. It is the only honesty that I can afford for you now.  

The promise lights up your face, erasing the lines the Kingdom etched, and I tell myself: this is how I’ll remember you. Then the wind blows, and you vanish into it like a sigh of relief. The sun dips beneath the horizon on the other side of the Thames, and the only proof that a demon ever beguiled the Kingdom is the ghostly warmth fading from my palms.

Sandalphon calls out to me from through the smoke. “Aziraphale! Are you all right?” Seconds later, he emerges from the hazy gloam accompanied by a full squad of celestial guards, equipped with ceramic body armour and full-face helmets and rifles tipped with wicked silver bayonets. 

At their head is Archangel Michael herself. Her crisp white suit is trimmed with gold braid, and medals shine like scales from her breast. “Principality Aziraphale, Archivist of the Kingdom - if you’ll come with us, please,” she says tersely.   

It’s not a question, but a verdict. A dozen celestial masons saw me drive a three-wheeled car bomb into the Third Temple, and now Carpenter is dead, the Plan is kaput, and Archangel Gabriel is - well - no longer an archangel, at the very least. My future likely entails an indefinite sentence of penal labour with no chance of parole. The trial will stretch on for years, and the account of my failings will capture the full attention of the Kingdom.  

But it’s an ordeal to which I’d gladly submit, if it gave you the slimmest chance of escaping Heaven’s grasp. I can proclaim that I take sole responsibility for the sins, destruction, and fraudulent paperwork committed by the Archivist. That I was of sound mind and memory the entire time. That nobody, and certainly not a demon, enticed me to indulge in such heresy.  

You’d have been pleased to know that I, too, can take a Fall. 

I straighten the lapels of your cream-coloured suit.

“Take me away,” says the Archivist. 

Chapter Text

Berlin, 1829.

“I didn’t expect to see you at the Singakademie today,” said Aziraphale. Apple-blossom petals fell from the trees lining the boulevard, pooling at the angel’s feet as he left the concert hall. “You’d made it abundantly clear that Bach was not your cup of tea...” 

“How was I supposed to know they’d stage church music outside a church?” said Crowley. His walking stick left dark smoking pits where it struck the cobbles. “I thought they were playing a Beethoven tribute. Now that was a proper composer.” 

“He’s dead?” said Aziraphale.

“Syphilis. The right way for those creative types to go.” 

“And is he - you know - one of yours now?” 

Crowley turned his thumb downwards at the ground between his feet. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Aziraphale exhaled heavily. “What I wouldn’t give for a world-class composer residency Upstairs. I truly thought we’d get Bach. He worked for a church, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Plagiarism investigation,” said Crowley. 

Aziraphale wilted. “Oh. Right. Might’ve copied the bells.”  

“Speaking of Bach, did you enjoy his oratorio today?” said Crowley, with the casualness of someone who certainly hadn’t spent the entire performance watching his viewing companion’s reactions instead of the musicians. “I mean, it wasn’t Beethoven’s ninth or anything, but you used to think Bach was the bleeding edge of music, with those show-off choirs and multiple melody-lines... ” The demon cut himself off. 

“It was a bit shorter than expected,” said Aziraphale. 

“Blessed Mendelssohn,” said Crowley, and he tightened his hands around his walking cane, as if trying to rip the decorative coiled-snake knob off the top. 

“But I understand why he had to abridge it! The original was three hours long; both the musicians and the audience have to work their way up to that sort of magnificence. They’ll be putting on an encore performance next week. I wonder if they’ll play the whole thing then -” 

“What? And bump the Schubert performance?” said Crowley. 

“This is unprecedented! People are talking about staging some of Bach’s other works... and not only in churches. They might end up teaching Bach to young musicians the same way they teach Handel and Scarletti...” The angel brightened. “I could start practising the pieces from the Well-Tempered Clavier again. Seems easy enough for the Mendelssohn children. Should be a jiffy for old hands like ours.” 

Crowley groaned. “Why not leave it to the pros?” 

Aziraphale stopped in the middle of the street, and turned all the way around to face the demon. Sunlight tangled in his hair and apple-blossom petals stuck to the lapels of his coat. “Don’t you believe in miracles, Crowley?” 

The demon’s hands twitched. He caught himself and stuffed them inside his coat pockets. “I’m contractually obligated not to.” 

“That’s all right,” said Aziraphale. “I wager that you’d pick up those preludes and fugues pretty quickly too, if you tried.” 

“Maybe when Hell freezes over and Heaven falls out of the sky, and the Nazarene has tea with the Antichrist together,” said Crowley. “Speaking of which -” he leaned close to the angel. “Any whiff about when the former’s going to happen?” 

“Not for another few centuries,” said Aziraphale. He hesitated, as if testing the words behind his teeth, and then said, “Do you still have your old fortepiano?”

“Who’s asking?” said Crowley warily. 

“The oratorio has given me the notion to tickle the ivories this afternoon.” The angel’s fingers danced across an invisible clavier.  “One ought to strike while the iron is hot.” 

Aziraphale’s whimsy would cost Crowley the better part of his monthly budget of devilish interventions to indulge. He’d probably have to listen to the angel butcher Baroque music again. Crowley would gain nothing from the frivolous and expensive exercise except a new appreciation for the harmonic achievements of modern musical composition. “What the Hell. On the condition that you never say tickle the ivories again,” said Crowley.  

The angel weighed the tradeoff in his head for longer than was sensibly necessary. “Deal.” 

Crowley snapped his fingers behind his back. With a thunderous crack, a stately row of townhouses split down the middle. Crowley’s old Leipzig manor squeezed up from a crack in the earth, shouldering the other houses rudely aside to settle between them. The stench of brimstone lingered briefly, before it was dissipated by a petal-strewn wind. Ivy sprouted from the manor’s stones, erasing the seams between the buildings until it seemed like Crowley’s house had always been there. Which, of course, it had. 

Crowley led Aziraphale to the music salon, just to the left of the grand double doors. The salon was not quite as bare as the last time it had seen visitors. There was still no furniture in the salon besides besides the piano and the musician’s bench, and no decoration beyond the leafy marble vines that crawled up stone columns to join the jungle fresco upon the ceiling, but Crowley had, at some point, added several unmatched tables with spindly legs that buckled beneath sheafs and sheafs of sheet music. The demon stood in the doorway, suddenly uncertain.  

“After you,” said Aziraphale. 

Crowley stared at the angel. “But you wanted to practice.” 

“And it’s your clavier,” said Aziraphale. There was nowhere to sit besides the piano bench, so he stood at the foot of the fortepiano and folded his hands behind his back. “I chose the études last time - or rather, Herr Bach did. So now it’s your turn to pick.” 

Crowley perched himself tentatively upon the piano bench, and began to leaf through the sheet music at the top of the nearest pile. There was a lot of Beethoven in there. Plenty of Schubert.  That sort of Sturm und Drang might be appropriate for a solitary winter’s evening, but it’d give away too much on a vernal afternoon.

He glanced at Aziraphale, he of the folded hands and the expectant gaze, radiating contentment and hope that Bach was about to be rediscovered by a new generation of musicians, and become firmly entrenched in Western repertoire. 

Well, Crowley hardly had any choice at all. 

The demon pulled out a sheaf of raggedy, yellowed papers from the middle of the pile. The edges crumbled as he spread them across the piano’s music rack. 

Then, very carefully, he began playing the opening strains of Bach’s Prelude and Fugue Number Ten in E-Minor. 

The first time he’d played it, he’d stretched the prelude into a mockery of melancholy, milking the mournful melody for all it was worth before getting bored halfway and launching the piece into a furious tempest that struck the fear of Pfalzgraf Crowley into Bach. The memory of the composer’s sprint from Crowley’s salon still brought a smirk to the corner of the demon’s mouth.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t trying to send Aziraphale fleeing from the salon, otherwise he would’ve just performed Berlioz. So this time, he tried to play the prelude lightly, like the minor-key melody was just a cloud passing briefly in front of the sun. When the piece accelerated into the presto half, he treated it like the patter of raindrops from a springtime rainstorm. Brief and tumultuous, but certainly not apocalyptic.   

Then followed the fugue. Crowley gritted his teeth and forced himself to play slowly, so that the right hand melody and the left hand melody would keep time with each other. He succeeded for the first dozen bars, until the melodies began to modulate. He lost track of the two voices, and to his embarrassment, the left-hand melody began to dominate the piece, while the right-hand melody grew fainter and lagged behind. In desperation to salvage the piece, he abandoned all pretence of meter and sprinted right for the end.  

So much for the Bach revival. Well, maybe Crowley could play this off as a joke - 

“I recall that Herr Bach suggested going slowly. And perhaps playing just one hand at a time,” said Aziraphale. He walked around the fortepiano to stand beside the bench. Crowley stared up at the angel dumbly, until Aziraphale coughed and motioned for the demon to shift over to the left side of the bench. “I’ll, er, play the treble part. You stick to the bass melody,” he said, and poised his hand over the keys. 

The angle was quite awkward: there was not much space between the treble and bass melodies. Crowley transposed his left hand an octave lower so he wouldn’t have to crank his wrist at a painful angle, but it still left his shoulder pressed tightly against the angel’s.  

“Slowly,” said Aziraphale. The angel seemed to have forgotten to breathe, but breathing wasn’t very high on Crowley’s list of priorities either. 

“Slowly,” agreed Crowley. Then, because Aziraphale seemed to have lost his nerve to tackle Bach’s Fugue in E-Minor, he said, “The right hand goes first, angel.” 

Aziraphale shot a briefly reproachful look at Crowley. Then laid his hand upon the keys, turned his face to the sheet music, and opened the fugue with an arpeggio at about half the speed that Bach intended.

Crowley didn’t really need to watch the angel’s hand dance deliberately over the clavier to know when to step in, but he did anyway. When Aziraphale finished playing the opening statement of the fugue’s subject, Crowley slid his left hand into the bass melody to answer Aziraphale’s theme. 

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open, even as his right hand glided smoothly into the countersubject. It was infinitely easier for Crowley to play one melody of the fugue than both, even when he had to keep tempo with Aziraphale. Sometimes their hands traded motifs in quick succession, countering each barb with a clever rebuttal. Other times, their individual melodies parted to meander into distant keys, though never for long. Only at one point did they stumble - Aziraphale fumbled a quick chromatic flourish, playing the wrong note and losing the tempo. But that just meant it was Crowley’s turn to keep the fugue going, until Aziraphale could slip back into the piece. They always returned to point and counterpoint, question and answer, an intricate dialogue that obviated white lies and half truths. Crowley realized to a faint and distant horror that he understood what Bach had been trying to teach him in that ill-fated clavier lesson a hundred years ago. 

The fugue ended too soon, with an unceremonious cadence, but even those unornamented notes seemed to hang in the air of Crowley’s salon long after they’d been played. Had they done the piece justice? Or did Aziraphale think he’d butchered Bach again? 

He turned carefully to Aziraphale, keeping his face perfectly neutral. Aziraphale met his stare with an equally neutral expression. 

And then Crowley began to laugh, just as the angel’s mouth split into a wide, joyful smile. Crowley had to cling to Aziraphale to stop himself from falling off the narrow piano bench. The angel was a poor support: his shoulders shook with unrestrained mirth. The notes of the fugue faded, but Crowley could still feel them thrumming beneath his skin, beneath the peals of laughter. And surely, if he pressed an ear to Aziraphale’s chest, he’d hear the fugue echoing between the beats of his heart. 

The impossibility of such a notion ought to have saddened Crowley and driven him to blow off steam by burgling a medium-sized monastery, but somehow it just sweetened the sight of the angel. There’d be a time for bitterness later - there always was, and Crowley had no doubt that his close association with Aziraphale was going to blow up in his face eventually. But right now, the salon still rang with the dying strains of the fugue they’d played, filling it from floor to frescoed ceiling, and there was no room for true despair to linger in Bach’s work. 

At last, Aziraphale wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. “You’ve been holding out on me, dear,” he said. 

“Eh. The piece wasn’t that hard,” said Crowley. 

“Because you do understand Bach,” said Aziraphale

“Not willingly,” said Crowley. 

“In fact, I wager that you’ve been an admirer all along,” said Aziraphale, and began to chortle anew, which just set Crowley off again too, and together their voices echoed through the salon in a fugue for two voices, finer than any that Bach or the bells of Heaven could ever hope to write.  

∽⧗∼ 

The remaining archangels release Aziraphale from the Tower in the springtime, while the hundred voices of the noontime bells sing a hundred songs all at once. Sandalphon leans against his Humvee, trying to pick out the individual melodies. He hasn’t heard this particular composition before - but then again, the bells have been showing off a brand new repertoire since their repair. 

He cracks his neck, stands, and sidles up to the other angel. “Howdy, Zira.” 

Aziraphale stands at the foot of the tower in his stiff cream suit and his shiny brown shoes, squinting silently at the sunlight. It is rather bright today, so Sandalphon returns to Aziraphale the sunglasses that he was lent last autumn. After a moment, the other angel slips them into his breast pocket. 

“It was bullshit that they kept you locked in the Tower all winter. We all saw Gabriel go off his gourd, burn a thousand Bibles, blow up the Third Temple, and then stab the Son.” Sandalphon slams his fist into his palm to emphasise each point. “Everyone there testified. Nobody had any doubt that you’d get acquitted. But Michael insisted on following all the formalities. You wouldn’t have even been locked up if we’d gotten to Gabriel in time.” 

That seems to surprise Aziraphale. “You’ve found him?” he says hoarsely. 

“Um. Any day now. Everyone’s looking for him,” says Sandalphon. 

“You’re not,” Aziraphale points out.

“My day vision’s not so great, and I had, er, a higher calling.” Sandalphon is bursting to elaborate, but that would spoil the surprise. “Well. You’re a hundred percent cleared now. Any plans for your first day back?” 

“Not really,” says Aziraphale. 

“Then let me take you back to your office,” says Sandalphon, and he pats his Humvee fondly on the bonnet.  

“It burned down,” says Aziraphale, but he acquiesces to clambering into the passenger seat. 

Sandalphon drives through the Kingdom slowly, so that he doesn’t hit one of the thousands of new workers they’d brought on to clean up the Kingdom. It’s a wonder Upstairs never hired the subcontractors before. They really knew their way around buckets and shovels, and more importantly, they freed up angels to search for Gabriel in the field. 

The search was slow going, since Gabriel knew all of Heaven’s tricks - after all, he’d co-authored the celestial handbook on surveillance, reconnaissance, and target acquisition. However, Sandalphon was sure they’d have a lucky break soon, especially since they’d learned how to best interrogate the humans outside the Kingdom. You couldn’t get actionable intelligence from a pillar of salt, but you could build a host of loyal informants by healing lepers and turning water into wine. Every other village had stories of a one-eyed angel with bloody wings who’d plead his innocence at sundown but vanish by dawn. The archangels had already begun planting field agents into every settlement they could find, in the hopes that they’d manage to intercept Gabriel.    

Halfway to the Archive, they pass the twisted ruins of the Third Temple, where weedy sprouts poke up from between half-melted metal beams. Its rebuild is on indefinite hiatus, on account of the Gabriel situation. Privately, Sandalphon wonders if there is any point in cleaning up at all, what with the loss of the Son throwing a wrench in the Plan. They are all sailing through uncharted territory now. 

The Humvee rumbled peacefully through the meandering cemetery paths like a great beast. Maybe an elephant. Sometimes, Sandalphon imagines himself astride the back of such an animal. One of the angels in pursuit of Gabriel had reported populations of those creatures in the south, with legs like tree trunks and ears like sails, and had deigned to draw Sandalphon a picture. Perhaps Muriel would like to ride an elephant with him. But first, they needed to finish - 

“Stop! Stop the car,” shouts Aziraphale, and Sandalphon nearly wraps the Humvee around a tree. “What - what is that -” 

“The Archive,” says Sandalphon. Perhaps the new fluted cinderblock columns aren’t quite plumb, and the pediment sags a little, and they haven’t figured out how to hang a door yet... 

Aziraphale notices none of the Archive’s architectural flaws as he disembarks and practically floats wide-eyed across its threshold. Sandalphon’s heart swells with pride. The new Archive is twice the size of its predecessor, and built around the Apocrypha at its centre. Angels are hard at work all around, grouting the tile floor, framing the roof, and painting a fresco of a scene from the Gospel of Dan upon the wall. A chorus number from Marvin’s Hour of Power blares from a slightly charred cassette deck. 

Muriel drops down a ladder, from where she had been carving delicate furrows down the cinderblock columns with her claws, and runs to the two of them. “Aziraphale, you’re finally out!” The sound of hammer-blows and grout-scraping suddenly stops, as the rest of the angels gawk at the returning Archivist. 

“Hello, Muriel,” says Aziraphale vaguely. He runs a hand gently over the wooden gate that shields the Apocrypha from view. The carven tree of knowledge is unburnt, though heat has darkened some of the shadows in the wood, including a spiral on the trunk that now looks eerily like a snake. Aziraphale pulls the gate open. The books within the sanctum are untouched by fire or smoke or Gabriel. Sandalphon did, however, take the liberty of putting Muriel’s ragged copy of The Da Vinci Code on the empty centre lectern. 

“Do you like it?” says Muriel. She twists a corner of Sandalphon’s fatigues nervously between her claws, slowly shredding it to threads. Her cheeks are as rosy as apple-blossoms, and Sandalphon’s stomach flutters strangely at the sight of her. 

“It’s very nice,” says Aziraphale. “But - how did - didn’t this burn down?” 

“I’d say it was a miracle,” says Sandalphon. “But it wasn’t logged on the Quartermaster’s ledger - completely untraceable.” Unrecorded miracles had been popping up like turnips all over the world, with a frequency that hadn’t been observed for two thousand years. Just the other day, Sandalphon saw a duck walking on water. He privately wonders if Gabriel had been skimming a few miracles off the top of the budget: had the archangel just abandoned his hoard in his hurry to escape the Kingdom, letting them ricochet madly around the world to bless whichever soul was in the right place at the right time? Had the Son’s second coming followed by his untimely second death opened up a new vein of faith amongst the humans? Or did it all somehow stem from his and Muriel’s close reading and subsequent proselytization of The Da Vinci Code, which kicked off the Gabriel incident in the first place? Whatever the reason, Sandalphon found that his weekly miracle allotment had actually increased, and he wasn’t going to complain about his good fortune.   

“And everyone else here? I thought you’d all been sent out to search for Gabriel,” says Aziraphale.

“The book club’s been pitching in on their breaks. We’ve got over a hundred members now!” says Sandalphon. 

That news leaves Aziraphale speechless as he beholds the Archive. Too bad the tape deck has picked up a stray radio signal and begun to play a wretched little piano ditty, spoiling the mood. Sandalphon smacks the music player in hopes of returning the broadcast to something more cheerful, but only succeeds in increasing the volume. The sudden noise startles a bald subcontractor - Sebastian, Sandalphon recalls - and he falls off the roof scaffolding, into a stack of insulating foam. “Damn radio,” says Sandalphon, and he thumps the machine again. 

But it’s Aziraphale who looks like he’s been thumped instead. “That’s a prelude,” he says. 

“Pray-what?” said Sandalphon.  

Sebastian scrambles out of the foam panels, face pale as milk. 

“And Herr Bach?” says Aziraphale.

“Herr Fell,” Sebastian says faintly. “I, ah, am afraid I’m not able to teach lessons to you or the Pfalzgraf at the moment -” 

“I thought you were still caught up in the plagiarism investigation,” says Aziraphale. 

“Oh. Nah, they brought him out of limbo to patch up and re-tune the celestial bells,” says Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale clasps Sebastian’s hands in a fervent handshake. “You wouldn’t believe what the world has made of your works, Herr Bach. Every musician knows your name. They raised thirty statues of you, and I’ve visited each and every one. And all the claviers are equal-tempered now!” Each strange piece of praise causes Sebastian to blanch ever whiter. 

Muriel touches Sebastian’s shoulder gently with her claws. “Sebastian, why don’t we get you a drink of water and check your corporation for damage?” 

“Yes, better take the rest of the day off,” says Sandalphon. 

“Thank you, Herr Sandalphon,” says Sebastian. 

Aziraphale reluctantly releases Sebastian’s hand, and the subcontractor sprints out of the Archive as if there was a demon on his heels. 

Muriel clicks her claws together pensively. “He must’ve hit the ground harder than we thought. I should make sure he gets to the infirmary, shouldn’t I?” 

It’s not really a question, but Sandalphon nods anyway. 

Muriel raises a hand, as if to wave goodbye, but the tips of her claws graze Sandalphon’s arm. An odd warmth rises to his face. His corporation seems to be having some temperature regulation issues - he’ll have to ask the Quartermaster to tune it up sometime. 

The radio ceases to play the horribly melancholic tune. Sandalphon hopes if it’ll deign to return to Marvin’s Hour of Power, but then a second song begins: an unadorned, amateurish dirge that sounds like it’s being played with only one hand. 

Aziraphale stares transfixed at the radio, fluttering the fingers of his right hand in the air in time. Sandalphon doesn’t understand - the song isn’t catchy at all. Not at all like When I’m Swept Up by the Rapture Grab the Wheel of My Pick-Up. 

“Hey, Zira, are you in there?” says Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale looks up, and Sandalphon nearly recoils. The other angel’s eyes are bright and fierce, as if a fire had been lit within them. “Listen, I need an assistant Archivist. Would you like the job?” 

“Me?” says Sandalphon. “Why?” 

“I have unfinished business abroad,” says Aziraphale. “But someone will need to watch over the Archive when I am gone, and there is no better angel for that job than you.” 

If there’s anyone who deserves to finish off Gabriel, it’s Aziraphale. But in no way does Sandalphon feel ready to step into the Archivist’s shoes. “No way. I’m no Archivist. I’m just a gate guard,” he protests. 

“You risked your life to share the Gospel of Dan Brown,” says Aziraphale. “I don’t think anyone else in this entire world would have done the same in your place. That alone makes you a better Archivist than I’d ever be.”

“But you were a great Archivist,” said Sandalphon. 

Aziraphale pulls his sunglasses from his breast pocket, and slides them upon his face. “I wasn’t. Oh, dear boy, I really wasn’t.” And he begins to laugh. 

A muffled scuffle interrupts the pathetic piano broadcast. A boy speaks: “That’s ‘nough of that rubbish, Joshua wants to talk ‘bout first aid again -”

And then the boy’s voice suddenly grew softer: “Do they not call out for help? I mean to bring them health and healing, and show them the way -” 

“‘S not like any o’ them’re goin’ to earn Scout badges for it,” said the boy in a much louder tone. “But at least your medicine’s better than your maths, Josh, seein’ as you an’ me are crammed together so you can try an’ prove two halves make more than a whole - ” 

And his voice dissolved into a long, cackling hiss of radio static, but Sandalphon could’ve sworn it sounded just like a snake.  

Chapter Text

Well, I got distracted by Real Life Things while I was writing this, but at last, I have finished. I hope you have enjoyed this story. 

Thank you to all of you who have commented. Every notification was a reminder to keep writing and not leave this incomplete. 

Inspiration

Aziraphale and Crowley (and by extension, Shadwell and Tracey) play such a minor role in the climax of Good Omens. The Them inspire Adam to embrace his humanity, and also defeat the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Anathema and Newt stop the nukes from going off. Crowley “takes care” of a jeep of soldiers, and Aziraphale shows up just to deliver a little bit of world-saving pedantry. But what if one of those pieces hadn’t fallen into place just in time? 

Thus the first of my two main sources of inspiration for this fic was Freedom’s Just Another Word For Nothing Left to Lose, the venerable SGA classic about grief. In fact, the plot of P&F was originally intended to hew much closer to Freedom. I meant for the survivor to lose himself completely in his role, standing both within and apart from the Kingdom forevermore, serving as a source of fascination (and perhaps corruption) to a few curious angels. 

However I couldn’t stomach writing a sad ending or a story where both Crowley and Aziraphale were actually dead. Alternatives like “faked his death” or “hiding in Australia” or “in prison” didn’t feel sufficiently meaty for the sort of moping I wanted, so I landed on possession as the method of hiding that one of them had actually survived. From there, I took a lot of inspiration from Harrow the Ninth, a trippy necromantic story in the second person... also about grief. 

“Accumulating stuff sentimentally” was chosen as the survivor’s coping mechanism because I thought it was a nice, twisted echo to Aziraphale’s canonical tendencies to acquire rare books. Also, I’m incredibly nostalgic about “stuff” and I find it difficult to let go of old things that don’t fit my current life, so this story was also a fun and low-stakes way for me to explore those feelings.  

Then, I thought the bell-book-candle trio from canon might be a fun idea for the denouement. But I didn’t really figure out the plot until I started trying to think of a pithy title for the story. I wanted something in the form of ___ in an angel/principality/etc to serve as a possession pun, and picked Prelude and Fugue while cleaning out my old music history notes. From there, the Bach connection grew and grew, and then took over the fic. 

And then I wrote a Bach songfic

I structured the story to model Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E minor, BWV 855, from Book 1 of The Well-Tempered Clavier (WTC). Bach wrote this set of preludes and fugues to show off the new tunings of (at the time) modern keyboards, which permitted pieces to be played in all keys without sounding “off.”  The Prelude and Fugue in E minor is particularly special because it’s the only piece in the WTC featuring a fugue in two voices. Two voices! You know where we’re going with this...

(Please forgive any errors below, it’s been years since I studied music history.)

Chapter 1 - Prelude: Recitativo

Chapter 2 - Prelude: Cantilena

Chapter 3 - Prelude: Ornamentation

Chapter 4 - Prelude: Transposition 

Anyway, the prelude starts off with a mournful little melody in the right hand playing over a rather sedate accompaniment in the left hand. The left-hand part is reminiscent of a recitative accompaniment that they play during the speech-like sections of an opera - a mildly repetitive bassline in unceasing sixteenth-notes, much like the Archivist’s initial work cleaning up the Kingdom. The right-hand part, however, is lyrical and cantilena-like in style, floating plaintively above the left-hand chords with abundant trills and other ornamentation, like Veggietale tapes and bootleg Bible misprints. Occasionally the piece also transposes itself into other keys, amongst them an Eastbourne charity shop and the Cliffs of Dover.  

Chapter 5 - Prelude: Presto

Chapter 6 - Prelude: Descent

Chapter 7 - Prelude: Convergence

Chapter 8 - Prelude: Cadence. 

Halfway through, the prelude picks up speed (presto, a rare tempo marking from Bach), at the same time that the Archivist’s search for apocrypha really takes off. The left hand accompaniment drags the right-hand’s formerly-lyrical melody down into a dark, obsessive frenzy, marked by binge-drinking and partial destruction of a perfectly good wooden door. The episode develops ominously as the left hand and the right hand play disturbing parallel octaves. Meanwhile, the Archivist increasingly loses track of time as his “occupant” rises to the surface with greater frequency. Ultimately, the left hand and the right hand parts converge and crash together in a cadence/television at the end of the prelude. 

Chapter 9 - Silence 

Typically, the prelude and the fugue are played back to back with only a second or two of pause in-between, at the performer’s discretion. I took the liberty of inserting a few scenes into this pause that I couldn’t fit anywhere else in the fic.  

Chapter 10 - Fugue: Enunciation of the theme in the tonic key

Chapter 11 - Fugue: Modulation through Oxfordshire

Chapter 12 - Fugue: Theme in the key of Jasmine Cottage

Chapter 13 - Fugue : Modulation through alternative therapies

Chapter 14 - Fugue: Theme in the key of the Witchfinder Army

Chapter 15 - Fugue : Modulation through first person

Chapter 16 - Fugue: Theme in the key of A.Z. Fell and Co. 

The Fugue in E-minor is a fugue in two voices. The fugue’s structure is very strict and regular: the main theme of the fugue is played in each hand sequentially, then both hands noodle around and modulate before playing the theme again - but in different keys! This is followed by more modulation, the theme again, and so on and so forth. There are exactly four episodes of modulation in the fugue following the initial enunciation of the fugue’s theme. 

I, ah, bent its structure to my needs by giving the treble statements of the theme all the present-day scenes addressing different characters’ ideas of a “cure” for the Archivist and the bass statements all the flashback scenes addressing Aziraphale’s Bach fanaticism. The “modulation” chapters all entail somewhat less productive stretches of travel, yoga, and traumatic flashbacks while the Archivist transposes his millieux.  

Chapter 17 - Fugue: Modulation en Unisono

I want to point out two unusual passages where both hands play the same keys (“en unisono”), separated by exactly two octaves. One occurs during the second modulatory episode (coinciding with Modulation through alternative therapies) and one occurs during the fourth (coinciding with Modulation en Unisono). Parallel passages like this are normally a big no-no in composition, because they sound “hollow” and are a bit lazy besides. Bach, being Bach, naturally knows how unusual these passages sound, and uses them to draw attention to the halfway point in the fugue and to the return to the tonic (“home”) key at the end of the fugue. 

I tried to do something similar by lining up those two passages with the sequence where Aziraphale and Crowley are both manipulating the same ouija board, and then again where Aziraphale and Crowley have both acquired a degree of separation but are wielding the same sword (though this happens more in the beginning of Chapter 17 than the end of Chapter 16 because I wanted to end 16 with a cliffhanger). 

Chapter 18 - Fugue: Recapitulation

The recapitulation is the final statement of the theme, always in the home key. In this fic, it also represents the answer to the overarching question of the Archivist’s cure (i.e. impromptu bell-book-candle).

Chapter 19 - Fugue: Coda

The coda is the “tail” of a piece of music that brings a piece to its conclusion, much like an epilogue. In the Fugue in E Minor, the Coda begins immediately after the final full statement of the theme in the treble. The bass begins to state the theme one last time, and I’ve lined it up with the explanation of why Aziraphale and Crowley both enjoyed Bach, despite the latter’s historic reticence (Also, one shouldn’t try to learn Bach fugues by playing it with another person like a duet. Just go slow, play each melodyline separately and in different combinations, and then ramp up with more voices and more speed.)

The bass’s final statement of the theme is not complete though, and segues directly into a bit of ornamental noodling in the treble. In the fic, this coincides with a transition from past to present via the peals of laughter/bells, followed by literal echoes of the Bach situation through the tape player. 

Anyway, I’m never ever ever writing another songfic based on a fugue. Trying to echo its structure in this much detail was very difficult. If I ever write classical music songfic again I don’t think I’d break it down passage by passage again. I think I’d just stick with, I don’t know, a rondo.  

Jesus: Omniscient? 

Okay, I had a lot of trouble with this one. Terry Pratchett is an atheist, Neil Gaiman has Jewish heritage with Scientology connections, and Good Omens is vaguely based on Christian theology. I went with the Christian view of Jesus for this fic because I didn’t want to touch Scientology, and because Judaism attributes little particular importance to Jesus. 

In Christian theology, Jesus is simultaneously both human and divine, technically omniscient yet occasionally surprised and uncertain in the text. I am not a particularly religious person so I don’t fully understand the nature of the hypostatic union, and it’d be weird to ring up my devout friends and be all “can you tell me about your Lord and Saviour so I can write a fanfic of a fanfic of your holy text?” 

I’ve chosen in this fic to portray Carpenter as omniscient (from divinity), yet having some serious emotional reactions and second thoughts about the Plan’s execution after seeing it up close (second thoughts are very human, right?). It’s like how we might already know how The Life of Brian goes, but that doesn’t mean it’s not funny or comforting to rewatch. Or how we might know that eating lettuce is healthy, but that halfway through a head of lettuce one might say “fuck it” and start eating emotional support ice cream instead because eating the head of lettuce left a bad taste in their mouth, and really, there’s nothing inherently evil about either lettuce or ice cream. 

Carpenter’s reluctance to take a more active hand in helping the Archivist thus serves two in-story purposes. Firstly, to get the Archivist to solve his problem by himself: if Carpenter waved his hand and solved the plot, our protagonists would not have developed the strength, persistence, and will required to survive and presumably reunite after the final chapter. Secondly, it created the opening that Carpenter needed to steer the Plan in a different direction. 

The Bach Revival

Bach, though incredibly famous nowadays, fell into relative obscurity after his death in the 18th century. However, his extended family and many students did their best to disseminate his work, including Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Johann Philipp Kirnberger. Kirnberger’s students included Bella Salomon, whose grandson was Felix Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn received a copy of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion from Bella for his fifteenth birthday, and subsequently performed it five years later in 1829. This performance was received warmly, and brought Bach’s music back to public attention. 

Do I like Bach? 

No, not really. I screwed up the Prelude and Fugue No. 5 in D Major (BMV 850, WTC1) in an exam due to misleading muscle memory once, and I also like a bit more emotional oomph in my music. 

Do I like The Da Vinci Code?

Yes, I read it when I was twelve and I unironically like it quite a bit.  

Will I write more Good Omens fic? 

Yep! I don’t plan to write a sequel to this fic (if I did it’d be called Sonatina Demonica) but I have some other ideas. The appeal of writing for the Good Omens fandom for me is getting to put our protagonists in all sorts of improbable historical situations and trying out different writing styles and ideas. On the list are fics set in the dark ages (first-person outsider narrator) or crusades (epistolary), but I’ll probably write the Babylon noir story first.