Chapter Text
Chapter One: The Ivory Tower
It wasn't a nice day at all.
Uriel, the angel, is tending to her racing snail, who had done so well speeding them along but had gotten so tired on the journey that they decided to stop and rest. Better to say the rest was for the snail’s fatigue, and not her own. Ligur the demon is beside her, grabbing branches for the fire, and a large bat is resting in the small tree beside him, already asleep.
“All I know is, one day I’m on my way to collect a demon in his flat, and next thing I know is, a bucket of Holy Water drops on my head.”
The chameleon on his head hissed.
“I’m sorry, yes, your head,” Ligur says to the chameleon. “And that should have been the end of us. But somehow I woke up here, in this strange land, and with this bat. And before I really could understand what was happening, the horizon started to crumble away into nothingness, almost like it had never existed. It was terrifying to witness. So I rode the bat as far as I could, until we were too exhausted to go further, and we stopped here for a rest.”
Uriel nods. “My story is much the same. The last thing I remember, I was arguing with Archangel Michael about who would be taking Supreme Archangel Gabriel’s place, and then there was a disturbance in Heaven –it was like pieces of the walls were falling away, and none of us understood why or what was happening. Then I found myself here, riding a snail.”
The chameleon chitters some more, and Ligur listens politely. “Me mate here, says she’s heard of this, and it’s called The Nothing.”
“Imaginative name,” Uriel reponds. “But this was worse than anything I have ever seen. And I have been here since the start of creation.”
“And I was there for that, the rebellion, and the fall,” Ligur says. “This was worse than those. Even worse than Purgatory. It was just, all gone, into nothing…” He pauses, reliving it.
“Maybe that is the only name for it,” Uriel says. “But do you think-“
Her question is interrupted by the sound of an avalanche, rocks crashing and falling into each other, and a large, red man the size of a small mountain with horns pulls up to their camp riding an equally large motorcycle.
His voice is smooth, and calm, with a power beneath like a dragon’s. “Do you mind if I rest here a moment with you at your camp?”
Ligur and Uriel look up at the monstrous creature and frantically nod, pretty confident that they would be powerless to say no.
“The Nothing you speak of also reached us in Hell. I was minding my own business, just chewing away on Judas, Cassius and Brutus, and suddenly it was like a vacuum started sucking away, everything, all nine circles, from Limbo all the way to Treachery. I could just see a swirl of molten rocks and sulphur, and all the lost souls inside, disappearing before my eyes. I tried to hold on to them, but they were gone. I got away as fast as I could, and decided to head to the Ivory Tower, to see if there was anything that could be done.”
He dismounts the motorcycle, as Uriel and Ligur scramble to make room for him in their small camp, lest they be squished. He sits down, looking dejected by the fire, staring down at his hands.
“They look like big, strong, hands, don’t they. I always thought that’s what they were. I tried to hold on to them all – every soul, all nine circles. But I failed.”
Ligur and Uriel stare dumbfounded at him, and before they can respond, they hear a rumbling in the distance again.
“I’m not even sure the Ivory Tower could help us now,” the monster says. “The Nothing will be here any minute. Maybe I’ll just sit here and let it take me away too.”
Ligur and Uriel exchange a glance, and hurry to break camp and wake the bat and the snail.
Satan continues to look at his hands. “They look like big, strong hands, don’t they.”
*
Aziraphale closes the book, slightly confused since the story he was reading seemed to have changed since the last time he read it. His books were doing that more and more these days. It could be a faulty memory, and who could blame him after 6,000 years, but his memory for stories was a source of pride, and he had managed to read and retain most of the stories mankind had cranked out over his long existence. But he seemed to have a new mystery on his hands, more perplexing than the Every Day music record that kept turning up at The Resurrectionist pub.
He examines the book he just closed more closely, surprised to see an image of two snakes entwined on the cover. He certainly didn’t remember that being there when he picked up the book a few hours ago.
He’s startled from his thoughts by the sound of a bell, and thinks he sees a kid browsing through his books. “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asks, trying to discourage the kid from browsing. “We don’t sell anything here you’d be interested in,” Aziraphale continues. “No electronics of any kind. There’s an arcade down the street.”
The kid is quiet for a while, and Aziraphale listens carefully, continuing to pretend to shelve books and pretend to ignore the would-be customer, and he hears the bell of the door again. Aziraphale lets out a sigh of relief, the kid must have gone. He didn’t even get a good look at what the kid looked like.
“The books here aren’t safe,” he says, examining the cover again of a book he’s read dozens of times. “They are changing. And who knows where that can lead.”
He leans in to look closer at the image of the two snakes, one black and one white, twisted together, each biting the other’s tail. His finger lightly traces the black snake, and his brow furrows. He reaches for his phone.
Within two minutes, he hears the familiar sound of the Bentley pulling up to the front of his shop.
*
“Books don’t just change, Angel,” the demon Crowley says, picking one up to make his point. “Once it’s printed, it’s stuck. That’s the point of a book, right? Captures that moment in time, unchanging.”
“Well said, my dear, and yes, while that’s generally the case with books – I keep picking up books here that have changed. And it has this curious image on the front. See?” Aziraphale hands Crowley the book he had been reading. “Do you recognize this?”
“Wot, because I’m a snake? That’s a leap. But no. It’s not any sigil I recognize.”
“I’ve seen this before, and think it’s a mark that means the story is changing inside. I’ve read a few of these this week – some several times in a day – and I’ve seen it change right before my eyes. Characters from one story crossing over into another. And sometimes it includes people we know. The book I was reading today had Ligur, Uriel and Satan in it. See?” Aziraphale flips through the book, trying to find the spot he was just reading.
“Well, Satan’s in a lot of books, and I’m sure those other names have been used before…” Crowley starts to say, dismissively, but doubt is already setting in.
Aziraphale keeps flipping. “It’s already changed again, I can’t find that section. They were on their way to the Ivory Tower…”
“So, a curse maybe?” Crowley suggests. ”That would explain the sigil. But it’s hard to imagine a demon or angel who would want to change stories in books already written. Seems like they could just write new stories.”
“Stories have power, Crowley. Even if the things aren’t true in this plane, maybe they are true somewhere?”
“That’s quite a leap, Angel.”
“We’ve already seen a lot of things that should be impossible, as possible. When I’m reading the stories, it really does feel like they are playing out, somewhere. It’s like they are taking on a new life of their own, far beyond what the original author wrote. Sometimes it even feels like my own thoughts are influencing the story as I’m reading it.”
“Well, out of complete curiosity, Angel, have you checked any of your Bibles to see if those are impacted?”
Aziraphale’s eyes go wide, and he quickly goes to check. He has quite a few in his collection, nearly all the editions, including an original Gutenberg. Crowley helps him look through them, checking the covers and flipping through the text to make sure.
“Thankfully, it looks like no,” he says. “Good thinking, to check.”
“Sure,” Crowley says. “Any other books you would be concerned about?”
A shadow passes over Aziraphale’s face. “Well, yes, actually, now that you mention it. Our book.”
“What book?” Crowley says, confused.
“The Good book.”
“We just checked all the good books.”
“Not that one,” Aziraphale says, trying to keep the panic out of his voice, as he searches in vain along one of the rows of books. “Oh bugger, I think that was one of the ones Jim re-shelved for me.”
“What book, Angel?”
“It was a nice day,” he replied.
“Wot?”
“That’s the first line, Jim was organizing the shelves by the first line, it must be under, I, right over here…” Aziraphale finds the row, stops in horror at a shelf near the front of the bookshop. “No!”
“No?”
“There’s a gap, where the book used to be, right here. I don’t have any gaps in my bookshelves.”
Crowley chuckles. “You can say that right. And usually books stacked on top of those books for good measure.”
“Someone took the book. It must have been the kid who came into my shop earlier – oh no. No.”
“What’s wrong, Angel? What’s so special about this book?”
Aziraphale’s eyes widen. He feels like he’s about to be sick. “Well, you see, it’s our book, Crowley.”
“What do you mean, our book? We don’t have a book!”
“But you see, we do. And it’s all my fault.”
“Explain,” Crowley states, his brow already furrowing above his sunglasses.
Aziraphale swallows hard, and doesn’t want to admit the next part out loud to Crowley. “Back in the 90’s, I might have done some heavenly inspiration of our tale, with two British writers with different writing styles, one optimistic, one more bleak, and thought that would be a fun way to tell our story of saving the world. No one knew all the hard work we put in, and I thought it would be nice if it was written down somewhere, for others to appreciate. Maybe one that could be turned into a movie someday, with two fetching actors to play ourselves."
"Oh now that's a stretch,” Crowley says with a laugh. ”There's nothing story worthy about us, Angel. What, dining at the Ritz and talking about nothing for eons? While nothing we do ever really changes anything, for these poor sods we are supposed to tempt or look after? We even nearly mangled the apocalypse - Adam only stayed Adam since we weren't there to interfere with him growing up. You can't make us into heroes of any story. We're just regular ethereal blokes who like to get drunk together and bicker about nothing."
“Well, be that as it may, it was written, and published.”
“What? Let me see.”
“It’s not there, Crowley, that’s the problem. Someone took it.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it. And you don’t really like to read. I figured if the movie ever came out I’d say something.”
Crowley paces, trying to work through the words Aziraphale is telling him, trying not to be mad as this isn’t the first time Aziraphale omitted telling him something important. “Ok, so there is a book somewhere that told our story, that we are characters in. And there’s a curse on your bookshop making the stories real, and change, when someone reads them. And now someone else has that book. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
“Yes, that’s as near as I can figure it.”
“Do you think we’re in any danger?” Crowley asks.
“Well, hard to say.”
Not one to wait, Crowley suddenly says, “Well, let’s just have a look outside, shall we? See if anything’s different?” He struts to the front of the bookshop and swings the door open with a flourish. Crowley and Aziraphale peer out.
The street noises have stopped, there are no cars or people walking by. It’s desolate, and also looks unlike any part of London. It’s not a busy street anymore, and there is no Bentley, it’s dirt for miles around, with a glowing tower in the distance.
They exchange a look, and quietly, carefully, close the door.
“Well, it looks like, we’re already in the story,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t help but smile as he does.
“What in Heaven are you grinning for?” Crowley’s eyebrows arch somehow even higher than before.
“I can’t help it, I’m so sorry Crowley. I’ve spent my life reading adventure books, and the thought of being inside one is a little thrilling.”
Crowley starts pacing again. "This is nothing to get excited about! Horrible things happen to the people in stories. That's story writing 101, right? Introduce perfectly nice chaps, let awful things happen to them. The story only gets happy when it's over. Harry Potter starts out with his parents murdered and he’s living under the stairs at his aunt's house and it only gets worse for him from there, and it only stops when he's completely destroyed. Same for that Frodo fella - he gets handed a ring and the most terrible things happen to him, and even when it's over he's too far gone to ever enjoy his regular life again.” Crowley stops, and looks hard at him. “We love reading stories only because it's not us it's happening to. No one, absolutely no one, wants to be in the story."
"We don't have a choice. We have to start this journey. We have to get the book back - we need to be the ones in control of the story, not someone else. Can you imagine what would happen if the whole of creation could invent new stories for us? Tell us what to do? It would be horrid! We'd barely recognize ourselves!"
Crowley, who has a bit of an imagination, and also has spent ample time on the internet, shrugs. "Oh, it's probably not all bad. Some of it could be fun. Try some new things."
"Crowley! I’m serious!”
Crowley sighs. “Yes, Angel, I see your point. We need to get back to our storyline. And my Bentley. And back to whatever semblance of control we have over our own stories.” He looks hard at Aziraphale. “But are you sure you’re ready to leave the bookshop? We don’t know what’s out there.”
“I’ll take at least this book with me,” he says, carrying the title he had been reading, with the two snakes forming an infinity circle on the front. “Maybe it will help. And I have a bag with a few useful things in it.” He looks hard back at Crowley. “But are you sure you want to join? You are right about stories, you know. Things could get very bad, indeed.”
“Well, there’s nothing thrilling on the tele anyway today. Might as well,” Crowley tries to say impassively, but Aziraphale can feel his true meaning.
“Thank you,” he says, relieved, unsure if he’d be as willing if he had to go it alone.
“’Course,” he says, and holds the door open. “After you.”
*
As soon as they step outside, the bookshop disappears. There is little else around them.
“Well, d’ya suppose in this story, we’re supposed to go to the bloody tower?” Crowley almost shouts. “It’s the only thing around for miles. Are all story markers this obvious, y’think?”
“Yes, I suppose we must. In fact that’s where the characters in the book were heading, before the Nothing overcame them.”
“The wot?”
“The Nothing. It’s overtaking the land, sucking people right out of existence. The characters were trying to outrun it when I put the book down last.”
“Huh. I wonder if that’s something you might have mentioned, before we left the safety of the bookshop?” Crowley asks, his voice a few octaves higher.
Aziraphale sighs. “Who’s to say the bookshop was safe? We weren’t safe before, just oblivious.”
“Oblivious, I happen to like. If you can’t stop the danger from happening, much better to not know a thing about it, amiright?”
“Or see what we can do to stop it,” Aziraphale says, a tad worried on Crowley’s pessimism. It had been a long few thousand years of similar arguments, with Crowley usually ready to run away while Aziraphale frets about trying to stop something bad from happening. After having time to reflect, (and re-read their own story), he wasn’t sure either was the right approach, but it had all worked out in the end anyway.
“Right,” Crowley says. “Well, no Bentley, and that tower is miles away. Let’s see if these work here,” he says, and with a shrug calls forth his large, sleek, black wings.
“Good thinking,” Aziraphale says, and follows suit with his own feathered white ones. It feels nice to stretch them out.
“This part should be fun, at least. It’s been ages since we’ve gone flying,” Crowley says with a smile, buttoning up his jacket and securing his accessories.
“Agreed,” he says, returning the smile. “Just keep an eye out for a storm and we should be safe.”
With that they ascend, wings wide, and start for the tower. Aziraphale is wishing he’d brought along glasses like Crowley – or at least a more suitable hat and scarf, and since he was in a new land he couldn't miracle his apparel closer. It had been ages since he flew and he forgot how useful those were to have along. As it was, it was already challenging keeping his bag to his side as they soared over the barren land. And Crowley was hard to keep up with – flying fast like he liked to drive the Bentley. At least the large black wings are easy for him to follow, and their objective equally clear as the tower glows in the distance, getting steadily larger as they approach.
Aziraphale keeps an eye on their surroundings. There really is almost nothing to see, aside from the tower, so Crowley was right in his thinking that this was the obvious choice. And at least there were no storm clouds approaching.
Before long, he can see the inner courtyard of the tower, and it really is stunning, almost made from a glittering, crystal marble, that nearly burns his eyes the closer they get. Again, Aziraphale wishes he was clever enough to bring sunglasses like Crowley. Inside the courtyard are people and creatures of various kinds, shapes, and sizes, many the like of which of which he’s never seen before, but who all seem terrified and like they have traveled a great distance to seek the safety of the tower.
“Well, we’re here,” Crowley says, lightly landing on his feet. Aziraphale lands slightly less gracefully but recovers well. “Should we try the front door, d’ya think?”
“Seems as good as any,” he responds, and holds it open. “After you.”
They stride inside, absolutely unsure of what they are doing but trying to pretend as though they do (honestly no different from how they spend many of their days at home). Inside are more people staring at them. At the center, a zebra centaur with a long white beard calls out to them.
“You are not who we were expecting,” the centaur says. “But approach.”
Aziraphale and Crowley politely put their wings away to pass through the crowd. They step down the stairs to reach the center of the Ivory Tower, as all eyes stare at them. Aziraphale marvels at the architecture and design of the building, glittering even more than anything he’s seen in Heaven.
“Tell me your names,” the centaur says.
“I’m Aziraphale, and this is Crowley. Our story went missing, you see, and after we left home, our home was gone. We came here to try to retrieve our story, and get our lives back.”
“I am Cairon, the herald of the Childlike Empress. So, Aziraphale and Crowley. Are you the heroes we have been waiting for?”
“I’m not sure you could say that exactly,” Crowley says. “We’re just two blokes who happened to show up.”
“That’s often how a hero’s journey starts,” He looks down at Aziraphale’s arm, clutching the book. “And I see you have in your possession, the AURYN.”
At that name, there was a gasp among the people in the tower, and whispering.
“Oh, this?” Aziraphale says, and holds the book aloft. “It was in my bookshop, changing the stories inside many of my books.”
“This mark proves you are the heroes we seek. Our Childlike Empress is dying,” he says, and there is another gasp among the people. “And with her, our entire world is fading before our eyes. You two are our last hope, to restore our empress, our lands, and our people.”
“No pressure, eh?” Crowley says.
“I can tell you come from a land beyond,” Cairon says, “but it seems your fate is entwined with ours. If you can save us, I’m sure you will secure your own story and your home from the Nothing as well.”
“Yes, well, how would you suggest we go about doing that?” Aziraphale asks.
“You will seek the wisdom of the Ancient One, who lives beyond the canyon that divides our border.” He points, and Aziraphale looks out the window, seeing the canyon in the distance, another fairly obvious marker to denote their next destination.
At least, in this fairly vast and open land, it didn’t seem all that hard to get lost.
“Yes, well, how will we know the Ancient One when we get there?”
“You’ll know,” Cairon answers, mysteriously.
“Alright, let’s get to it then, shall we?” Crowley said, stretching slightly for a second flight.
“Keep the AURYN close,” Cairon says. “It will be your guide.”
“Right. Angel, are you ready?”
Aziraphale nods. He briefly thinks about asking about to borrow some glasses, and maybe a scarf and hat, but looking around, notices that everyone in the room is nearly desolate, carrying the very last of their possessions from their long journeys, and doesn’t have the heart to ask.
“Yes. We will do what we can,” he says, in what he hopes is a reassuring voice. The people watch them as they exit, barely daring to hope that they can be saved.
Crowley and Aziraphale ascend the stairs together and step outside the door, releasing their wings once again.
“You seem chipper,” Aziraphale notices.
“Well, maybe,” Crowley answers. “It’s just, we’ve been through a lot together over thousands of years, and already saved the world at least once. I just figure, how bad can it really get?”
“That’s true,” Aziraphale says, this time wishing he could share Crowley’s enthusiasm.
The two take again to the sky, heading to the canyon and the Swamps of Sadness just beyond.
