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(September 2023)
A shadow stalks through the housing development.
The eastern sky has only just begun to pale toward sunrise; stars still blaze overhead, and the shadow is only a mote of deeper darkness in the spaces between street lamps. When it passes through those patches of orange glare, it looks rather like a man.
But no mere man could leave nightmares in his wake.
Street by street, humans still lying in bed shudder and turn, their faces contorting with fear and horror and hurt. Limbs flail, striking companions or walls or stuffed toys. Sweat springs up on foreheads; tears slip out from beneath closed eyelids. One woman, already restless and awake, feels as though she has been plunged into chilly water, viscous with algae and rot. Uneasy, she twitches aside the curtain for a glimpse of the quiet, comforting street—and catches sight of a man-shaped shadow on the pavement, just passing behind the shrubbery on the little strip of garden by the neighbors’ steps. She blanches, jerks the curtain closed, and sits in her bathtub with a cricket bat for several hours.
The shadow senses her, but ignores her. He has a purpose here, and the humans are not part of it.
Near the center of this sprawling snarl of nearly-identical houses is a small knot of trees. There is a fence around it, old, iron, strong. The fence has no gate. The humans have never taken note of this—no one goes into the trees, nor has ever made the attempt, not even the packs of bored children who will amble or scamper or ride their bicycles right beneath the branches that stretch out over the fence, disregarding entirely the intriguing shadows, the half-glimpsed patches of sun deep within.
It is almost as though the place is charmed. Protected from intrusion by some force both great enough to accomplish this purpose and subtle enough to go unnoticed.
The shadow notices.
It walks without stopping, worming its way slowly but implacably toward this dark and secret heart, and when it reaches the iron fence it does not stop, but passes straight through without hindrance.
The trees feel old. Not in a sense of great age, but rather in the sense of something preserved—sealed away, cordoned off. As the animals killed in the sudden violence of the eruption of Mount St Helens left, beneath their charred bodies, perfectly-shaped patches of untouched grass, green and vital, so has this small plot of woodland remained shielded from the development and corruption of the greater world that has grown and reached and swallowed the countryside. It lies beneath a blanket of conservancy that has guarded it for centuries.
And when the shadow passes through the deep shade beneath the trees and into the clearing at their center…it feels just the same.
Which, of course, only makes it worse. Because this time, everything is different.
No stupid tartan blanket spread with a flourish over the grass.
No neatly-packed hamper emanating lovely smells.
No gentle chime of glassware.
No happy conversation. No eloquent tributes. No recounting of the same old stories that somehow never lose their flavor. No sitting close enough that their knees would almost touch. No cheeks flushed by the champagne, no silly little giggles, no fingers to touch his sleeve as they laugh together.
No sweet face turned upward to feel the sun, as precious and lovely and heartbreaking every year as it had been at the first.
He tosses the bottle, half hoping that it will break, but of course it doesn’t. The moss cushions it with a thunk and it rolls a few feet.
He walks around the meadow…remembering the creak of leather, arms that held him safe, a comforting presence close behind him, a voice murmuring over his shoulder.
I’m not going to let anything happen to you.
He can almost hear it, as though the leaves and bark and moss and stones had absorbed the sound waves and now project them back at him.
Let me help you— standing beside the big gray horse, smiling, beckoning.
Let me help you— standing in the shivering mist, ankle-deep in mud.
It’s all right to be afraid / this is grief
You don’t have to run / don’t run from it
Feel it.
He does.
The sky has bloomed to the before-dawn brightness that is not really any color at all: a blank sheet waiting to be painted upon.
He has never been here alone before. The only time that he had come to this place on his own, an angel had followed him. Spoken his name so gently. Climbed down into the mud—
He stops, not far from an oak tree. The ground below its stately spread of branches has been utterly swamped by a riot of chrysanthemum and stonecrop and salvia, and in the past year these have overrun their nebulous borders—as they have done annually for two hundred twenty-four summers running. Normally there would have been a little trowel and a hoe and silly patterned gardening gloves and they would chat as they cut the flowers back. Now there is only him, and he has forgotten the tools, and he crawls over the grass and the moss, ripping and tearing and tossing, muttering occasional apologies.
His hands hurt. He doesn’t care.
(No.
You have to wear gloves, you’ll get blisters! Come now, we used to wear gloves all the time.
Not those gloves.
Well, I’m sorry that gardening gloves don’t come in black, with satin edging. Honestly, who’s going to see? It’s only me here, and look, I have my own set. See, not so bad at all! Just put them on. Please?)
He sits, trying not to notice how sloppy the job looks, hoping that the effort alone will be meaningful enough. Draws up his knees close to his chest, wrapping his arms around. Sits very still for a long time.
The housing development comes to life all around the little wood, but he cannot hear it. He imagines empty fields, remembers the thunder of hooves.
(Look at those idiots.
At least they’re getting clean. …Sort of.
Cavorting in a stream does not count as a bath. And now we’ll have to oil down all the tack, d’you know how long that takes?
I do, actually. But we can’t ask them to stop—look how sweet they are together. …Lilith, don’t splash your brother!
She’s such a monster, dunno how he puts up with her.
He loves her.
Why, though? All she does is torment him.
Love manifests in different ways. Sometimes it’s gentle and steady, sometimes it’s silly and teasing. And sometimes it’s something else altogether. People don’t have to express their love in the exact same way for it to be obvious to both of them.
People?
People—creatures. You know what I mean.)
He shivers.
“Sorry,” he says at last, without lifting his head. “I know he’s supposed to be here. He…couldn’t come. Busy. And. Well. I should probably say that it doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. But I’m not really sure about that anymore. So I can’t say it. But…I’m here. Not quite the same. I know. But.”
He fumbles off to one side until his fingers brush the bottle, and rolls it into his grip. Forgot the corkscrew, damn it all. Miracles it open. Sighs.
“Not good at this shit. Not as fun to tell the stories, either, when it’s just me. No point. You know it all. I mean, so did he, but he didn’t mind. Neither did I. Felt nice. No one else got it, you know? No one else knew how it felt. Humans mourn for a little while and then it’s over and they have bigger things to worry about. But he and I. Well. Just keeps going, doesn’t it? It doesn’t ever go away. Just kind of fades for a while, but it always comes back. He was right about that. About a lot of things, which is bloody annoying.
“Said I hated him. But I didn’t. Not at all. I… opposite-of-hated him. Told him to leave, but I didn’t mean it. And he knew. Somehow, he knew, and he stayed. Said there was nothing to forgive.
“And now… Now I want to hate him. I really, really do. I wish I could. Would be easier. But I don’t. Not at all. I…opposite-of-hate him. Still. Always. And I wish he were here. This time I asked him to stay, but he left. And he. He. Forgave me. Which means I…”
His shoulders creep upward and his voice trails off. The bottle dangles from one of his hands, open, its contents untouched.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “Fuck. This is supposed to be about you, not me. Not…anyone else. But…
“No, you know what? Sod it. Y’know what he always said, every bloody year? ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. And now I’ve done those things. Twice. And I can safely say that mister Alfred Lord Bloody Tennyson is full of shit. Coming out his ears, even. If I’d never…done that… then I wouldn’t be here, alone, trying not to cry over a stupid angel who left me. He left me. I fucking begged and you left anyway. These trees used to be full of nightingales, don’t you remember, and now there aren’t any at all. Not one. Because they know.
“They know you left. And they know you’re never coming back. And they know that I’ll be here all alone every bloody year until the world ends in fire and flame, because…because the pain doesn’t stop, but neither does the rest of it. It goes on. You once said that grief is just love with nowhere to go. Why did you have to be right. Why did you…you said you wouldn’t…you said there was nothing to…to…”
He puts down the bottle so that he can drape both arms over his head.
“Why? Why is loss always part of it? Why can’t love ever just stay? I… I must be doing it wrong.
“Didn’t feel wrong, though.
“I guess what I want to say is…I remember you. All of it. It doesn’t go away. Ever. When I close my eyes, I can see you. Hear you. Feel you. Smell you, even. You’re still here. You’re still here, because…because you’re in my heart.
“You’re in my heart.”
(You are VERY drunk.
Not s’drunk as you, and not drunk enough. Get—get another of that one, eh, the blackberry. Lilith LOVED blackberries, she’d always bloody well gorge on the things when we found ‘em. LILITH!
Lil—no, wait. No more. You can’t even stand.
But I still FEEL. Need more. Gotta…stop it. Stop it right up. Cork in the bottle. Bloop!
Bloop?
Yesh. Like a cork.
And you’re the bottle?
‘M always the bottle.
C’mon. Demon, bottle, whatever you are.
Where.
Bed.
Don’t want to bed.
Too bad. It’s—oop!
See, YOU can’t stand either.
You could at least help me—ow—OW!
Sorry, was that your arm?
Was. Yes. You’ve squashed it, loo—OOF
Oh. Hello.
Yes, hello. Comfortable?
Actually yeah. You’re soft.
Soft.
Like a pillow. See?
Don’t you d—
HOLY HELL, ANGEL.
Get OFF.
You sounded like a rabid monkey!
I am TICKLISH. Apparently. Will you get OFF of me?
No. S’nice. Sleep right heeeeere…
We are in th’floor of a pub, Crowley, and humans are staring.
Pillow.
My stomach is not a pillow.
Beg t’differ. OW. Floor.
Come on. Up.
No.
Well I’m going to bed.
But I. I haven’t. Bed. None.
Where have you been sleeping?
Stable. With—
…I see. ‘S all right. Come on.
Where?
Bed.
No bed.
Plenty of bed. Don’t PINCH, here, hold my arm.
Where’s plenty bed?
Just up the street.
Hey.
What?
You didn’t leave.
Well I wasn’t going to leave you on the floor.
No. I mean. Today. I said leave. You didn’t.
Oh. No.
Why? I was AWFUL. I said…AWFUL things.
I knew you didn’t mean it.
How’d you know?
‘Cause I know YOU.
You’re so stupid. Just a big, stupid idiot.
Yes, I know. Big stupid idiot me.
Nooooooo!
What?
No, I can say it, but YOU can’t.
Tha’s very unfair.
Yep. Too bad.
Oh dear. Steps.
That is many steps.
Together. Left first. One, two, LEFT—Crowley, that’s your right!
Right what?
Forget it. Just, up. So very up.
Are we up yet?
We’ve done two steps.
Bloodydamnfucking—
All right, here. Finally. NO, get away from the bed!
You said bed! And look, plenty!
You’re still covered in mud!
Not even mud anymore. All dry. Dirt. See?
No dirt in the bed. Now go over there. I have to change.
Just miracle it.
No, I have this lovely night-dress, see?
DON’T TOUCH IT.
What, why?
Dirt.
Oh, bother. Wash up. You too, here.
DO NOT SPLASH—
Oops.
Oops THIS.
Well. Now it’s mud again.
Clean hands, though. You change. Me too, see?
…That is a blatant copy of my night-dress.
I like it.
Yes, so do I, that’s why I BOUGHT it. Now look over there.
Boring over there.
I don’t care, just do it.
Hmph.
There. Scoot over, that half’s yours.
Do all angel bodies come with little marks behind the shoulder?
I told you not to look!
You said look over there. ‘S boring over there. So I stopped. What’s the little mark, then?
It’s just a freckle. Now go to sleep.
Don’t want to sleep. Wake up sober.
Getting drunk is fine. Staying drunk is not. We’re going to plant flowers tomorrow, remember?
Nice ones.
The nicest.
Angel?
Hm?
Why?
Why—what?
Why, anything. Just. Why.
…I don’t know.
That’s scary.
Yes.
Don’t go.
I’m not going anywhere. ‘Cept to sleep.
I know I said. But. Don’t.
I’m right here. Right here, Crowley. Close your eyes. Everything’s fine. Well, maybe not right this moment, but it will be. You’re safe. Go to sleep. I’m here.)
He wakes with a gasp, and spits out moss as he slowly rises up on his arms. It’s mid-afternoon now, bright and golden, painfully cheerful. The bottle sits upright near him, and beyond it is the flowerbed with its…
…neatly-trimmed edges.
The cuttings—along with what he had ripped and tossed—have been piled off to one side.
He stares for a long time, battling against the hot shivery feeling in his chest.
“…………Angel?”
Nothing. Not a stirring of a breeze, not a single footprint in the dry springy grass.
But the bottle is not quite full. Crowley lifts it with fingers that feel numb and looks at it for several moments.
“Lilith,” he whispers. Takes a swallow.
And, “Marshmallow.” Another swig.
And finally, very softly, “…Aziraphale.”
And he pours out the rest of the bottle over the ground.
When the shadow has departed and has been gone for some time, another figure steps out from behind the oak. His feet pass through the nodding flowers without crumpling or disturbing them at all. He picks up the discarded bottle and cradles it against his chest.
“Crowley,” he whispers, and drinks the final half-inch. His lips linger over the mouth of the bottle for a long moment.