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Chapter Text

It had been a pleasant 12 years spent in Normandy. Not much attention from either of their head offices, for one thing. Aziraphale’s cover story about trying to foment peace from the other side had miraculously been rather convincing. Even Gabriel, the oblivious great lug, could see that the original plan of staying in Wessex and trying to influence a feuding earl hadn’t panned out so far.

And in a surprising turn of events, Michael had even interceded on behalf of the new scheme. “The Normans are a pious people, Gabriel,” she had remarked, and sniffed haughtily. “Heaven’s ambassador would do well to concentrate his efforts somewhere that the words of an angel may actually be heeded.”

Aziraphale had been terribly confused as to why Michael was taking his side… until he arrived in Normandy and discovered the sheer number of churches and locales bearing the name Saint-Michel. Crowley had had a good laugh about that one. Well, Michael had always been sharper than Gabriel. More astute when it came to human politics. Aziraphale wasn’t about to look this gift horse in the mouth, not when it was actually benefiting him for once. What, you think they don’t wear shoes in Shua?

(Although, of course, it was always prudent to devote special attention to any gift horse whenever Crowley was involved in the gifting thereof. Had Crowley been privy to this train of thought, he would have reminded Aziraphale of a certain Anatolian city some two thousand years earlier whose residents really should have examined their gift horse a bit more thoroughly. Aziraphale was of course aware of this incident but would remain mercifully ignorant of Crowley’s role in it for another several hundred years following the events of this story.)

So, Heaven was on board, and Hell… well, sloth was a sin that was practiced with great enthusiasm in Hell, and Crowley was still in their not-so-bad books following his recent Viking-related commendations. As long as he was seen to be doing something now and again, infernal upper management – or was it lower management? – seemed satisfied enough. And so it was that a certain angel ingratiated himself into the duke’s court, a certain demon took up lodgings in a fashionable neighborhood (a plausibly deniable distance away from the castle, of course), and they both had altogether a rather nice time in France, sharing good food and good drink and something that looked almost like friendship.

And if, when all was said and done, when you added up all the indolent afternoons of preserved pears on bread and the scent of lilies from the duke’s garden on a light breeze; all the days that bled like red wine into months and years; all the Sunday mornings of ducking clandestinely into deserted alleyways, with Crowley accompanying on the lute as Aziraphale read aloud poetry in the language of –

Well – if you tilted your head and squinted a bit, it may have looked, just a little, like something other than friendship.

Alas: nothing lasts forever.

Least of all, human beings. They have a very irritating tendency to die.

And so it was that an angel and demon caught word of the death of the terribly tedious king of England and knew that the days of this peaceful existence of theirs were numbered.

It was a nice day, early in the summer, and it was one of the town’s nicer taverns, too. Crowley was already seated on a low bench out front and looking as nonchalant as always when Aziraphale arrived, casting about furtively as though the lilies in the herber across the way might be spying on him.

As was their habit, they used the local language to speak to each other just as they would to humans. “Crowley,” Aziraphale hissed. “We need to talk.”

“Good morning, my angel,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale smiled in spite of himself. Even after 12 years spent in Falaise with Crowley, hearing that phrase every day, there was still something thrilling about it. Bon matin, mon ange. The humans had done a very clever thing, he felt, when they had invented French. It really was – He cleared his throat and shook his head slightly.

“Well, you’re in a right mood,” Crowley said with a touch more irritation. “I could sense your petulant aura from a mile off. What’s got you in a state, then?”

Aziraphale glanced nervously to the side once more before lowering his head and whispering. “I received not one, but two of the oddest missives this morning. One of which was from Michael, of all people.” He thought about this for a moment. “Well. Not people. But you grasp my meaning.”

(He rendered the name as Michel, of course. It seemed wholly unnecessary to use Michelle instead. After all, Michael wasn’t “people.”)

“Hmm. Something to do with the death of your king back in Anglia?”

He wasn’t my king, thought Aziraphale. Not the same way – Out loud he replied, simply, “Not my king,” with a withering look. “I’m no more an Englishman than a Frenchman. Rather less so, in fact, at the moment. But yes,” he added, sighing, “I suspect that is related.”

A roll of the eyes from Crowley. “Out with it, then.”

“Tsk,” said Aziraphale, and drew a letter out from within his cloak.

It really was an odd letter. For one thing, it was written on human paper and had been wax-sealed, stamped with an insignia of angel wings. The name “M. Faille” was written on the other side, in black human ink. Aziraphale hoped vaguely that it might make more sense his second time reading it. Not that he couldn’t comprehend the words, of course, angels could speak flawlessly all the languages of the world; no, it was the letter's contents that were perplexing.

M. Faille,

N’immisce-toi dans mes affaires. Rentre immédiatement au Paradis.

Amen,

Below that, inscribed not in ink but in a thin golden thread of light that seemed to shine through the material of the paper itself, was a complicated sigil that any angel would instantly recognize as Michael’s. And then, rather unnecessarily, Michel.

Crowley frowned down at the paper. “‘Don’t meddle in my affairs?’ What the Heaven does that mean?”

“I’ve no idea. I had rather hoped you might have.”

“Not a clue, my angel.”

Something else occurred to Aziraphale then. “Monsieur Faille,” he murmured. Faille, a flaw or failure. A cruel pun on the human name he sometimes used when he wanted to blend in. Well, she wasn’t wrong, he supposed. He knew the way much of the Heavenly Host regarded him for having gone native, as it were. The fact of the name itself: evidence of his inadequacy as an angel.

Crowley scowled. “Michael’s an absolute wanker.” His gaze was unusually dark. The insult, branleuse, sounded more vulgar in French somehow. Then, abruptly: “Well, we knew that already. You said there were two letters?”

“Ah, yes.” Aziraphale pulled out the second message, which had been delivered in a much more familiar format, inscribed in golden light in the language of the angels on a celestial scroll.

Aziraphale!

Haven’t heard from you or Michael in a while, old sport. Everything all right down there? Listen, between you and me, I’ve actually got no idea what she’s up to these days. Keep a few dozen eyes out, if you catch my drift.

Oh, and you’re to report to somewhere called “Hastings,” apparently. Things Are Afoot!

Amen,

The message ended with another familiar sigil: Gabriel.

“Well, now.” Crowley was toying with a mischievous smile. “Now that’s very interesting indeed.” The smile became a smirk. “Trouble in paradise, my angel?”

“Will you be serious, Crowley?” This was not helping Aziraphale’s cross mood. “There are few things I want less than to be caught between Gabriel and Michael, and both these directives are so vague as to be nearly useless.”

“All right, all right.” Crowley put his hands up in a concessionary gesture. “No funny business. But I’ve no idea what old Gabe is on about either.”

As Crowley puzzled over the note, Aziraphale sighed and his gaze wandered again to the nearby herber. Somehow, the flowers in full bloom did nothing to quell his unease. Was it his imagination, or were those lilies standing up straighter than before, pointing a little more in his direction?

“Oyez! Oyez!”

Aziraphale, having been unaware of the town crier’s presence directly behind him, started and nearly fell off the bench. “Truly dreadful,” he pouted, dusting himself off. “Surely there must be a less… alarming method by which news might be conveyed to the citizenry.” Scribes, and of course criers themselves, dealt with written news missives from the higher ecclesiastical offices or the duke’s palace, but that was sadly not an option for the common folk. “More the pity that even in this day and age, the majority of the populace is illiterate and cannot read.”

“You don’t say?” Crowley’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Not only are the poor bastards illiterate, but they can’t read either? Now that’s just adding insult to injury.”

“Yes, yes, very amusing.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “I suppose we ought to listen to the news, then. I rather feel that I’m being assailed by messages from all quarters today.”

As if on cue, the crier unfurled a scroll rather more theatrically than was strictly necessary and began to read.

Crowley groaned. “Horses are so hard on the buttocks.”