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Life, as humans once knew it, had been devastated. The Second Coming had descended upon the Earth and the Ineffable War came to fruition, allowing the planet to become Death’s abode: he roamed freely, letting his hand trail, turning anything he touched into nothing more than detritus that blew away on the wind. However, Death rarely had the opportunity to explore for he was too busy reaping souls from where demons and angels clashed.
Beings that prided themselves on being on the side of truth and light were clad in white uniforms sewn with golden thread but every one of them had been tarnished by the blood spilt from both corporations and true forms. Their leader was Supreme Archangel Aziraphale, who was ruthlessly slaughtering demons who dared to challenge him to a duel. This was much to the astonishment of his fellow angels, as Aziraphale had been well-known, when he was a Principality, for being equivalent to a fluffy, Valentine’s teddy bear holding a cartoon heart between two paws without a claw in sight.
This sudden change in personality was due to none other than the deceptive Metatron who lurked in the shadows, pulling Aziraphale’s strings from afar; he wouldn’t dirty his hands, if he already had the perfect underling for the job. Despite Metatron’s ability to have full control over Aziraphale, he had left him aware of his surroundings which did come with the downside of giving Aziraphale access to the rest of his facial muscles.
His screams, brimming with anguish and suffering, not to mention the tears streaking down his face, were not for his fallen and wounded comrades but for the opposition, slaughtered mercilessly in front of him. No one heard his pleas for help for that’s all that anyone was doing on the barren battlefield. For Aziraphale, the death of every demon by his hand was his fault… If only he were a little stronger, then he could have severed the connection between him and Metatron but every time he tugged on the invisible string connecting the two beings, his superior held on firmly. Resisting seemed only to strengthen the bond. He was weak.
However, allowing Aziraphale that much agency had seemed like a small price to pay for his consciousness because, with it, Metatron could force the Supreme Archangel to comply unquestioningly with the threat of being made to oblige if he were to ever refuse a command.
For now, Metatron was having fun with his new puppet and he sent Aziraphale into another battle.
Opposing Heaven was, unsurprisingly, Hell - the side of temptation and evil. Their army was much more lax on their uniform procedures which is to say that they had none. Clothing options were limited in Hell to mute greys and dark browns making one demon stand out amongst the rest - Crowley, Princess of Hell. The outfit was beyond impractical for war but she looked and felt stunning and it was always more important to Crowley to prioritise comfort in her own body over practicality.
When Crowley saw Beelzebub leave with Gabriel, he knew there would be an opening in Hell, but with Aziraphale by his side, the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind that he could be the demon to claim the throne. However, when Aziraphale left for Heaven, it all changed.
Crowley resented Earth.
Everywhere he went reminded him of the times he had spent with Aziraphale, practically 6000 years worth of time, and there was only one place left that had not been blemished with memories of his beloved angel: Hell. Crowley also reasoned that if he did not fill the position then a demon who may not have such good intentions for either humans or Heaven or possibly both could rise to the top, but, truthfully, Crowley made the decision not based on logic but on impulse and spite. He was upset that Aziraphale had been able to excuse the religious trauma that Heaven had so obviously inflicted in favour of having status in Heaven. He should have known that Heaven was more important to Aziraphale. Crowley would never admit it but he was also a hint jealous that Aziraphale could have such a high status and leave him behind with nothing. So Crowley rose to power and became Princess of Hell.
On the battlefield, Crowley rarely killed. She relied on injuring her opponent in order to escape and in the odd circumstance in which she had to murder, she made sure that they died as quickly and painlessly as possible.
She had been in the middle of parrying blows when she heard it: a piercing scream that she’d never be able to forget because it belonged to the one angel who, deep down, Crowley still cared for, however much resentment had been piled on top… Aziraphale. Crowley wildly looked around for the source of the noise and it was this momentary lapse in concentration that resulted in a searing pain blooming from his arm. She instinctively slashed at the opponent’s leg, before darting away from the seething, snapping soldier.
She scanned the gruesome massacre that was unfolding before her: she saw demons fighting valiantly against angels who had a much higher level of expertise, as well as corporations that had been crafted to suit battle and maximise efficiency. She saw demons fall to their knees as holy swords were plunged into their hearts before being ripped away, scattering crimson beads into the air before settling on the ground beside the corpse or perhaps further bejewelling white clothing. She saw as demons’ bodies emptied themselves of human blood and the transition to a midnight black substance, sluggishly oozing out of the wound before the demons drew their last breath and the light truly left their eyes.
The pained wail echoed in Crowley’s head once more, louder this time and she feared the worst. Typically, demons don’t pray to God. If She had cast them out of Heaven, then She would not help them and certainly not forgive them. However, at this point in time, Crowley was desperate and clutched his hands, silently begging God for Aziraphale to be alive. No, not just alive, alive and healthy. She whirled around like a child searching for their mother after being separated in a crowd. There.
In the distance, Crowley spotted Aziraphale expertly fighting a demon, one hand behind his back, silently mocking how useless Hell’s army was. However, his face told a different story, maybe Crowley didn't know all of it yet, so she watched.
He was babbling to the demon, telling them to run, tears following a path that had been long traced out. The helpless soldier fell and scrambled away, Crowley briskly walking to the situation, hoping that he wouldn’t attract attention from a stray angel. She had just begun to think that the demon had been able to escape with their life when Aziraphale threw his sword, literally and metaphorically backstabbing his opponent. His stride was calm and measured but his face had contorted into an expression of pure horror as he removed the sword from the corpse.
Crowley had stopped in her tracks unable to comprehend what she had just witnessed when Aziraphale’s body began to turn and face her. His head shortly followed and, immediately upon seeing Crowley, he let out a guttural scream. He beseeched an unknown figure to stop and tried to reason, imploring that he had proven his loyalty and that he shan’t disobey him but Aziraphale only continued to inch closer.
“Supreme Archangel Aziraphale,” Crowley bowed mockingly, hoping to delay fighting for as long as possible to understand what was happening to his angel, “we meet again.”
“Crowley…” Aziraphale whispered, his voice not allowing him to be any louder due to the sorrow clogging his throat and leaking into his words.
At that moment, the Metatron had decided to initiate combat and Aziraphale’s sword lunged towards Crowley’s throat. Crowley’s sword clashed against it, pushing against the angel’s might with all that she had. She needed time to come up with a plan.
The Metatron held the position, he would not be bested by a demon, their swords now locked in the position of the letter x. She could feel the holiness of the flaming sword rolling off it in waves.
“Go, please! It’s the Metatron, I refused to fight in this Ineffable War so he’s controlling my corporation in order to make me. Go!” Aziraphale sobbed. Crowley, on the other hand, had never felt rage like this before coursing through not just her veins but arteries too.
“No.” Crowley growled, her mind resolute in its answer. “We’ve stuck by each other for 6000 years, I don’t plan to stop now.”
In a moment of clarity, Crowley remembered what Anathema had once said when explaining the logic of fairytales to her (why they were discussing that topic was lost on Crowley, not that it mattered): “Anything unnatural in the world is pulling on the fabric of the universe, twisting and wrenching it to be able to subdue it. However, the universe is always trying to break free and, you know, fairytales were right in the sense that love is a very powerful thing. Sometimes it can be enough to restore order, perhaps flatten a wrinkle in the universe, hence the idea of a true love’s kiss.”
He knew it would kill him but it was Aziraphale’s only hope of breaking free from the Metatron and, underneath it all, Crowley was an optimist. She locked eyes with Aziraphale and tried to reassure him.
“I forgive you,” whispered Crowley, but before Aziraphale could begin to question, Crowley forced his sword to the side and kissed him. A deep, longing kiss and Crowley wished the moment could last forever. Obviously, that was not the case. The sword stabbed her in the back and a pain equivalent to falling was suddenly all that Crowley could feel. When she had fallen, the pain had emanated from God ripping Her love away from her, but this agony was the opposite - she had lived so long without holiness that now, when it re-entered, it was all she could feel. It was too much. When the weapon was inexorably unsheathed from the wound, she collapsed, unable to speak as blood poured into her lung and began to trickle out of her mouth.
Crowley had been discorporated before, nasty business and the paperwork was such a hassle not to mention the waiting time for a new body that resembled her old one. This was not discorporation though, this was dying. She could feel the life leave her true form; her body was shutting down. It was becoming more and more tiresome to keep her eyes open. She reached out her hand, ignoring the pain from stretching the wound - it would all be over soon anyway - and wiped a tear from Aziraphale’s face, trying her best to smile for him. She didn’t want Aziraphale to remember her death as one of pain and suffering, even if it was. That was the last thing she thought as she became yet another corpse on the battlefield.
Aziraphale was on his knees mourning for Crowley, for all the unsaid things between them and for the lost time that he had so cruelly ripped away from her. He had not let her hand stray from his cheek: it would make it all too real if her hand were to fall away limply. He could still pretend that Crowley was here with him. That’s when he realised the Metatron had not made him move onto his next victim. In a state of disbelief, Aziraphale rose his hand to his face and there it was, obeying his command. He had full control of his body. That meant the connection had been severed… but how?
Was it the kiss? Crowley’s sacrifice? Aziraphale’s unbridled melancholy? It didn’t matter, not yet. His agency was not going to last forever; he could feel the Metatron snaking his way back into his mind, eager to puppeteer his corporation once more. Aziraphale could not let that happen. Crowley’s sacrifice couldn’t be in vain.
Too many had died a vicious, grotesque death because of him but he was going to ensure he’d be the last. If Aziraphale was being honest with himself, which he rarely was, he didn’t want to live a life without Crowley in it while being forever burdened by the guilt of killing her.
Crowley had been Aziraphale’s light in his darkest moments, always shining and guiding him. And now that light had been snuffed out, by him no less. It was a tragic, undeserving death for Crowley; he had survived everything life had hurled at him from Hell to Armageddon, only to be slain by his… lover because even the Lord above knows that Aziraphale loves Crowley with every fibre of his being. Pushing her away in his bookshop while she poured her heart out had shattered his heart, but he told himself that he was doing it to protect Crowley. He had to prevent a relapse of Armageddon: The Second Coming. Evidently, his plans had failed.
Crowley would never get to share a cottage with him in the South Downs. There would've been a little garden overgrown with ferns and roses, perhaps even an apple tree for Crowley to tend to by scaring them into looking lush and beautiful. There would’ve been a library the size of Aziraphale’s bookshop that miraculously fit inside the humble abode stocked with all of Aziraphale’s favourite books without ever having a single customer try to buy one. There would’ve been shelves where Crowley could’ve displayed oddities she had stumbled across as well as pictures of the two of them together.
Sadly, this dream would never become a reality because Crowley was dead.
Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s weapon; the Metatron reached for Aziraphale’s mind. Aziraphale raised the sword to his neck; the Metatron was almost there. Aziraphale closed his eyes and exhaled; the Metatron was so close…
“May the nightingales sing once more” and Aziraphale slit his throat, lying unmoving on Crowley’s body with a soft, triumphant smile on his face. The Metatron had failed.
And somewhere in Berkeley Square, a lone nightingale did sing.