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Aziraphale was alarmed by the watcher’s cry and hurried to the rear of the caravan of the fleeing Israelites still on the shore of the Red Sea: there he saw the Pharaoh and his army coming closer and closer to slaughter them all.
The angel had to buy some time to grant all the people to cross the parted sea.
At first Aziraphale miracled a strong wind against the assailants but it barely affected them, fueled by their stubbornness and anger.
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” the angel said with a shiver.
Aziraphale went a little further away from the caravan and put his trembling hands over his heart.
He closed his eyes and concentrated to find the spark of the power buried within himself.
He knew well that kind of power that was destined to be harnessed only through his Flaming sword and that he shouldn't have even thought about using that without that weapon. However, since he had gifted the sword to humanity, he had no other choice than harnessing that power with his bare hands if he wanted to succeed in repelling such an immense army without any miracles.
The angel rekindled the spark and let some of the raw power spread into his palms where a small flame burst into life.
“I can do this,” the angel muttered, probably most likely to convince himself.
Then, Aziraphale held his hands high towards the sky as blue as the sea, letting all his power flow freely through his corporation: immediately the little flame blazed fiercely, creating an impenetrable wall and a pillar higher than a mountain.
The Pharaoh’s army could no longer proceed, paralyzed by the insurmountable and terrifying fire.
However, sustaining those flames but keeping that immense power under control to avoid wiping every human life was utterly exhausting for Aziraphale. As a matter of fact, sooner than he hoped, his arms started trembling and he could see his clothes began smoking.
Since not all the Israelites had left the shore, the angel focused even more but it became fairly obvious that he couldn't hold on much longer due to his increasing fatigue and burns on his skin.
When he finally couldn't see any fleeing humans with the corner of his eye, he coaxed his power deep down. The immense fire died out slowly everywhere but a couple of small flames were still singeing the angel clothes.
Aziraphale could clearly see the army rushing towards him and he resigned himself to a future filled by paperwork for another corporation when a dark shadow threw him on the ground and enveloped his body completely. The army passed around him and nobody runned over the angel, like he was being protected in a fortress.
When the commotion was finally far away, Aziraphale heard a familiar voice.
“Oh, crap, you're still burning.”
Crawley covered the angel with his mantle and patted him to extinguish the remaining stubborn sparks.
Aziraphale was alive. And, once again, thanks to Crowley.
“Don't even think about that,” the demon warned.
“Doing what?”
“Saying the ‘five-plus-three words’. You know which ones. Especially since I'm so pissed you've done something this idi… dangerous.”
Aziraphale couldn't deny that time he had played with fire and got almost burnt by that (literally) and he recognised the demon's harsh words were born out of worry.
Despite being extremely tired, Aziraphale still had some strength left for a little tease: “to be fair, I was using the ‘five-plus-three-plus-two-plus-four” word combination.”
“What?”
Both of them ended up laughing, seeing each other merry faces.