Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“God saw all that she had made; and behold, it was very good. On the cusp of the seventh day, she decreed its inevitable end.”

Genesis – Chapter One, Verse 32

Nothing lasts forever.

After thousands of years of existence, Crowley still hadn’t learned the lesson the Almighty had tried to instil in him when she scorched his wings and sent him to repent in the depths of Hell. Not that he had ever repented. And not that he’d ever been a better demon than he had been an angel. He’d been an impudent celestial prince, daring to question the Great Plan, and a rather lenient fiend, the sort to save lives and tread on holy ground without flinching.

A mistake in every sense—across every layer of existence, he had always refused to play the part assigned to him.

That was just who he was. Never in the right place, always a beat off, lost in cloudy hopes and desiring the very things he was forbidden to want. He had once been an angel thirsty for free will, full of questions and objections; now he was a not-very-dedicated demon who’d rather spend his time with a wayward angel, watching plants grow and listening to birds sing, than spread calamities among humankind. As if humanity needed help bringing about disasters! Those idiots marched towards their own ruin with an outrageous kind of pride.

He never quite understood what the Creator had intended by making him fall. As if it could make any difference, punishing him by turning him into an outcast. Whatever the side, the only certainty was this: he would never be a good soldier, and he sure as Hell wouldn’t be forgiven. Not that he’d ever longed for forgiveness. He didn’t exactly remember what he had done—but even if the details had faded, he was quite sure he wasn’t sorry.

He just remembered looking at divine creation, contemplating the beauty of something he had helped bring into being, galaxies upon galaxies he himself had strung across the sky—and being overwhelmed by a love so profound it nearly broke him. For a fleeting moment, he had let himself believe he could spend eternity marvelling at that spectacle, listening to the ceaseless music of the spheres. And then they told him it was a lie. That all of it would end. That such perfection could not last. That destruction was part of the plan: the days were numbered, the months measured, there was a limit that could not be crossed[*], and all of creation was destined to return to dust—for no reason at all. So what was the point of admiring the stars? How could he remain whole while letting the very thing that had filled him with perfect joy—true, celestial joy—be condemned to oblivion without protest?

So Crowley—whatever his name had been—asked questions. The lack of satisfying answers made him furious. And he rebelled.

And for love of the stars, he fell.

It had taken him years to recover from the fall, not really remembering what had caused it, only carrying the feeling of an ineffable betrayal. A consummated injustice. His bitterness had barely softened over the centuries, but nothing is eternal, so he had resumed playing his role — as poorly as possible — in the Great Plan, waltzing once more between miracles and sins alongside his former colleague, the Angel who had almost completely forgotten him, and of whom he himself retained only a hazy memory.

And little by little, without even noticing, the serpent had begun to see beauty again from the earth where he had been condemned to crawl, corrupting the fallible inhabitants. He had relapsed, admiring the stars — from lower down this time — and listening to the song of the nightingales. Gradually, though he’d admit it to no one, he’d developed a strange sense of kinship with humans; far more than with his fellow demons, and even more than with his celestial brethren. These imperfect beings who made the worst choices and wrestled with their freedom until their dying breath. Always dissatisfied, wasting their lives on trivialities yet dreaming and yearning for marvellous, impossible things. Their desires consuming them to the point they threatened to reduce their world to ashes, war after war, rapture after rapture.

Crowley understood them, and at certain moments lost in time, he envied them. Because humanity was a calamity, but sometimes humans stared long enough at their own longings to make something beautiful and grand out of them: sometimes, the most decadent composers orchestrated operas whose harmonies traversed centuries and made impious angels swoon with joy; sometimes, the most tortured, megalomaniac writers penned masterpieces whose first editions ended up preserved forever in the least profitable bookshop in all of Soho; sometimes, parents raised their children with just enough love to counteract the apocalypse.

And that was sublime.

And then, on Earth, there was Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who shared his love for human things. Aziraphale, who didn’t hesitate to go against Holy Writ if it meant helping mortals. Aziraphale who — though he wouldn’t admit it — was far more of a sinner than Crowley himself: hoarding books with greed, delighting in all earthly foods with gluttony, trembling with wrath at the thought of one of his precious books being damaged, lounging about in his sofa all day to the sound of sonatas with sloth, even watching Crowley with a hint of lust when he thought he wasn’t being observed. Puffing up with pride at the idea of restoring Crowley’s wings and bringing him back onto the righteous path — so they could be in Heaven together. The idiot.

The most imperfect of all Angels. The most human. The only one worthy of admiration and adoration.

For some centuries now, Crowley had truly enjoyed his time on Earth. He was almost happy, even if something always seemed to be missing: an unspoken yearning he couldn’t admit to himself. Despite this vague emptiness, the demon loved roaming this crazy little planet since the Beginning, and if he could stay on it forever with Aziraphale, that would suit him just fine. It had been his main motivation for stopping the apocalypse and playing nanny to the Antichrist. The armies of Heaven and Hell could do whatever they pleased, so long as they didn’t interrupt his stargazing or his Angel-watching — he couldn’t care less.

But of course, peace wasn’t something he was allowed to aspire to.

He couldn’t just leave the charade when it pleased him and run off to the edge of the galaxy with his friend under his arm; that kind of ending wasn’t for him. No matter what he had said to the Creator when She cast him out of the heavens, the offence hadn’t been forgiven, and he clearly hadn’t been absolved of his greatest sin. Beelzebub and Gabriel could elope to Proxima Centauri — and he envied their escape through space and time more than he’d ever admit — to live their grand romance to the sound of Buddy Holly, without it raising an eyebrow from the Eternal. But the mere thought of a peaceful retirement with Aziraphale was enough to bring Metatron down from Heaven to toll the bell.

He had just realised that what he had wanted all this time was right in front of him — and they took it away.

What a joke. So this was the so-called Divine Comedy?

His Majesty of the Flies and the reformed Archangel sang that "every day" love was getting closer, then vanished into the cosmos, and an eccentric human with a dodgy café and a bumbling record shop owner lectured him about his lack of honesty with himself. All the pieces of the puzzle scattered through the centuries had slowly fallen into place and connected in a flash of epiphany. Suddenly, it felt like illumination. Almost a revelation.

And for a moment — a miraculous moment — Crowley had truly felt happy. He had experienced a perfect moment of faith imagining what could be. That overwhelming love he once felt for the constellations, he felt again: absolute and transcendent. He had to find Aziraphale and tell him something. He wasn’t quite sure what, but he had to say it — before Apocalypse 2.0 was on the agenda.

And, for the love of Aziraphale, he had fallen.

Because it was already too late. The moment the serpent opened his mouth, he knew the worm was in the fruit. A battle lost before it began, the dice loaded by fate. Happiness wasn’t meant to be his — it had just been another illusion he had let himself believe in. Foolish.

An eternity wouldn’t be enough to heal him from his worst sin. Always the same mistake; different actions, always the same conclusion: nothing is made to last.

Thousands of years before he finally dared take a step, and Metatron showed up minutes before he could leap. And Aziraphale, radiant and stammering with pride, spoke first — and ended all his hopes before Crowley could even voice them.

The worst part of Crowley wanted to burn that joy to the ground and make Aziraphale as miserable as he was. But the hopeful part had pleaded for the possibility of a “them” — a team of two, facing all the bad omens together.

He tried to argue, but as the words spilled out in rage and he watched Aziraphale’s naïve joy give way to confusion and then pain, he realised he had lost the battle before it began. Aziraphale had truly believed he would follow him to Heaven and do Good… he didn’t know what he was asking; or maybe he hadn’t grasped what he had been asking of the Angel. Millennia spent together, and they failed to understand each other at the most crucial moment.

So it ended before it began. Crowley had believed there was hope for them — but it had been a lie. No matter what he said, it didn’t make sense. Them, together forever. It could have been — but it wouldn’t be.

“Nothing lasts forever.”

Aziraphale delivered the final blow. And since words failed, Crowley played his last card, knowing it, too, would fall short.

A first kiss, a last one. A kiss goodbye.

“I forgive you.”

He didn’t.

And he still wasn’t sorry. Devastated, yes — but not sorry. He wouldn’t apologise for having hoped one time too many.

And as Crowley watched Aziraphale vanish behind the metal doors of a lift to the heavens, offering a final silent goodbye before getting behind the wheel of his beloved Bentley — its trunk overflowing with mistreated plants — he realised he regretted nothing. It wasn’t Pride or Wrath that kept him from following Aziraphale and submitting to the chains of angelic duty.

No — if he stood in opposition to the glorious plan once more, even if it meant letting Aziraphale go for good, it was out of refusal. A categorical, stubborn refusal to surrender to fate and fall back in line. A refusal to compromise his desire.

Better to have nothing than to settle for a counterfeit. It didn’t matter if what he longed for was a mirage, didn’t matter if his yearning was impossible. He would keep believing in it, as long as he lived.

To ascend to Heaven or descend to Hell would mean giving up the last of his hope. He wouldn’t fall a third time: he would remain on Earth, listening to the trills of nightingales until Christ and the next Armageddon came crashing down on him. Until, maybe, Aziraphale came back.

Because as long as this world endured, as long as he kept walking through this Universe, Crowley knew this feeling would stay with him. Because if nothing else could endure the ages — his Desire would last until the end of time.

Book of Job, chapter 14, verse 5.

Chapter Text

So this is how it ends?"

The woman had been bustling about her small house since dusk: everything had to be perfect for the grand finale. Her affairs had been in order for months; she was frantically ensuring that she hadn't made any mistakes and that her descendants' future would be prosperous thanks to her final actions. Investing in apples... for now, it was obscure, but there was no doubt they would eventually read between the lines and understand which Job they should devote themselves to. A book for her beloved little Virtue and another that two foolish lovebirds would one day reduce to ashes: as if she hadn't seen it coming and as if one could escape their destiny as descendants by simply committing a book burning! Little idiots. There was no way to fight fate when greater designs were at work. She herself had learned this bitter lesson in her early youth.​

Dawn had now broken, and she couldn't help but glance at the clock; the hour of the final act should have struck a few minutes ago. On a day like this, her unwelcome guests had the audacity to be late. Unacceptable. She clenched her jaw, suppressing a snort of fury ; these incompetents had found a way to disrupt her schedule: months of meticulous preparation for the grand blaze, and the inquisitorial brigade had the nerve to forget punctuality. All because a drunken neighbor had misdirected the god-fearing fools to her home. Today, even the neighbors who weren't coming to feast on the spectacle of her demise managed to annoy her.​

"So this is how it ends?"​

Seeing so clearly is a curse: long before she was truly old enough to understand the weight of her visions, she had seen her own death from every angle and tasted the inevitability of the phenomenon. It was in the glass eye* of the eccentric Aunt Muriel that she had first glimpsed the fiery wrath in which she would end.​

The woman had challenged her: "My dear little Agnes, you have a true gift; never has there been another prophetess so talented. If you concentrated, I'm sure you could predict your own death." And the young witch, who was only about ten years old at the time, had done so before she could even consider the validity of the idea. She had focused, and suddenly the flames had invaded the artificial globe.​

And she had seen her foretold end: brilliant, incandescent. Murderer.​

It had made her a bit bitter—and more than a little furious—to know in advance that, no matter what actions she would undertake in the future, she would ultimately end up at this point: a roaring crowd chaining her to a pyre so she could make a blazing exit. Moving forward step by step in life while knowing exactly how it would all end could be a burden, but after all, everyone has their cross to bear. It wasn't hers that would be the heaviest. That too, she had predicted.​

Despite the simmering anger that had never entirely left her since she had seen her end, Agnes had lived her life as she wanted, even if it had been shorter than she would have hoped before her grim premonition; she had gained some advantages and a wonderful Virtue who had been her greatest pride. Yet, even though she had been preparing for the injustice of her final moments for decades, she couldn't help but feel, once again, a burning rage swelling deep within her as she ruminated during these last moments of calm on the fate that awaited her.​

Certainly, she was a witch—she had never been ashamed to boast about it—but a benevolent witch! Did it make no difference that she had provided her neighbors with modified seeds that ensured the prosperity of their crops? That she had predicted major floods and inundations so they could shelter their animals? That she had healed their children and elders with her decoctions and various potions when illness struck? No, apparently, it made no difference. In this world, a multitude of good deeds did not result in a single ounce of mercy. Her oddity was enough to condemn her in the eyes of the good people, and they would be present in numbers to lead her to the gallows. So be it: she too would show no leniency!​

Many charlatan mediums would have tried everything to escape their fate; Agnes might have been "nutter" if one referred to her surname, but she knew better than anyone how it worked. As surely as the first apocalypse would fail, no pathetic attempt at escape would change anything. All the omens she had received over the years had come true; this one would be no different: she would leave the stage taking with her as many fool souls who came to revel in her suffering as possible. It would be, in this world, her ultimate act of defiance.​

Agnes didn’t know what to do with these few minutes of respite snatched from fate. She found herself fidgeting.

She was more than ready to climb onto the pyre; it wasn't the time to give in to nervousness and ruin her exit. She reheated her tea enriched with sedatives and drank it quickly, stifling her anxiety; Inquisitor Pulsifer would be at her doorstep in less than five minutes, and she didn't want to keep him waiting... after all, she was well-mannered, and they would one day be part of the same family: she had to make a strong impression in honor of her descendant.

The poor man, if only he knew! He could fight adultery all he liked, but it would be within the sacred bonds of matrimony that the Anathema would fall upon the last — good riddance — inquisitor of the Pulsifer line.

At last, the moment had come. Just as the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup had foretold, the unwelcome guests would be at her door in less than thirty seconds.

“So this is how it ends?”

She didn’t give them the chance to knock — she threw the door open herself: her head held high, her spine straighter than divine judgment itself, and her stride full of purpose. It was time for the curtain to rise and for her to savour her revenge.

“You’re late. I should’ve been burning ten minutes ago.”

She let her voice drip with disdain, feigning ennui as if her execution was a mere inconvenience, and marched past her executioners with long strides, walking toward the scaffold with regal bearing: now that things had reached this point, she was in a hurry. No one would say that the last — and perhaps only — true witch of England had trembled on the day of her execution; those wretched fools were about to see how to leave this world with flair, and without casting a single spell. Oh no, she certainly wouldn’t be turning them into toads… far too merciful. Even if the French might have enjoyed a few grilled amphibians, they would remain human right up until the moment they were swallowed by the flames of Hell — where they belonged. No magic would be involved in the exercise of her wrath, only science. Agnes chuckled to herself at her own irony.

The scaffold stood before her — it was infuriating and frightening to see it up close. Despite her defiant stance, Agnes felt a final tremor of rebellion and fear ripple through her as they tied her firmly in place. As planned, everything was going smoothly; no one had thought to check under her skirts… Could they have been saved if they’d been a little less prudish? She addressed her audience in a voice loud and vibrant, like the oracles of old.

“Come on then, good folk, don’t be shy! Step closer — close enough that the flames warm your toes! It’s not every day you get to see a spectacle like this!”

Most of the idiots in the crowd were foolish enough to obey, enthralled by the prospect of being front-row witnesses to such a unique execution. No doubt they thought they’d be able to brag to the entire county of Lancashire about what they were about to witness. Oh, sweet narrow-minded little people — if they’d had even a scrap of prophetic instinct, they’d have turned tail and run. The explosion would blast them away like so much chaff. Those who didn’t burn with her would be skewered with nails: a fate most fitting for the pious who fancied themselves martyrs while spending their lives persecuting and torching the innocent.

From her earliest youth to this very moment, Agnes had never committed a crime, never laid a curse upon anyone — but that was about to change. If she was to be judged as an “evil witch,” then damn it, she would earn that title. Not a single one of the vermin who had come to revel in her suffering would escape unscathed. She had foreseen it in the aftermath of her very first vision: she would not leave this world alone. Their deaths were now as inevitable as hers, and that was a comfort.

The phrase “I only hoped there’d be a large crowd at my execution — and that they would greet me with howls of hatred”** flitted through her mind. Who had said that? A camus? It had a certain flair, but it didn’t suit her. She preferred a slight amendment: “I only hoped there’d be a large crowd at my execution — and that they would burn like bundles of oakwood.” Yes, that was better. Let them die, fools!

“Come closer, I command you! Witness how the last true witch of England dies!”

A flicker of worry passed across the face of the grand inquisitor — doubt was setting in. Confronted with her morbid humour and unsettling calm in the face of death, perhaps he too could sense the approaching end of this lovely morning. Agnes saw a moment of hesitation and fear flash in his eyes. Oh, but it was far too late for doubts and second thoughts, my boy! The die was already cast. She gave him a wink and a final conspiratorial smile. It was time. Already, the flames were licking at her feet. She regretted not being able to lift her skirt and let the poor Pulsifer have a glimpse of her arsenal. Just before the fatal moment, a nail fell into the straw.

Oops — right on cue. One last trick from Providence. She drank in the terror lighting up the inquisitor’s pale face as understanding dawned and he turned, panicked, to warn the crowd. Too late.

This wasn’t faith and justice at work, but the hatred of a mob and the fury of a woman.

It wasn’t witchcraft that condemned them all — it was ignorance, fanaticism, and the thirst for vengeance.

So this is how it ends.

What a strange sensation, isn’t it? To know exactly how it’s going to end. No bargaining with death, no attempts to cheat fate — it ended exactly as she’d always known it would. Suddenly, Agnes Nutter was calm. An odd peace washed over her as her being vanished in a spectacular explosion. There you go — for sound and fury***.

The scorched spectators had made the gravest of errors by attending the execution of the last true witch of England.

All that remained of her were the Nice and Accurate Prophecies she had gifted to humanity.

Agnes was finally at peace; the embers of her wrath, however, took hours to cool.

Prophecy fulfilled and reckoning delivered.