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Michael stands atop the dais, his set of golden scales held up performatively and supported delicately between the thumb and forefinger of one theatrically extended arm. He displays them, turning them one way then the other, offering them up for the collection of Angels to one side and Demons to the other to admire. He benevolently allows them time to gaze in awe upon his instrument of decision - until he feels interest start to wane and sends a wave of power through them, making the polished cups flash brighter and drawing a collective gasp from the assembly.
Finally, it is his hour. He holds the moment, reveling in his authority over the two manacled traitors kneeling before him, one in all black, his red hair falling over his face as he’s hunched over in pain, the other in the creams and beiges of Heaven but soiled, a streak of dried blood running from his temple and matting his white-golden curls. Unlike his demonic companion, the blond Angel stares up at Michael defiantly, steely grey-blue eyes focused on him with murderous intent.
Normally, Michael would be measuring the weight of a single soul, a human soul, against the feather of truth for eternal judgement - but this particular occasion has been determined a special circumstance; the perfect punishment for the rogue Angel and failure of a Demon. Michael will weigh them against one another, but only to determine which of them shall be destroyed first. He of the two that is heavier will go last, so they may watch their illicit companion be brutally eliminated in front of their eyes. He that is lighter will be granted the first death.
Beelzebub has ruthlessly claimed the honor of eliminating Aziraphale, while Michael managed to secure the pleasure of delivering the final blow to Crowley himself. Michael knows Beelzebub will be certain to use hellfire, whereas he intends to make Crowley’s end slow and bloody before drowning him in holy water. He hopes Crowley is to go first, so that while cutting him to pieces he can savour the anguish on Aziraphale’s face.
They should not have interfered with the plan.
Michael calls out to the crowd, “Before us are two traitors, traitors to both Heaven and Hell. We will judge them for their actions, in front of all gathered, to determine their fate. Judgement is final.”
There are jeers and clapping from the crowd in equal measure. They’re eager and bloodthirsty.
“Stand, traitors, and place your offerings upon the scales so that you may be judged.” Michael directs to the two beings at his feet. Aziraphale stands easily but Crowley struggles, his legs wobbling underneath him. Aziraphale tries to catch and lift him, but with his hands bound as they are he isn’t much help. “I’m so sorry, my dear,” he whispers and Crowley hisses back at him, his golden eyes round and shining in rage, “Don’t apologise. Never apologise. Not to me and certainly not for this.”
Crowley straightens up and Aziraphale turns to stand next to him so they can both face Michael’s condemning countenance. Automatically, they drift closer to one another, shoulder to shoulder.
“The disgraced Principality Aziraphale, place the representation of your heart on the right hand scale.”
Aziraphale steps forward, and pulling from the ether, produces a long black feather. He hears Crowley’s sharp intake of breath behind him but lays it gently on the scales and steps back.
Crowley snaps his head to the side and looks at him in tortured heartbreak, “Please, don’t go first, I can’t watch you go first.”
Aziraphale doesn’t look at him, just says steadily, “Trust me.”
From the demon council side, Beelzebub calls out, “Hey! Loser! Put your shit on the scales!”
Crowley shuffles ahead and draws into his palm a pebble, one he’s kept in his pocket for over six thousand years. With a trembling hand he drops the piece of the wall of Eden into the golden cup. It reverberates like a ringing bell through the great hall and he steps back to Aziraphale’s side, trying to press himself as close as possible in their final moments.
Michael lifts the scales higher, above his head, and waits.
And waits.
Nothing moves, the two sides are in perfect balance. He jiggles his wrist and yet, they refuse to move. What does it mean?
There is a sudden flash of light, nearly as bright as the first in the universe, and the manacles fall from both prisoners into a tangle on the floor. Everyone shields their eyes as Michael’s scales crack in half and both cups roll off the dais, spilling their contents in front of Aziraphale and Crowley.
Aziraphale plucks up the feather and the stone, handing the stone back to Crowley with a shy smile, “Should we get brunch?”
