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Darkness, everywhere, impenetrable and utterly cold. Here and there, bursts of light, too bright to look at, too sharp to ignore.
Raphael was panting. His wings were sore from carrying him rapidly up and down time and time again but they couldn’t rest yet. The fight was long not over.
A distorted scream grabbed his attention, directing his gaze into its vicinity and onto a nearby halo racing towards a group of angels. He gripped his crank tightly and looked away. It didn’t make the sounds that followed any less stomach-churning.
This shouldn’t be. None of this should have happened. They had just been asking questions and then, suddenly, they found themselves on a battlefield, forced to fight or die. How could God have let this happen?
A shining spear flew past Raphael’s head, only inches away from his ear, taking a few strands of red curls with it. He swirled around, trying to see whom it had come from, but the mass of white-clothed, blood-golden-spotted bodies was too messy to make out anything, really. So instead, he fled. He flew down – far, far down – until his feet found solid ground.
There he stood, on the edge of a cliff overlooking nothing but darkness, his heart racing, his head spinning, the buzzing of the spear still ringing in his ears. Above him, the sounds of battle grew louder by the minute. Then and when, the limp body of an angel fell to the ground on which Raphael was standing with a terrible thump.
Only one of them seemed less dead than the others.
Without a second thought, Raphael rushed towards it. He had no clue which side this angel had been on, but it didn’t matter. Quite honestly, he wasn’t so sure about his own side anymore. Lucifer was the one who had started the revolution – which had been a good thing. Finally, someone had listened, had considered different opinions and new ideas, had given them all the feeling that they could make a change for the better. And not just anyone, but the Prince of Heaven, the one angel closest to God Themself!
But then it had all become a bit too loud, the words too harsh, their tone too sharp, and this new tone had turned into actions, aggressions. Before they knew it, Lucifer was leading them into battle against their fellow angels.
Raphael had never wanted a fight – only answers.
When he arrived at the other angel’s side, he quickly realised he was too late to do anything but be there. He fell to his knees, carefully scooping the other up into his arms and gently rocking back and forth while holding them close, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’ll find peace, I’m sure you will.”
Golden blood bloomed on their tunic, running down from their pierced throat. One of their wings was missing. The broken shaft of an arrow was sticking out of the other. Their arms were twitching, probably from the pain.
“God will give you peace. You’ll see. It will be alright. It will all be alright.”
He wasn’t completely certain whom of the two of them he was trying to convince here.
The dying angel in his arms could only soak in one last choked breath in response – then they were gone.
Raphael could see their eyes widen one last time before the light behind them faded out.
He collapsed above the body. His fingers dug into the other’s tunic while his tears fell onto their face, leaving damp lines in the dirt on their cheeks. He was shaking with uncontrolled sobs, unable to hold back all the horror and dread building up inside him out any longer. The eyes of the dead angel in his arms were still open in terror, their lips parted in the hopeless effort of drawing a breath.
Raphael continued rocking back and forth, back and forth, crying and shaking, overcome with pain. What was pulling him down wasn’t only his own terror and despair, mixed with the sympathy for the poor innocent being he had watched die – it was the gravity of the realisation that this was only one of thousands of innocent lives that had been extinguished and were continuing to be extinguished in this horrible war.
It was too much. It was all too much.
When Raphael raised his head again, it was to send a desperate prayer. “God, please, do something!”
But there was no answer.
Maybe God hadn’t heard. Maybe They didn’t want to hear. Maybe They had heard but this was all part of Their Plan. The war. The deaths. The destruction. All this pain.
He had only wanted to ask questions.
Raphael wiped his tears away with shaking fingers, pleading, “Not even one? Can’t you just save one single angel? Please!”
Still no sign of an answer. The body in his arms stayed dead, their broken gaze turned towards the sky as if to send one last prayer Upstairs. An equally unanswered prayer.
Through his sobs, Raphael tried his best to swallow down his tears before he gently closed the fallen angel’s eyes and carefully laid them down, with one hand supporting their head – as if he could still hurt them. He softly ran his shaky fingers across their cheeks, wiped away some of the dirt and the golden blood running from their mouth. Straightened their tunic a bit and brushed a few strands of hair out of their face. Carefully pulled out the broken arrow shaft from their remaining wing.
Then, slowly, he got back up again. His hands were still shaking. He was still sobbing softly, but there were no tears anymore. His own tunic was sprinkled with blood, only some of which was his own. His hands were golden now from the blood of the angel he had just laid to rest. Some of it was in his face, too.
He didn’t think he had killed anyone yet. It was hard, to kill. Too hard for him, who had always been one for creating life, not destroying it.
The dead angel at his feet looked almost peaceful… if it hadn’t been for the gaping wound in their throat and the missing wing.
Finally tearing his gaze from the fallen soldier, Raphael took a look around and his heavy heart sank even more. How could it have come this far? No cause could be worth such an awful cost.
Suddenly, there were voices. And they were getting closer.
Hurrying to grab the sword he had been given with one hand, his crank with the other, and get into a defensive position, Raphael kept his eyes on the mess of once white tunics and feathers approaching him from above. But they hadn’t taken notice of him. Not yet.
Metal clanged against metal with the horrible sound of ruthlessness. It was hard to make out who of the four angels that had landed in only a few meters distance of him was trying to kill whom. The feathers parted for a brief moment – long enough for him to spot a flaming sword – before there was a bloodcurdling scream and one of the bodies sank to the ground. Two of the other three flew upwards again, but they were not retreating – they were readying themselves for a new attack.
Raphael glanced towards the one that was still standing – and there he saw him.
His heart skipped a beat. The two angels in the sky, he now realised, were on his own side. On Lucifer’s side. And the one they were getting ready to throw themselves at – the one that was protectively standing over the body of his fallen comrade – the one with the flaming sword – was Aziraphale. Raphael’s friend. Quite possibly his only friend, though he wasn’t sure if this friendship was still reciprocated, but it didn’t matter. Aziraphale was the only non-revolutionary who had never looked at Raphael sideways, never laughed about his fascination for the universe, never sent him away just because he was curious – and he was the most loving being in all of creation. His one true friend.
They were on their way to kill Aziraphale. And he wasn’t about to let that happen. Who gave a shit about sides, anyway?
A spear flew downwards, digging itself into the ground next to Aziraphale. He flinched, but didn’t move from where he was standing. He had a friend to protect, dead or alive. But there were two against him, and he was exhausted. Jophiel was lying on the ground, hopefully unconscious but that was the best case scenario. Either way, she wouldn’t be able to help him and he couldn’t abandon her, so he was bound to this spot, conveniently making him a fixed target for his attackers. And they were getting closer, weapons raised. His own sword, no matter how flaming it was, wouldn’t be of much help if he didn’t think of a really good plan very soon…!
A plan didn’t come, but something else did. Or rather someone.
Just as the two attacking angels had reached Aziraphale, someone else had, too. Aziraphale blocked the first blow, and the other, whoever it was, blocked the second one.
For just a moment, there was a shared astonished silence between all of them.
“You?” one of the attackers frowned.
“Yep, me”, answered Aziraphale’s unknown saviour, who had raised his wings protectively, and in doing so had blocked Aziraphale’s view of him. Yet he recognised the voice, didn’t he? Where had he last heard it, again?
“Oh, you don’t know?” continued the unknown angel. “I was promised that I would get to fight this one!”
The first attacker’s frown deepened. “Is that so?”
“Oh yeah! By Lucifer himself!”
Suddenly, the second one grew rather pale. “Fine then.” He tugged at the other’s arm. “Come on, let’s go! I don’t want to defy the Lord’s orders!”
For a moment, the first attacker didn’t move. But then, with a whisper through gritted teeth (“You better not be lying, I’m warning you!”), she let herself be pulled away, both of them stretched out their wings – and were gone.
Aziraphale was still frozen. Not so much from shock as from the uncertainty of how to proceed. If he had understood this conversation correctly, his unknown saviour was no saviour at all but wanted to kill Aziraphale himself. And yet, something told him that couldn’t be true. Something in his own heart, and in the other’s voice…
Then the unknown angel’s wings lowered, revealing a shock of red curls. Even before he turned around to show his face, Aziraphale already knew who it was.
“Raphael!”
Raphael didn’t smile. He always grinned from ear to ear when he saw Aziraphale – but not this time. His now unusually pale face was as dirty and bloodstained as his tunic, his brown eyes were wide and empty, his shoulders noticeably tense.
And then it dawned on Aziraphale that maybe, Raphael wasn’t smiling because he was about to fight him. A sting pierced his heart, as if his friend’s sword had already struck. He had known that Raphael was on the opposite side of this war, but now that they were facing each other in its zenith, it suddenly became so utterly clear that he almost couldn’t bear it.
“Raphael…” he said again, this time with the greatest uncertainty. He couldn’t help his grip around his sword tightening.
“I just lied.”
Raphael stared back at him blankly. Then he blinked, opened his mouth and almost closed it again but just before his lips sealed he managed to repeat, “I lied to them.”
“But…” Relief washed over Aziraphale. “But that means you saved me! Oh, Raphael, you…” He was about to say something else, when he suddenly saw a movement behind his friend.
“Watch out!” Aziraphale screamed, throwing himself at Raphael, knocking him down just in time to escape the terribly sharp tip of the spear that had been about to pierce Raphael’s back. They hurried to untangle their limbs and wings, for who knew when the next blow was about to come?
Aziraphale was the first on his feet. He stretched out a hand and helped Raphael back up.
“Thanks”, said Raphael with a hint of surprise.
Aziraphale smiled. “For returning the favour? My pleasure, dear!”
Raphael mirrored his smile. It was only a shadow of his once wholehearted grin, but it was honest and kind, a gentle flicker of light that warmed Aziraphale’s heart in this cold and grim battle.
The next strike came suddenly. Aziraphale didn’t see it coming and Raphael couldn’t, since it again came from behind him, hitting him across the head and knocking him out within the blink of an eye. All Aziraphale could do was watch it happen and stare in shock at the hopefully only unconscious body of his friend now sprawled across the ground. A hint of golden was soaking his hair where the club had hit him.
Aziraphale looked up and found himself face-to-face with Uriel, behind them a fraction of God’s Army, as the Metatron had decided to call them.
“You’re welcome”, said Uriel coldly while two other angels moved towards the still unconscious Raphael to pick him up.
“No, wait!” Aziraphale leapt towards them, arms outstretched. “You might hurt him!”
Uriel raised one eyebrow. “He’s a rebel. And he was about to kill you.”
“No!” Aziraphale’s laughter was one of despair. “The opposite, he just saved my life, and possibly Jophiel’s too!”
Uriel shrugged, barely throwing a glance at Jophiel. “Still a rebel. And you haven’t switched sides, Aziraphale, have you?” Without waiting for an answer, they turned towards the two soldiers holding Raphael, who was hanging between them like (hopefully only like) dead. “Take him away!”
Aziraphale’s heart grew very heavy as he watched them carrying his friend and saviour away. But just before they were out of sight, he saw Raphael raising his head, only ever so slightly before it sunk again, but he definitely raised it for a moment.
A shaky sigh of relief tumbled out of Aziraphale as he fell to his knees. He was alive! Raphael was alive!
It was Jophiel who told Aziraphale about the fate of the captured rebels after God’s Army had won the war. At first, Aziraphale wouldn’t believe it. Surely, he thought, she had misunderstood what she had been told. It was too terrible to be true, God would never allow such a horrifying punishment. But when he went to ask the remaining Archangels, they confirmed it.
“I’m sorry”, Jophiel had said when he had come back. “I know how much he meant to you.”
Aziraphale had only nodded, staring straight ahead without a word until she had left.
Now, he was floating at a spot where you had the perfect view of God’s creations. The most of the visible universe could be seen from here, stretching and bending and exploding and dripping and breathing into every direction in all its vastness. Colours as multifarious as possible, shapes and sizes so diverse one could have hardly even imagined it.
Raphael had been right. It truly was beautiful.
How could something so beautiful have witnessed something so cruel and not have changed at all? Why were the colours as vibrant as before, why the stars still as bright? It shouldn’t have been possible, yet there it was, the universe, just as it had been before, in all its splendor. Except for all the dead angels. And the missing third of what remained of heaven. A third that was not dead, but something arguably worse.
A third which included his friend.
Aziraphale could still see his smile, brighter than any sun, beaming across the galaxies. Poor misguided Raphael. Would he ever find a reason to smile this wholeheartedly again?