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Fifteen years. Zira looked out at the dusty runway, shimmering in the heat.
Fifteen years to get to this point. Getting his PhD, building up his reputation, one journal article and excavation at a time.
Until now. A renowned expert in Mesopotamian demonology, he was leading his own dig, near the ancient city of Carchemish.
No one questioned why the esteemed Dr Fell had picked a random patch of desert, where no artifacts had hitherto been found. The funding had been agreed, his team assembled, and Zira had stopped taking his medication a week ago.
The pills had been necessary over the years, occasionally.
Crowley had first agreed to it after Zira’s parents sent them to a “rest centre", when their son’s imaginary friend was re-classified as something more troubling by seventeen. The medication kept Crowley quiet - but in Zira’s dreams, his best friend showed him the wonders of ancient Mesopotamia, and the horrors of his capture and imprisonment, thousands of years before.
Still, Zira seemed more “present” in waking hours - he was sent home, and he took up his studies with a singular ambition: to become an archaeologist.
All for this moment.
We’re close. Crowley said.
“Another few hours on the bus,” Zira replied quietly, as his team began unbuckling seatbelts and pulling down backpacks.
It took two days to set up the dig site and begin excavation. Crowley was insufferable.
“You have to be patient!” Aziraphale whispered. He was alone in his tent, but he’d learnt not to get caught ‘talking to himself’ over the years.
You be patient, Crowley hissed back. You’re not the one who’s been trapped in your head for 33 years!
“You’ve never let me forget it.” Zira snapped back.
Ssssssorry. Crowley sounded contrite. I don’t mean it. You know how grateful I am that you.… I mean, all these years, angel…
“Best not thank me.” Aziraphale muttered, opening the flap of his tent. “We haven’t found you yet.”
People were already scraping at the base of the test pit as he approached.
“Still nothing,” Pepper called up. “Ready to move on?”
No.
“No.”
Just a little more.
“Just a little more.”
Within the hour, the team were excitedly brushing pottery fragments and extending the trench, following Dr Fell’s precise instructions.
It was the evening of the fifth day. Aziraphale was in the site office, cataloguing pieces of tablet, Crowley correcting his cuniform as they went.
Then Aziraphale felt his friend’s shock ricochet through his head. I can hear them above me.
“Dr Fell!” The shouts reached them, “we’ve found something! It looks like a–”
Prison.
“-tomb!”
Aziraphale ran to the trench and looked down at the slab embedded in the sand.
“It’s intact!” Adam was crouching over it, eyes alive with excitement, “But I can’t read the markings!”
Do you remember the words?
“Of course,” Aziraphale muttered, jumping down. “You’ve been singing them to me since I was a boy.”
Adam retreated, allowing his eccentric, brilliant boss his career-defining moment.
Aziraphale placed his hand on the stone.
Hello Crowley, he thought. You’ll finally be free of me. But I'll miss you so, my darling.
Fell’s team exchanged looks as he spoke under his breath, running his hands over the unusual symbols. At length, he stood up.
“Well,” he said briskly, but his eyes were full of tears. “This is a big moment. Well done, everyone. We’re losing light, so we’ll reconvene at 0600 tomorrow sharp, for the final push.”
ooOOoo
Aziraphale didn’t sleep. The silence in his head was deafening.
He’d always been able to feel Crowley, even when muffled by medication.
But now, he was alone. For the first time in his life.
It was around 4am, and Aziraphale was standing listlessly, shuffling papers on his desk.
The sound of his tent-flap unzipping behind him. Clearly someone else was too excited to sleep, and they had forgotten to knock (scratch) on the canvas first.
Then a voice - somehow both new and familiar. “Hello, angel.”
Aziraphale gasped, turned. “Crowley!”