Chapter Text

365 B.C.

A flash of lightning; the rain turned briefly into pebbly hail and sleet, and then to snow before disappearing as the Archangel stepped forward into a stone-paved courtyard. As the rain fell down, the celestial being tried gesturing away the effects of the weather from a gold-flecked brow with an irritated motion of a commanding hand.

Yet despite the Archangel’s efforts, the rain continued, even as the celestial being stayed dry.

It was raining in the ruined city. Somewhere in the distant darkness, an owl hooted and was answered by the howl of a dog, an empty, lonely sound. Wind whipped through the broken stonework, rattling the dry dead weeds that grew in profusion between the battered walls and crumbling bricks. War had passed through here, and the horrors of fire and destruction that had ravaged the city now left its bones with an eerie peacefulness, the silence of the grave.

Something stirred in the deep shadow of a broken column, lurking in the darkness. Michael sighed; it was so very like the Fallen to lurk in graveyards, especially when a whole city had been turned into a massive grave. Bones scattered by scavenging animals were everywhere, large and small. No one had been left alive to bury the dead. Their only rites had been given by birds and scavengers.

From the darkness Asmodeus emerged, tall and noble as a Prince of Hell should be, but soaked through from the rain, a wet and miserable creature.

“It’s been a while.” Michael’s eyebrow arched in feigned surprise. “I had expected your subordinate. What was his name again?”

“Ligur, a Duke of Hell. But that doesn’t matter.” Asmodeus brushed back a lock of wet blond hair, scowling as he willed himself dry with a sharp gesture. But a moment later the rain began to dampen his robes once more.

“What’s kept you? All of a sudden I had to deal with your subordinate instead of you, when receiving the accounting,” Michael said, fully knowing what the answer was but wanting to needle the Prince of Hell when and where it was possible.

“I was...unduly delayed.”

“Don’t you mean, unduly detained?” The corner of Michael’s mouth quirked in the hint of a smile, and Asmodeus strode forward with a fury that disappeared instantly once he remembered where he was and who he was with. Mid-stride, he changed course, feigning interest in the bones at his feet.

A small human skull shattered as he pressed his bare foot deliberately upon it, grinding it into shards against the stone paving beneath his unshod feet.

“Infernal affairs,” Asmodeus said lightly, as if the anger had never been. “Nothing of interest to Upstairs, I assure you. But why did you call for me? And me alone. Not even through the official back channel but personally. You do realize that this contravenes the will of Hell. Official meetings are one thing but I risk destruction for this little social call.”

“Believe me, this is no social call. I wouldn’t have done it if it wasn’t most urgent. We have a rather time-sensitive situation on our hands,” Michael said, and with a sharp gesture, brought out a wax tablet, holding it out to Asmodeus.

Asmodeus took his time crossing the courtyard between them, every step crunching through brittle sun-bleached bones. He took the wax tablet, opening it up.

Michael watched as Asmodeus raised his right hand, sparking an infernal flame that engulfed the whole of his hand so that he had light to read by. As he read, it seemed to Michael that there was something different about the Prince of Hell. In the flickering light of the infernal flame the Archangel could see that there was a tension in his eyes that had not existed before, and it unsettled Michael; none of them were supposed to change. None of them were supposed to be affected by the world.

And yet here they were, standing out in the darkness, getting wet in the rain.

Michael gestured, and the world shifted around them slightly so that they stood under the shelter of the ruins of a portico, the columns were brittle and blackened by fire and the stone beneath their feet was still stained from those who had died here.

Disturbed by their intrusion a fox snarled, slinking away into the darkness.

“Ah. Again?” Asmodeus’ hand closed around the wax tablet, and it shut with a wooden click.

“Again.”

“Heaven plays a deep game. I thought that we had all agreed that there would be no more Nephilim.”

“It was not put up to the Assembly. We did not decide on it; we were not notified. The only reason I know is because I was asked to do the work of arranging it.”

“Ah.” Asmodeus took the wax tablet in his burning hand, and it went up in flame immediately, the burning wax melting and dripping onto the ground. With a glance, that caught fire too, disappearing into ash that the wind whisked away. With a gesture, the flame disappeared, and Asmodeus ran his hands through his damp hair that immediately dried off.

“Was that necessary?” Michael made a face.

Asmodeus ignored the Archangel. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“I thought we were in agreement that-”

“Just because we have an agreement doesn’t mean that I will do an angel’s bidding. This is your problem, one caused by your own side. Figure it out yourself.” Black wings unfolded, blotting out the faint sliver of moon that had come through the clouds as Asmodeus turned away.

“Wait.”

Asmodeus paused, half-turning, and then laughed, a bitter dark sound. “I doubt you could have anything I want. Unless you can restore me to my golden throne in Heaven, I have no interest in what you have to say.”

“Then do it out of the goodness of your heart. If Heaven succeeds with this plan, it will-”

“Unseat the Balance. Yes, yes I know all of that,” Asmodeus said impatiently. “You think rather too highly of me, Angel, if you think I have any goodness left in my heart. But...” He turned suddenly, and as he walked back toward Michael, he folded his wings away, stalking a broad circle around the Archangel. “You need me. You can’t do this without me, can you? You need all this set up because you can’t do this yourself.”

“Of course not. I could...I could just appear in a dream?”

“Without an oracle? Out of nowhere, just like that?” Asmodeus chuckled. “Humans don’t like uncertainty. They don’t trust it. No, they need soothsayers, visions. Something to tell them that they’re special and chosen by the gods. Else the child might be destroyed out of hand as soon as it’s born. But that’s not what you want, is it? It’s more than that. Even if you want me to thwart you, your lot has plans for the child. He’s to be some chosen one, meant to unify the Earth in one vast kingdom. That’s why it wasn’t put to the Assembly. Someone in the highest of upper management is trying to put their thumb on that fine-balanced scale.”

“You know I can’t say anything about internal matters. Or even speculate upon them,” Michael said stiffly.

Asmodeus smiled with dark amusement. “Of course, you could set it up yourself if you really wanted to. You don’t need me for logistics. But...you’d need a demon to make sure he is two-thirds divine.”

Michael held up a resolute but trembling chin. “Th-then what do you propose?”

“We will need to meet regularly until this is complete. Project management after all is not as easy as it appears.”

“Fine. We can continue to meet here.”

“It will require time to do what you have asked for. A queen is not so easily approached, much less bedded. And besides that, in order to bypass the Dark Council, I would need to go to Satan himself to get his permission.”

“Which is why I’m here, years before the deed must be done. She isn’t even a queen yet.”

“Eight years is a long time for humans perhaps but you are cutting it rather close. Once I have the proper permissions, I will have to insinuate myself into the court. Ingratiate myself with the court and queen...”

“You’ll have my full support.”

“I’ll want more than that.” Asmodeus turned to meet Michael’s eyes.

“What is it that you want?” Michael’s voice was cool but there was a hint of a tremor in it.

“An angel.”

“Absolutely not, I can’t-”

“You won’t be giving them to me. What am I going to do with an angel? Keep it in a bird cage to watch it flap and flutter?” Asmodeus laughed, a hollow sound that had no real amusement in it. “But there is an agent of yours that I have come across before. Merely...send him as your observer. We can decide on his specific role later.”

“Why?”

“Call it a professional interest. I wouldn’t harm him. After all, he’s an angel” Asmodeus smiled with a mouthful of sharp serpent’s teeth.

“All right. I will make sure that this agent is assigned. What is his name?”

Asmodeus paused, as if trying to recall the name, though he knew it quite well.

“Aziraphale.”

Chapter Text

Ephesus, July 20, 356 B.C.

Graveyards, always graveyards. Crowley heaved a sigh, waiting in the darkness. He was there at the appointed time, when the sickle moon was at its peak, but no one was yet there. So he made another turn of the cemetery, winding his way through the tangle of stone stelai and statues, the evening wind fluttering the black himation and long chiton draped about his tall slim form.

He would have preferred to be anywhere but here. Wandering through the empty agora at night, exploring behind the skene at the theatre to marvel at the machines, gossiping with the local hetairai, slipping into symposiums as a strange but not unwelcome guest, leaning against a stone wall to listen to a husky low voice singing alone with a many-stringed barbitos…

Even being alone at home would be preferable to this, Crowley thought.

Had he been at home, the house would be filled with the warm golden light of lamps. He would perhaps be lying on his bed or on a supper couch enjoying a bit of daydreaming or even actual dreaming. Or perhaps Aziraphale might have come over for a drink, and they would be talking, so much so that sometime later they would look up and it would be morning and they would be moderately surprised by the intrusion of daylight. And then the conversation would continue…

An ominous rumbling in the ground, and the earth parted, revealing a solitary figure in tattered and rotting robes, stained and flecked with black scorch marks.

“All hail Satan.” Hastur stepped forward, brushing off a dead leaf that clung to his shoulder with an offended scowl.

“Oh. You’re not who I was expecting,” Crowley blinked. “Erm, that is, uh. Greetings, Duke Hastur! All hail Satan...”

“And who was it that you were expecting?” Hastur’s voice was venomous.

“Uh, er, you know, um. Usually L- that is...the uh, Duke or Under-Duke associated with the Prince that I report to? Duke Ligur? Under-Duke Legion? Or um, the Prince himself?”

“They’re busy.”

“Ah.” And this was a bad sign, Crowley thought. He had never received orders from Beelzebub’s direct chain of command before. Even during the years of Asmodeus’ binding, he still received orders from Ligur or Legion, in theory at Asmodeus’ bequest, even though he knew that those orders had probably come from Beelzebub. But now here was the Duke who served the First Prince of Hell directly, which meant that all the formalities and rules had to be adhered to with care, lest he be discorporated, his physical body incinerated in a flash of hellfire.

Or worse yet, destroyed.

“First, we must recount the Deeds of the Day...”

In his heart, Crowley drooped, but he did his best to remain impassive and calm as befit a Servant of Hell.

“Here are your new orders,” Hastur handed Crowley a wax tablet once the formalities were out of the way.

“I’m honored, your Disgrace. Coming all the way here to give me-”

“Enough fawning, just read it and get on with it.”

Crowley scowled, and opened the tablet, angling it so that he could read the writing by the thin light of the waning moon, glad that he could see better at night than any human could ever hope to.

“Oh.” Crowley sounded surprised, clutching the tablet with fingers that did not know more than to hold on. “I’ve been...”

“Reassigned.” Hastur looked extremely pleased with himself. “To Pella. You’ll be serving Asmodeus directly.”

“Right. Sure. Not a problem. I’ll uh, just need a few days to wrap things up around here-”

“He’s already there, embedded in the court, but he needs a servant. Of course, it would be better if he had a servant he could trust. But I’m certain you’ll do.”

Crowley said nothing, afraid to answer.

“Then again, if something should happen to him while he’s there...” Hastur’s mouth moved into something that was like the parody of a smile, and that loathsome toad that curled up about his head like a crown glared down at Crowley with empty black eyes. “He might be permanently reassigned to some other non-management role.”

“Like...the other Princes of Hell? Sidelined to other, uh less important ventures?” Crowley ventured.

“Exactly. Purely ceremonial duties and such.”

“So if one were to-” And then Crowley shut his mouth, realizing that anything that was said to Hastur would be immediately reported to Beelzebub, whom Hastur had served loyally since the Fall. “Er...Right.” Crowley swallowed. “Sidelined, yeah.”

“Be ready to leave. He is expecting you.”

“Yes, your Disgrace.” Crowley bowed but stayed where he was, uncertain if he had been dismissed and honestly a little surprised that Hastur had not left for Hell yet.

“Go. You’re dismissed. I have other business to deal with.”

“Um, yeah?”

“I have a date with the Temple of Artemis,” Hastur chuckled, holding up a hand that was engulfed in flame.

“Oh dear, oh dear, did you hear that the Temple of Artemis burned down overnight?”

“Yeah. I heard,” Crowley said, sardonically.

Aziraphale fretted, and if he weren’t already reclining on a supper couch beside Crowley, he would have been pacing. “And to think, a human did this! But there are some mysteries involved. How did he get past the guards? And the priests?”

“He must have beat Hastur,” Crowley muttered. “Or maybe had some help…”

“What was that?”

“Oh nothing important. Say, got some news, not so good. I’m er, well, that is…”

“Yes?”

“Being reassigned.” Crowley’s mouth twitched into something of an expression that was meant to be hopeful with a hint of bitter humor, but just came out as sad.

“Reassigned. After…”

“Yeah. After all these years. Can’t be helped. They sent a Duke to tell me himself.” Crowley slumped down on the thick puffy pillow on the supper couch, burying his face as if he could stifle himself with fresh clean fabric that smelled like sunshine and the open air. Sadly he couldn’t, at least not without Consequences.

“When do you leave?”

“Soon. As soon as possible.” Crowley made a muffled noise of frustration into the pillow and Aziraphale did his best not to comment on it, merely stroking Crowley’s shoulder to comfort him but when Crowley’s upset noises continued, he realized he had to say something.

“Erm. You know, dear, that it is fine for you to have a Moment if you need one.”

“What do you mean?” Though it came out more like one single mush of a word: whadyamea.

“Well, humans do this and I learned it from them. Sometimes when something is bad...you’re allowed to shirk responsibilities for a little bit and just...have a Moment. I see that seems puzzling to you, and certainly it puzzled me as well for a long time. But this ‘Moment’ is like taking a few minutes to a few hours to digest a rather sticky and unpleasing circumstance. Maybe even a few days sometimes, if that circumstance is particularly...indigestible.”

“Are you saying...” Crowley looked up blearily from his dented and smooshed pillow.

“Hmm?”

“Are you saying we should go have lunch? Because I could eat too.”

“Oh, that’s a marvelous idea. But it’s too late for lunch.”

“Lunch-dinner then,” Crowley waved an impatient arm.

“Yes, of course, it’s not too late for that. And you can continue your moment as long as you need. You know that I am here for you and will do whatever I can within the rules to help you.”

“Right. Still doesn’t change that I’m being reassigned though.”

“I suppose it doesn’t.”

The bowl of soup steamed gently. Directly behind it was a head, forehead pressed firmly to the wooden table top. Long dark hair streamed from the head onto the polished wood of the counter. Two hands lay parallel, framing the bowl of soup. One lax hand held onto a wooden spoon loosely, and the spoon wobbled to and fro, unbalanced and undirected.

Aziraphale sighed, unhappy to see Crowley so distraught. “My dear, it will be all right. After all, it was bound to happen someday. You’ve been reassigned before, what’s the trouble?”

“Rgh,” Crowley said, as if that would explain everything.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Aziraphale said, patted Crowley’s shoulder. “Is it that bad? You can tell me, you know. I won’t judge you. That, after all, is left to the Almighty.”

Crowley glared up at Aziraphale. “Will you give it a rest?”

“Give what a rest?”

“The thing about...judgment.” Crowley sighed, frustrated. “Look, it’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that...well, I don’t even know if I can figure it out for myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“This reassignment. Came from someone outside of As- er, you know, the Prince of Hell I work for. Him. It came from outside of his direct chain of command.”

“What?” Aziraphale was taken back. “How is that possible? I thought Hell...”

“Was just as rigid as Heaven in terms of hierarchy and roles? Yeah. It is. Or at least, it’s supposed to be. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“It was someone who outranks uh, him, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Good guess.” Crowley scowled. “And that person, well, their Duke, which is just about the same thing...dropped some hints about uh...sidelining my boss.”

A pause. Aziraphale took another bite of bread that had been slathered with a soft cheese. After chewing it viciously and swallowing, he turned to stare at Crowley.

“Good.”

“Good? What do you mean, good?”

“I meant exactly what I said, Crowley. Finally.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a Look. That Look. “You know I’m not supposed to be doing good, right?”

“Well, I don’t mean good in the sense of...my side’s business. I meant ‘good’ in the utilitarian sense, not a moral one. Though perhaps in this situation it’s both. Anyway, think about it. Wouldn’t getting a new supervisor be good for you? Er, or bad, in your lexicon, which is good. Oh dear, wait a minute, I’m getting all turned around here.”

“Eh...I don’t know?” Crowley shrugged helplessly.

“How about this. I think...it would be advantageous. To you personally. Not good or bad, let’s forget those words. They’re not useful descriptors in this case.”

“Advantageous? You don’t know Beelzebub. There’d be more work. Beelzebub’s mad for rules and details.”

“That’s not always a bad thing,” Aziraphale said. “After all, having good guidelines keeps you from constantly guessing and trying not to misstep. It’s good to have clear expectations. Bad. Sorry, I mean, useful. It’s useful to have clear expectations”

“Hmm.”

“And didn’t you say that Beelzebub as the First Prince of Hell is all business? Not a thing ever out of line but at the same time no worse than any other Prince of Hell in terms of cruelty? And in fact, perhaps somewhat less cruel for that?”

“Nrgh.”

“What I’m trying to say is that it might not be a bad idea er...that there would be utility in having a more...professional Prince to report to, even if they do want more reports. After all, that’s just writing something down and sending it off. A bit more work and scrutiny perhaps but there wouldn’t be ahem, adventures, such as in Ecbatana those years ago. After all, Beelzebub doesn’t have a taste for humans. Not like that, at least.”

“Yes. That was a sorry state of affairs, wasn’t it? Ecbatana.” Crowley stared at his soup, though at a glance from Aziraphale the soup dared not be lukewarm again, and the little maza dumplings in it were tender and yielding with just the perfect texture. He picked up his spoon, this time with conviction, pulling the bowl closer so that he could dig his spoon into it. Tender fish, fresh green scallions, and toasty maza.

“You were discorporated,” Aziraphale said, each word spoken with care. “Among other things.”

“Say, didn’t we have this sort of soup before in Egypt?” Crowley wondered. “But with kernels of cooked barley instead of barley flour dumplings. And the fish was different too? This was made from salted sardines, like they eat in Athens. But it should be tilapia. I like tilapia, fresh from the Nile.”

“Oh yes, I think this is what they call a new cuisine. Mixing the ideas and flavors of Egypt and the Hellene world with what produce is available in Ephesus.”

Crowley drew the bowl closer, feeling the unadorned fired clay warmed by the heat of the soup. It was an ordinary bowl with a rough surface that felt almost like finely dressed stone. This time of year in Ecbatana the summer heat would have warmed that stone bench in the garden until it was hot to the touch, just like this bowl, and he would lie upon that flat expanse of stone staring at the green leaves swaying above his head, listening to the birds as they called to each other in the treetops as he waited for the pain of the heat against his back to dissipate, settling in to sleep the time away.

He took a bite. Someone had put much care into making this soup, reconstituting the fish from its dried and salted form, then cooking the soup with the whole fish before separating out the bones so that only tender flaky flesh remained. It tasted like a marriage of the flavors of Egypt and Ionia, and either one of those two cuisines reminded him of innumerable meals with Aziraphale.

Crowley’s hand moved away from the bowl, resting on the smooth surface of the table for a moment before reaching for a piece of hot flatbread, which he dunked in the soup. They used to use the bread like spoons, he remembered, using it to scoop up the soup. “Suppose you’ve got a point. Probably would be useful to have a new supervisor...”

Chapter Text

It was five days to Pella from Ephesus by ship, and Crowley had plenty of time to think while the boat sailed across the Aegean, skirting islands and summer thunderstorms.

Crowley often found himself staring out over the wine-dark sea, avoiding the society of the other passengers. Normally he’d enjoy their company, listening to their problems both big and small, gently tarnishing their souls a little with his suggestions. Yes, keep selling pieces of the family estate to fund that gambling addiction, continue squandering the inherited wealth on presents for that hetaira, keep stringing along that rich suitor who is trying to buy favor with expensive gifts. There were so many ways to spread a little evil in the world, especially if a person could be convinced it was all for good.

But these days he had problems, problems big enough to be Problems, and he needed some time to think.

A gull flew by alongside the ship, hoping for a free meal of fish offal or bycatch. Crowley glared at it, and it fell like a stone into the sea.

It popped back up out of the water a second or two after the ship passed, squawking and flailing on the waves. In fact, very few seabirds followed this particular ship; a line of half-drowned bewildered seagulls screeching and sputtering were left in the ship’s wake, like an ellipsis drawn out long across the water.

Crowley put his hands on the side of the ship, and pressed his forehead against the backs of his hands.

All that talk about changing to a different court in Hell was a nice dream. A brief interlude from which he could forget his problems. No wait, Problems. Persistent ones.

The last time he had seen Asmodeus was when he had been discorporated by Asmodeus. No wait, that wasn’t it. Crowley scowled to himself. The last time he had seen Asmodeus was when they were questioned in Hell afterwards, before Asmodeus had been carted off to imprisonment in the deepest pits.

Somehow Crowley had managed to walk away from that debacle without even the faintest hint of torture or threat of destruction and he still didn’t know how.

And then the secret that he couldn’t tell anyone, not even Aziraphale. That he had intentionally…

Crowley took a deep breath. He was afraid of even thinking about it, lest it slip in an unguarded moment.

“It was an accident,” he said to himself, hoping that he would believe it. Hoping that if he believed it, Asmodeus would too.

Since then, for decades now, almost a human lifetime, he had been avoiding Asmodeus, long after Asmodeus had been freed.

But he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Crowley made a noise of frustration, so loud that even though the humans were not meant to hear it, they heard it anyway, looking over at him with alarm.

“He’s going to destroy me,” Crowley said reasonably to himself.

Crowley checked his wavering reflection in the fountain in the courtyard. Just beyond were the quarters that had been pointed out to him as being occupied by the exiled Egyptian Nectanebo, Asmodeus’ assumed guise at the court of Pella. Which seemed strangely suitable for Asmodeus, given that Hell had for a long time been a rather hot place that scorned change and preferred stability, and it seemed that Asmodeus had been here for some time away from Hell, making it almost like an exile.

Draped about Crowley’s shoulders was a short black chlamys in the Macedonian military style where the corners of the woolen fabric had been carefully trimmed and hemmed so that the bottom edge hung even. He wore a black chiton pinned on both shoulders by plain bronze fibulae, baring arms and legs rather too thin and pale for Greek tastes, though that would hopefully suit him well not being in the height of fashion. As a hetaira Crowley had wanted to attract attention, but here in court, Crowley wanted nothing more than to be a faceless retainer, should he live.

So here he was, presentable and ready to be by Asmodeus’ side, for however long he was required.

Or for however long he would be allowed to continue to exist.

Crowley took one step forward and immediately turned around, facing away. Perhaps he should go for a walk in the marina first, it would be nice to enjoy the last sunset of his existence. Oh, he would get some soup first, some good local wine, maybe a bit of roast duck with maza and oh, sesame honey cakes were always good if they weren’t too sweet, Aziraphale always liked those and it was always nice to be reminded of Aziraphale, especially not knowing when he’d see the angel again, if ever.

And then he could properly enjoy the last sunset of his existence.

He shivered all over despite the summer heat. If he put it off, he might as well do that for eternity, and then they’d hunt him down and truly destroy him, for not following orders.

Crowley turned and boldly stepped forward to meet his fate.

“Erm, right. I've got to face this.” Crowley squared his shoulders and stepped into the quarters. “Uh. My lord?"

Spacious and elegantly appointed, the place was strangely devoid of servants; there was only one person in here and that person sat with their back to Crowley. A human stripped to the waist with dark umber skin and a shaved head, and he wondered where Asmodeus must have been but then-

“Crowley.” And that familiar voice sent a wave of dread and anticipation and longing through him that Crowley had apparently not prepared himself for. Or rather, he had, and as usual it didn’t work. Asmodeus turned in his chair to face him, and Crowley stifled a gasp.

The Prince of Hell looked entirely different, wearing a clean-shaven face that reminded Crowley of idealized Egyptian statues, with an expression that in repose seemed calm and wise, noble and trustworthy. Clothed in a pure white Egyptian linen kilt belted tight around a trim waist, Asmodeus wore a heavy collar necklace of malachite and gold around his neck. His hair had been shaved off entirely, black kohl lining brilliant green eyes, making them seemingly even more venomous. Instinctively, Crowley looked for the Prince’s golden snake ring, but it was not visible.

The Prince of Hell gestured impatiently, and the illusion slipped off of him, fading like the wavering heat of a desert mirage. There was the Asmodeus that Crowley had known since the beginning of existence after the Fall, a golden snake ring twined about the smallest finger of his left hand, the symbol of the crown he wore in Hell. Cold and beautiful, arrogant and proud, a gem of the court of Hell. Crowley nearly prostrated himself out of habit before he remembered that they didn’t do that anymore. Instead he offered Asmodeus his hand, as was due Asmodeus’ rank.

“Come here,” Asmodeus said, not taking Crowley’s hand.

Crowley had prepared himself for destruction. At the port, he had written a quick letter to Aziraphale, hoping that he was well and that they would meet again someday soon. It had been easier than telling him the truth; the angel would only fret and besides, perhaps Crowley was overwrought. After all, he might not be destroyed, merely tortured into little itty bitty pieces that would be forced to regenerate and then broken down again, over and over, transitioning between a body and a fine red paste without hope of discorporation or destruction…

So Crowley had also prepared for torture. It wasn’t something he had much experience in, but he assumed that if it wasn’t going to be the chopping up, it would fall somewhere along the continuum between a long meeting in Hell that would not end because the Dukes would not shut it with their bad questions – after all, you couldn’t tell a Duke of Hell that he should have done the assigned reading in advance under pain of destruction – and being a Mesopotamian wild man’s plaything.

In essence, he would be well and truly fucked.

And then he remembered that he had personally written up plenty of reports detailing how humans tortured each other, and realized he should have put in more things about being tickled with feathers or having a cat step on your chest with one paw and less about crucifixions and brazen bulls. So probably the continuum he had been thinking about was a lot bigger than he had anticipated and would probably be so much worse than he imagined.

But what Crowley wasn’t prepared for was awkwardness.

“Um, my lord?” Crowley wondered, as Asmodeus touched Crowley’s long hair, the bare arms that were the style for men that he hated because it meant that strangers could casually touch his body and Crowley felt himself tense all over to the point of trembling, not knowing whether he hated the touch or longed to be closer.

“You’re...looking well.” Abruptly Asmodeus drew his hands away. “How have you been?”

“Uh, fine? Eating well, um, family’s good, staying healthy. Uh, erm uh, wait. Not that we change much...that is to say not at all, nothing’s different. Nothing’s changed. We don’t change. I don’t change. I haven’t changed,” Crowley sputtered, forgetting that Asmodeus was not to be spoken to as though he were a normal human being interested in matters that related to normal human conversation. “Sorry my lord, didn’t mean to sound so uh, casual. Lots of um. Time, yes time. Spent on...working on Earth. Too used to these humans and their customs, I’m afraid. So erm. No family. No health to speak of. Food’s good though?”

“Yes, isn’t it?” Asmodeus examined Crowley with a cryptic, unreadable expression, and Crowley felt a jolt of fear go through him and he stayed very still, hoping that it would pass and that he would somehow manage not to pass out. He noticed that humans did this sometimes when afraid, and since this was a body after all…

“You’re afraid, aren’t you?” And a look of disappointment briefly crossed Asmodeus’ face before he turned away.

“N-no my lord,” Crowley lied.

“That’s my lovely one.” From where he stood, he could see Asmodeus in profile and that familiar mouth moved into something of a smile, just for a moment, but it was brittle and sad. “Always lying about how you feel. Very good, doing what a demon should.” But the words seemed as though they had no strength to them; they were just that, words.

“My lord?” Fear turned to curiosity; something was different. And when he examined Asmodeus’ face, Crowley realized that there were the faint hint of tension about Asmodeus’ eyes, the set of his mouth, and it shocked him so much that he gasped.

“Yes?” Asmodeus’ eyes narrowed. “Is something wrong?”

“N-no, my lord. Of course not, everything’s fine, just fine. Yep, nothing wrong with me, no not at all...”

“Then come here. And greet me properly.” And as Asmodeus opened his arms to Crowley, she found herself in his embrace yet again, his lips upon her lips. Trembling, she found herself slowly relaxing into his arms, she could not quite remember how she got there, just that there was a particular comfortable familiarity that she felt, one that had lasted since the Fall.

“My beautiful Crowley,” Asmodeus whispered against her hair, and she wondered if this meant that he forgave her or that it was yet another ruse to lull her into complacency before the real punishment began. But the press of his lips against her shivering skin told another story, one that made her lose track of what she was thinking about as she lost herself in his embrace.

Chapter Text

Pella, 351 B.C.

Pale blonde locks falling to her shoulders, Aziraphale looked at herself in the reflection of the fountain once more, just to check the details. She wore a beautifully pleated peplos of fine undyed wool the color of cream. A pale woolly himation was pinned around her shoulders with a big golden brooch of a winged angel, and her head and face were carefully shrouded by the folds of the fabric, so that she was modestly dressed for being in public.

“Wait, that’s not right. It shouldn’t be that much gold if I’m a servant. Even a servant of a king doesn’t wear gold in that quantity, unless gifted directly. And oh, no winged figures, they’ll think it’s Eros and get the wrong idea,” Aziraphale muttered, and with a gesture, the brooch became a simple bronze pin that almost seemed to have a sheen of gold to it in the right light.

Aziarphale looked at herself in the fountain again, and remembered what her new assignment was, to be a nanny. A child was bound to tug on her clothing and rip her lovely himation where it was pinned. She had been mending and otherwise keeping it in perfect shape for so many years, surely a squirming child would somehow damage the material further. With a scowl, she waved away the pin itself, and spent a few minutes fussing over the drape, making sure that the fabric draped elegantly about her curves.

“All right.” She picked up the bag that her things were in, fussing with the delicate pleats of her peplos. “You can do this, just march right up and hand them the letter of introduction, they’ll let you in right away. And then you’ll be a nanny until...well, until you’re done being a nanny. And then after that, a tutor. Just a few years. Easy work, observe and send reports back regularly, no need to overthink...”

And yet, Aziraphale hesitated.

“This would be a lot easier if...” and she sighed, unable to continue. It had been some years since she had seen Crowley, and these days it was a mystery where Crowley had gone. After Crowley left, she had received one message saying that he was fine but since then? No messages had come to Aziraphale, not even by bird. So it must be that Crowley was well, but perhaps just very busy?

“You there! No loitering is allowed here,” a harsh voice snapped, startling her out of her reverie and she felt herself tense all over as she gripped her travel bag tightly with both hands, clutching it against her breast as if it could protect her. She wasn’t very fond of traveling like this, as a woman. It was dangerous and troublesome, and Aziraphale still had bad memories of being carried off in times long past. She far preferred the guise of masculinity. Not that it always protected her, just that it was more comfortable and more likely to protect her than not.

Her reflection wobbled as a wintery breeze whipped through the paved courtyard, and a young man in a black chiton strolled toward her with an arrogant, sway-hipped stride that she immediately recognized.

“You do know you’re loitering on the grounds of a royal palace, don’t you? An angel could get in serious trouble, loitering without permission.”

Excited, she brushed back the veiling folds of her himation and beamed.

“Crowley!”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I asked first,” Aziraphale said primly. They had retreated to the town of Pella itself, outside the palace, ducking into a tavern where they would not be very obvious.

Crowley as usual wore a black himation with a woven crimson border and though he wore it draped around his head and shoulders the way women wore it, no one made much comment as he guided Aziraphale toward a back table, waving down the server to bring them some wine.

Crowley scowled as he sat down. “I’m on assignment. You?”

“Observation. I’m going to be a nanny at the royal palace,” Aziraphale said. “You’re certainly dressed for the part, that’s a rather fine set of clothes you’ve got. Are you doing observation too? Or something else?”

“Ehhh, you know.” Crowley paused. “Some basic observation. Maybe a little demonic interference here and there, when I can get a chance to cause a little mischief. Nothing serious, though it seems like head office has some big plans for the kid. I mean, since you’re here too.”

“The child Alexander, son of Philip? I would say most certainly, given that both sides have sent observers. Anything you can tell me about him?”

Crowley shrugged. “Eh, just a toddling little one, only this high. Bout half the time I’m a nanny, the other half – er right now as a matter of fact – I’m a retainer for a visiting lord. Rather useful, lets me go where I need to go. The Hellenes are so particular about where men and women can and can’t go. Or at least, people who have the appearance of men and women.”

“Certainly, that sounds tricky. Does that mean you’re pulling double celestial wages?”

Crowley scoffed. “You mean infernal wages? No, of course not. Not even overtime.”

Aziraphale made some noises of indignation, but Crowley waved him off.

“I know and you know, angel, that it’s never been fair. But that doesn’t mean we can’t play our own game too.”

“Our...own game?” Aziraphale paused. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know. Just a little alliance, since we’re both here to observe and will be canceling each other out anyway. It won’t be hard to meet with you as a fellow nanny but if I’m looking like this, I can’t just greet you in public, not if we’re unrelated.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That we’re related now,” Crowley grinned. “At least, this young retainer of noble origins is a kinsman to you. Like a cousin. Or better yet, a brother.”

“That would be lying,” Aziraphale said with a frown.

“We’re already undercover.”

“Point.” Aziraphale thought about it for a moment, trying to suss out the problems that this could cause but saw no harm in a little more deception.

“Besides, it would protect your chastity, having a kinsman in the ranks,” Crowley continued.

“My...my...excuse me, what do you mean, my chastity?”

“Uh, let’s say that the king’s rather a lech. And he’s not the only one.”

“Oh dear, oh dear...”

Crowley shrugged. “Hazards of the trade. Sad to say but both this youthful retainer and the nanny seem to be quite fetching to His Majesty. Unfortunately. But at least I have the protection of- Ah erm, the lord I serve, so it’s not too bad. I’m pretty well-protected these days. Even a king has his limits, and certainly won’t tread on other powerful toes, given a choice.”

“That...that’s good to hear, Crowley. I suppose it would be best to be under ostensible male protection, by appearing as your kinswoman. Especially if it means that we can use that as a reason to meet, even publicly. Well then, I suppose we ought to get to the work of it.”

“Yeah. But...before you do, there’s something else.”

“What is it?”

Crowley pointed to Aziraphale’s ring. “Probably shouldn’t be wearing that much gold. It’s a rather large and heavy piece. You’ll draw attention.”

“Oh, you’re right.” Aziraphale slipped the ring off, stringing it onto a cord that appeared miraculously in her hands. She tied it neatly around her neck, the ring disappearing into the folds of her peplos.

Immediately Crowley felt that celestial presence of Aziraphale’s wane until it was no more than background ambient noise, without the prickle of power that designated a celestial being, whether of Heavenly or Hellish origins. He breathed a sigh of relief; the longer it took for Asmodeus to know Aziraphale was there, the better, though he knew he probably couldn’t keep Aziraphale a secret for long.

“There, all safely put away. Shall we go?”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

With a sigh, Asmodeus threw off the disguise of being an Egyptian lord in exile. Gone was the shaved head, the long linen kilt, the heavy collar necklace, and the lion pelt that he wore in winter. He stretched, reveling in the ethereal lightness of infernal black robes as Crowley brought him a cup of wine. Asmodeus took a sip, before settling down on the bed, a human conceit that he had picked up a taste for over the years.

In fact, when Crowley thought about it, it was something that Asmodeus had picked up from him.

“I hear you have another sister,” Asmodeus said, looking up from his cup. “Care to tell me about it?”

Crowley froze, looking away. “Eh...court gossip. You know how that is.” And then he winced, remembering that he had a plan for this already with an excuse already prepared, but somehow it all slipped out of his mind when confronted directly by Asmodeus.

“Come,” Asmodeus said, gesturing to Crowley, who obediently came to Asmodeus’ side, sitting on the bed that Asmodeus reclined upon, careful to stay within Asmodeus’ reach.

Asmodeus ran his fingers through Crowley’s long, curling hair. “Funny thing with humans, how they spread their little stories around. Are you sure there isn’t more to it? After all, you know that whatever you’re keeping from me, I will find out.”

Crowley was silent, and she turned her head slightly into Asmodeus’ caressing hand, so that Asmodeus’ hand cupped her cheek.

“You and your little secrets, as always.” Asmodeus drew Crowley down for a kiss, before pulling her into his arms, so that she reclined on the bed with him. “You’re right not to trust me. It is proper and fitting for one of us, that we should never trust each other. And yet...”

“Yes, lord?” Crowley winced; she could hear the tremor in her voice even as she spoke.

“And yet, I am not sure what I would do without you.” Asmodeus said, in a murmur almost too low to hear.

“What was that?” Crowley asked, even as she knew what had been said.

“Nothing. Nothing important. I suppose I’ll find out in my own time what you’re keeping from me. Or you can tell me now and save yourself some trouble. After all, I may be very upset once I find out what you’re trying to hide,” Asmodeus said in a calm and measured voice.

“J-just that old project of mine,” Crowley said, remembering her script, her cheek pressed against the firm muscle of Asmodeus’ chest. She could hear Asmodeus’ heartbeat, slow and steady as it ever was. “Erm, well. You know, them. The Opposition. They’ve sent an official observer and I thought, well let me try to gain his trust even more by offering some protection. You know how humans treat those who appear as women.”

“Oh yes. Rather badly, hmm? You’ve told me all about it. Wasn’t there that season when the king had a passion for you? That’s over, isn’t it?”

“Mostly, lord.”

“They say it’s best to appear as a man whenever possible.” Asmodeus sighed. “The humans like to think they invented it, but we know better, don’t we? After all, coming up with the dominion of man over woman was perhaps my greatest project of spreading evil upon Earth. Using the slightly greater physical power of one sex to lord it over the other. Or was it slavery, that one was pretty good too.”

Crowley frowned. It seemed that the way she remembered it, the humans had come up with those things themselves, and Asmodeus had taken credit to the accolades of the Dark Council. “Right. So a little rumor meant to help out uh, the Opposition’s agent, in order to make him trust me more...”

“Very clever.” Asmodeus’ arms tightened around Crowley and Crowley shivered, wondering what the Prince of Hell wanted. In the past, before Asmodeus’ confinement, it had always been sex. But these days it seemed that often it was just physical closeness that Asmodeus desired, and it confused Crowley.

“If you don’t mind, my lord. Since it’s my project and all. Would it be permissible to continue being the lead agent in this matter? With the Opposition’s agent?” She leaned into Asmodeus’ embrace with a subtle, inviting shift of her hips against his.

“You want me to stay out of it.”

“No, no, not so much in those words but...well, yes. I suppose I can’t hide anything from you, my lord,” Crowley admitted in a joking tone that she hoped would cover her nervousness.

“But you always try. And I find it endearing.” Asmodeus kissed her again, and after that there were no more words to be said as he pinned her down to the bed.

Chapter Text

Hell, 397 B.C.

“Asmodeus...” Crowley gasped, feeling that last breath leaving his body and then a sudden jolt as he was somewhere else.

Discorporation? Was this discorporation? A moment of frantic fear, touching at the places in his chest where he had been wounded, expecting to still feel the hot rush of blood and then realizing there was no blood and nothing to pat.

Crowley stared at a hand, wavering transparent in the torchlight.

“Oh fuck.”

This was always a possibility. And though it was something that Crowley could not admit, not even in private solitude, discorporation was a desired outcome. Something that could only have been dreamt of in those long weary days with Asmodeus when Crowley was feeling low – which was more often than not these days – but dreaming about it and actually doing it were two different things. The demon hadn’t expected that it would have gone this far. And this was far too far.

Cautious, Crowley took a step forward.

A wince, and the memory of pain. It had hurt more than expected; the pain had been all encompassing but mercifully brief. The strike had been fatal and Crowley was well on the path to dying before Asmodeus realized who he had struck down, before he could intervene, could act to keep Crowley from discorporation.

Crowley shivered, looking around the dark corridor, expecting to feel the rough stone beneath bare feet, but without a body nothing could be felt, but for the memory of being able to feel.

Immediate recognition.

Even as Hell changed around them, gaining long subterranean galleys lit by torchlight, some cut out of stone, some made of fired bricks, some lined with twisting granite columns, others no more than trampled earth, Crowley would always recognize the corridors near Asmodeus’ court.

After all, for all that time after the Fall, Crowley had...

Trembling, Crowley moved forward, walking down the long hallway that from memory should echo but did not. Not wearing boots nor sandals nor even having physical feet to be leaving the soft imprint of sound in this chamber left it silent. It seemed that a certain gravity tugged Crowley toward that court; even if he wanted to go elsewhere, it felt as though he couldn’t.

After all, where else could Crowley go? Anywhere else but one’s own lord’s holdings and that would be risking destruction.

The guards were there as usual, monstrous and impassive, and Crowley knew from experience they were there not so much to protect Asmodeus as to keep an eye on him. To Crowley, it always seemed as if the guards were not to keep others out but to keep Asmodeus in. None of the Lords of Hell wandered about Hell of their own accord, not anymore, but for Beelzebub.

The guards ignored the wavering, translucent form as Crowley stepped inside.

There was a certain style to Asmodeus’ court that Crowley recognized and would always recognize. Even though its main chamber now looked like the inner sanctum of a temple, shadowy and mysterious, the familiarity was both welcome and unsettling, both at once. The cool gray light that seeped and stained the stone walls revealed that Asmodeus’ iron black throne was set in a prominent place in the center of the room where the altar would normally be placed. Somewhat behind and to the left of that massive imposing throne was that little chair that was Crowley’s perch, not nearly as impressive but carved and cast in the same style as the black throne, decorated with intertwined serpents.

There weren’t even chairs for the Duke and Under-Duke. For official business, Asmodeus’ ranking lords stood in ceremony.

A large desk was set before the throne, as heavy and vast as a sarcophagus, so unlike the elegant lines of the furniture in Asmodeus’ place on Earth. That was new, Crowley thought, and he wondered if it was some sort of concession to the Dark Council, Asmodeus putting on the appearance of doing the bureaucratic work that Hell demanded of all its denizens.

A few pieces of art here and there, some that were fully standing statues, others, no more than a delicate painted pot or an elaborately carved musical instrument set upon a plinth.

The floor was no longer bare stone, Crowley noticed, but made of mosaic, a sweeping work of intricate geometric precision.

Everything had been created with the cold, inhuman perfection of a divine being, nothing had the touch of human hands even as they imitated human works and Crowley frowned a little; it was unpleasant to look at things so immaculate and flawless, without the curious searching quality of human hands upon the material world.

Looking around, Crowley was suddenly almost dizzy with the feeling of being here again and for a moment it felt as though once again it would be millions and millions of years stuck in a familiar loop of warrens and rock-cut rooms that all led back to this room and-

Crowley stared at trembling hands, and wondered how they still trembled without a body.

“Crawley?” Asmodeus’ voice echoed through the corridors that branched off from the main chamber and Crowley twisted around to face him. It was often empty here, unlike the courts of the other Princes. So Ligur and Legion must be out on assignment somewhere, Crowley thought, dazed, not recognizing the edge of panic and fear in Asmodeus’ voice.

“Crowley.” Reflexively, Crowley corrected him before remembering that should not have been said, and then remembering that it was no secret from Asmodeus; Asmodeus knew everything there was about Crowley.

Almost everything. Without meaning to, Crowley touched those places where the fangs had gone through the body, remembering the discorporation.

“Darling...” And Asmodeus reached out to embrace Crowley, but immediately realized he could not; Crowley had no corporeal form to touch.

“Sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean...that is, it was- An accident. A mistake...” Crowley whispered, shoulders shrinking as if fearing a strike, expecting the worst. Destruction, and it would be well-deserved.

A hint of a stricken expression in Asmodeus’ face but it was gone as quickly as Crowley had noticed and Crowley wondered if what was seen had been imagined.

“Yes. I know it was an accident. Accidents...happen.” Asmodeus looked away for a moment, his hand moving in a familiar motion that Crowley recognized as the motion of touching dark curling hair, but it was impossible for Asmodeus to do now.

A force of habit, like breathing, which Crowley didn’t need to do now but the memory of having a body meant that Crowley’s spirit still moved as though breathing was necessary, accustomed to the motion.

“Right. Erm, now what?” Crowley dared to wonder.

“A new body. I’ll prepare the documents. Do as you will, for now. I will call for you when it is time.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Chapter Text

“Crowley. Come. Walk toward me.” Asmodeus gestured, and Crowley stared as Crowley's body walked to Asmodeus with a smooth even gait. Unable to look away, fascinated and horrified in equal measures, Crowley watched the work from that customary perch near Asmodeus’ throne. The unclad body was whole and looked just like Crowley but Crowley was not in it; it was hollow, an empty shell that moved at Asmodeus’ command.

Then again, it was Asmodeus who had done the work of creating this corporeal form. Crowley would have shuddered, if there had been a body to shudder with.

The massive desk had been removed. Some artworks had been removed as well, gestured away by that infernal will deciding they were too much of a distraction, leaving a broad expanse of empty space before the throne so that Asmodeus could work.

The only serious work that Asmodeus had put his hand to in a long time, Crowley thought. The demon had never seen the Prince of Hell so singularly focused.

Without warning, Asmodeus stood up from his hellish throne, causing Crowley to look up at him from the little chair where the discorporated demon had been sitting. Not that Crowley really needed to sit or particularly wanted to. If anything, Crowley would have preferred being back on Earth, possessing that young human Aziraphale was traveling with. But it was like everything else, a habit of having a corporeal body, and mentally it felt like sitting was the right thing to do.

The Prince of Hell paced in a slow considering circle around Crowley’s new body, one that was meant for Crowley to inhabit, only it was apparently not yet ready. Crowley had spent some weeks now watching the work, as Asmodeus formed the new body molecule by molecule, so deeply focused that the Prince of Hell did not notice that Crowley would disappear for hours at a time.

It was still daytime in Persia. Crowley could feel it, distantly, the connection to the human that Crowley had been possessing, but while that human was awake, Crowley loitered in Hell for lack of something better to do, waiting and watching.

“Finally. All the leg muscles work properly now. Not quite your walk, rather too smooth, but I’ll leave you to your own preferences for walking."

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just...you know, snap, poof, here’s a new body for you?” Crowley asked as casually as possible, pretending that there hadn’t been weeks of worry and anguish building up the courage to ask Asmodeus directly.

“It would, but I want to make certain that everything is created correctly. No slipshod demonic intervention. I want you back exactly the way I remember, from your golden eyes to every strand of your gorgeous dark hair.”

“Sure, makes sense. But...I could control that form too, erm, once I’m in it. I could make it look like me.” Crowley sighed, incorporeal form flickering gently in and out of view, as if a reflection upon a pond but shimmering so much more brightly.

Asmodeus went back to his work without acknowledging Crowley’s comments.

Crowley watched and tried to remember the last time things had been like this, bodiless, existing only of spirit and realized it had been before the War in Heaven, before the Fall, when matter and form were a part of the universe but not of Heaven and there was a deep unity among all the angels and the Almighty.

The unity had been broken, and they had all been left broken. Crowley remembered wondering back then what could be done to return to that unity, but here was the answer; even not having a body did not mean that the deep intimacy that Heaven originally represented could be restored.

“It looks done to me,” Crowley ventured but Asmodeus shook his head.

“Not quite. Be patient, my dearest one, the work is almost done.” Asmodeus stroked his fingers through Crowley’s long hair and a strange tremor went through Crowley to watch it, even though there was no physical body currently inhabited that could have such a feeling. “There are some details to the hair that aren’t finished. And the tone of your skin wasn’t so sallow, that needs adjustment. And that’s just the body, some of your powers are not quite completely restored.”

“So uh, how much longer do you think-” But then he realized Asmodeus wasn’t listening anymore.

But Aziraphale would. And with a sharp breath Crowley woke up on Earth, as the human that Crowley had been possessing dozed off.

“Aziraphale...”

Crowley made a noise of frustration. “Figure it out. But promise me you’ll do it.”

“Why?” Aziraphale sounded genuinely perplexed.

“I can’t tell you. It’s to save her life. You’re all about that, aren’t you? Saving people.”

“Yes, but. Why won’t you tell me what your interest is in this?” He could just barely see Aziraphale from underneath the blankets and it was strange seeing the angel through a human’s eyes. In the gentle darkness of night it always seemed that Aziraphale nearly glowed with a brightness about him and Crowley wondered if this was a quality angels had when they appeared to humans, or if it was something else entirely.

“Because...because you’re just going to have to trust me and…” Crowley could feel it, an inexorable tug upon the immaterial spirit and all about Crowley it seemed a dissonant clanging surrounded the demon. “Oh what in Heaven do you people want? Not now, I’m in the middle of-”

Earth fell away from Crowley, seeming to dissolve into nothingness all around. In the sudden enveloping darkness a dissonant triad of tones resounded all about Crowley and a bored, cold voice intoned repeatedly as Crowley’s spirit made its way back to Hell, as Crowley struggled to return to Earth. “Call for Representative Crawley, your master is awaiting your return. Call for Representative Crawley, your master is awaiting your return. Welcome to our automated return system. Your fall is very important to us. All demons are busy and cannot supervise your descent. This fall will be recorded for quality assurance purposes...”

A flash and flicker of flame, and Crowley suddenly appeared in Asmodeus’ court. Crowley stumbled, losing and then finding balance in the last second before realizing that gravity did not affect an immaterial body.

Looking around it seemed that everything in the court had been returned to their usual places and all the furnishings were back where they should be, but for the pale lifeless figure of Crowley’s own body standing in the middle of the chamber. It seemed like such a relief that now things were done and Crowley could get back to Earth.

Confidently, Crowley strode toward that completed body, ready to be recorporated.

“Ahem.” Strange, that did not sound like Asmodeus. In fact, it sounded very much like-

With a gasp Crowley spun around to find Asmodeus and Hastur standing behind him, waiting.

In a panic, Crowley immediately prostrated upon the pebbled mosaic. “Lord Asmodeus. Duke Hastur. What a surprise to see you both here together... A-and an honor!”

“Save it,” Hastur snapped. “Get up. You’ve been summoned.”

Crowley stumbled up, wobbly. “Right. So I have. Ah, and truly it is-”

A subtle motion of Asmodeus’ head, and Crowley fell silent. “I suppose it’s time then,” the Prince of Hell said. He walked past Crowley without a glance, toward the uninhabited body.

In one sharp gesture, the Prince of Hell created a black cloth from nothing, draping it about the hollow shell of Crowley’s body so that it was covered. “Wait right here then, lovely one.” And cupping his hands about the body’s face, he pressed a kiss to its cold, lifeless lips before gesturing for Crowley to follow him.

As Crowley waited for Asmodeus and Hastur to get a polite distance ahead, Crowley looked back at the empty, expressionless figure. That crimson and black twisted serpent’s mark that showed the world who the demon belonged to had been carefully placed along the side of a pallid face.

“I suppose it would have been asking too much...” Crowley muttered, in a way that the others could not hear.

With a sigh Crowley looked away, following Asmodeus who did not look back at him.

They walked briskly through the corridors of Hell and Crowley wondered where they were headed. Things looked different here now; Hell had changed again since the last time he had been here, and that sent a little shiver of dread through Crowley.

“Lord Asmodeus, where are we going?” Crowley whispered, hoping Asmodeus could hear him from where he trailed behind the Prince of Hell, an insubstantial shadow, a specter, a ghost. “What’s going on? Lord Asmodeus?”

Asmodeus glanced back, green eyes glinting in the flickering uneven light of the empty corridors of Hell but said nothing, merely gesturing for Crowley to follow.

Chapter Text

Hastur stopped before the grand stone door, which opened for them with a rasping scrape.

“After you,” Hastur said and once Asmodeus had passed, gave Crowley a look of venomous jealousy and disdain as Crowley followed. Beelzebub had never missed a meeting, no matter how trivial, so Hastur had never had the opportunity to enter the Dark Council chambers himself. But Crowley had gone more than a handful of times to stand in for that demonic lord and master, casting lots alongside other Princes of Hell.

Crowley pretended to notice nothing.

Asmodeus walked in, followed by Crowley who stood back at a respectful distance, trying to stay unnoticed, inconspicuous. Every step Asmodeus took echoed in the cavernous chamber, its walls strangely organic as if the calcified interior of a beast’s organs or perhaps just the inside of an unusually large lava tube.

The doors closed behind them ominously, and Asmodeus moved to take his seat among the other Princes of Hell.

Crowley glanced at the Princes. Beelzebub, who as First Prince sat at the head of the long table, folding together unwavering hands adorned with a ring upon on each index finger, both made of black meteoric iron, even as Beelzebub also wore a heavy black crown on that infernal brow.

This was odd, Crowley thought, and he glanced quickly at the other Princes of Hell, looking for their crowns.

To Beelzebub’s left was Leviathan, the Third Prince of Hell, a massive being of muscle padded generously with fat. As usual he was stripped to the waist but he wore an unusual ornament about his neck, a garland of plaited leaves and flowers that rested against a bare chest. Further down the table past Leviathan sat the Fourth Prince, Belial. Lean to the point of emaciated hunger, child-like in a thin ragged black shift that went barely past her knees, Belial had the appearance of a young girl on the verge of womanhood, but with knowing eyes and a mouth far older and more cunning than her youthful looks suggested.

Neither Leviathan nor Belial wore their crowns and Crowley glanced at Beelzebub’s hands again. Two crowns, one upon each hand.

A shiver went through Crowley, and the demon glanced back at Leviathan and Belial again.

Unlike Beelzebub, neither of these princes had the look of those demons that spent most of their time in Hell, slowly rotting away. Like Asmodeus, they had the clear faces of those who spent as much of their time away from Hell as possible, and Crowley was reminded of the pains taken to not run into these other Princes on Earth or anywhere else. At least there were no assignments to the depths of the oceans or in the heart of vast deserts.

Asmodeus gestured, and Crowley followed him to the second prince’s seat on Beelzebub’s right. Belial sat with her slim arms crossed, her mouth opening in a toothy grin that showed off row after row of glinting glasslike black teeth as Asmodeus drew near.

Crowley swallowed, remembering that the Third and Fourth didn’t always used to be ranked so low. It was that Asmodeus had schemed his way to the top, past his peers.

But before Asmodeus could take a seat, Beelzebub pointed at him, gesturing for him to stay standing.

“Lord Asmodeuzzz. I see you have finally arrived. Does it pleazze you to ignore the summonz of the Dark Council?”

“I was not informed of this meeting.” Grim and stern, Asmodeus seemed bereft of his usual charm.

Astonished, Crowley wondered how this could be possible. Certainly Asmodeus was renown for ignoring missives, but he had never missed a Dark Council meeting without making some prior arrangement. Duke Ligur, Under-Duke Legion, and Crowley had all taken turns in the past casting lots on Asmodeus’ behalf, but Asmodeus had always been notified and notified his fellow Lords of Hell well in advance.

But if the Dark Council had met without informing Asmodeus, intentionally making him late so that a Duke was sent to fetch him, that meant someone here also betrayed Asmodeus.

“Don’t lie to us,” Belial hissed. “You’ve never been responsible, have you? Sending Under-Dukes and...companions to cast lots among your brothers as if our work means nothing.”

And yet it didn’t, Crowley thought. There was no real work done by any of the other Princes. Even Asmodeus was more of a figurehead than a figure of any real power, a jewel in the court of Hell and just as functional as any other jewel; hard, brilliant, but ultimately decorative.

Everyone in this room knew the real power lay with Beelzebub. All lots cast were decided in advance by the First Prince of Hell, as it had been for ages.

Suddenly Crowley felt a glimmer of understanding as to why Asmodeus would send his underlings to cast the lots for him, and it left Crowley with a shiver of remembered feeling. For all Asmodeus’ famed loyalty and support for Beelzebub, he must have been scheming against Beelzebub too.

Crowley waited. It seemed that at this point, Asmodeus would normally have some sort of a witty rejoinder or perhaps a devastating retort, but nothing happened.

Asmodeus said nothing.

“Yez. You have never been known for your responsibility, how do you expect uz to believe that you did not willfully ignore our summonzzz?”

Asmodeus shrugged, a gesture of defeat. “So I am in the wrong. Please, do fill me in on what I’ve been missing. Is this about-”

“Censure, dear brother.” Leviathan spoke, in a voice as vast as the ocean, placing a broad hand on the flat of the table, dark sun-burnished skin gleaming like polished obsidian in the torchlight. “You discorporated your own retainer.”

“I was in the wrong place, it was an acci-” And Crowley was immediately silenced by Asmodeus’ commanding hand.

“Merely an accident,” Asmodeus purred. “While in the business of spreading evil on Earth. Such things happen.”

“Accidentz aren’t supposed to happen,” Beelzebub snapped. “We run an organization meant to rival Upstairzzz in every possible way. Accidentz cannot happen.”

“And yet, it did. So, if there’s nothing else-”

“Silenze.” Beelzebub pulled out a wax tablet from thin air, sliding it across the table to Asmodeus. “Open it. Read it. Out loud.”

“’Greetings to the First Prince of Hell, Lord Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies...’” Asmodeus murmured briefly, skimming the long formal introduction. “...and witnessed your side causing its own problems. Congratulations on proving that evil contains the seeds of its own destruction. Yours, Archangel-”

“Gabriel sent me a note himself. Through an angel.” Beelzebub was livid, and Crowley trembled, wondering if that angel had been destroyed in the process.

“Ah. A shame, not to have warranted a social call.”

“Flippancy will not reduce the severity of your conduct. You have made uz look like foolzz before the Opposition.”

“So it appears I have. So what?” Asmodeus said coolly, to a sudden uproar among the other Princes of Hell.

Crowley moved, a little unintended and uncomfortable shift that this discorporated spirit did not mean to make and then gasped, realizing what had been done. It was the one thing that Crowley had not wanted to do, catch the attention of the others, and here-

Beelzebub looked at Crowley, and for an instant, Crowley felt transfixed by those icy pale eyes, as if pierced one more by sharp fangs that sought the life in Crowley’s body.

“You. Out. This concernzz not those who are not on the Dark Council.”

And before Crowley could move, the door opened and immediately Crowley was outside again, transported somehow by a powerful infernal will.

“Well. Looks like you’re done here,” Hastur said, glaring at Crowley with pitiless pupilless eyes. “Time for you to get back to work.”

“W-wait, but what about-”

“What they do among themselves doesn’t concern us. You should be grateful, Crawley. You weren’t destroyed.” Hastur chuckled in that way that said he was disappointed that Crowley survived.

“Y-yeah. I mean, yes, your Disgrace.” Crowley glanced back at the nondescript door. It had disappeared, leaving a smooth wall of stone. Disturbed, Crowley wondered if it was always like that when they were inside.

The hallway outside the conference room was empty of other demons, even of sound, but for sound of Hastur’s breathing. A movement of Hastur’s caught Crowley’s eye and suddenly without warning, Crowley woke up in his own body in Asmodeus’ court. With a gasping lungful of air, his body came fully to himself, and he could feel the life coursing electric through every nerve, every muscle, every vein and sinew.

A loud, fast thumping, and he realized that it was the sound of his own heart beating in his chest and he shivered, feeling the cold of Hell all around him through the thin black fabric draping his bare limbs.

He tried to take a step, and found himself collapsing to the cold stone ground, legs wobbling beneath him.

Crowley hugged himself, shaking, grateful for the corporeal body and yet could not help remembering his last glimpse of Asmodeus, cold and haughty, as his fellow Princes bore down upon him.

Chapter Text

Pella, 351 B.C.

Aziraphale laid in bed, staring at the ceiling.

By far the hardest thing to do while pretending to be human, Aziraphale decided, was pretending to sleep. Everything else was easy; she enjoyed eating food, she liked drinking, and she did occasionally use the facilities. Of course as a woman it was hard remembering all the timing of cycles and such, but she could always miracle up some blood as necessary. As long as she kept herself modestly covered, she didn’t even have to worry about the thing with the nipples. Not that this mattered anymore, she had finally figured out what she liked – something dainty and pink – and for this job had even mastered placement in case she was called upon to nurse a child.

But lately she had grown accustomed to years of living alone, without servants or slaves and not too many neighbors, and had gotten used to having things her own way; her own quarters set up the way she liked, her own belongings put away as she preferred. Here, she was away from all her favorite books and her own things, and the few possessions she owned had to be protected from the rapacity of a very small child who was not toddling about so much as zooming about at ten times goat speed, assuming the goat – besides being able to clamber up onto high places that one would not think even a goat could get to – could also handle sharp pointy objects and had a tendency to talk back.

As if on cue, the child in question tumbled into Aziraphale’s low bed, landing on Aziraphale with a thud.

“Ow.” Aziraphale said, even though it didn’t hurt. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”

“I can’t sleep,” Alexander replied.

Sitting up, Aziraphale lit the lamp by her bedside, struggling a bit with flint until the flame caught. In the wavery lamplight the child’s eyes looked strange; one eye looked pale blue and the other dark green, and for a very brief instant it seemed that he had a mouthful of sharp teeth. But when Aziraphale blinked, the mirage seemed to disappear, this was no more than an ordinary tawny-haired child with blue-gray eyes whose mussed hair sprang curling about his face like a lion’s mane.

Aziraphale scooped the boy up in her arms. So much for toddling, Aziraphale thought; this one was far beyond that toddling phase, old enough to talk and run and be a tiny menace.

“Nanny Melita, tell me a story,” Alexander demanded, as Aziraphale carried him back to his bed. Remarkably or perhaps miraculously, everyone else stayed asleep.

“Of course, child. But you should ask nicely, in a polite manner.” Aziraphale set the boy down on his bed, and began to tuck him in.

Impatiently, Alexander threw off the covers, sitting up. “Why? You’re just a servant. Nanny Akakios says servants are meant to be ordered around.”

“Nanny...Not Evil?”

Alexander gave Aziraphale a stern look. “Your sister.”

“Oh. Oh! Yes, that Akakios. Pardon me, I thought we were talking about the other Akakios and yes, of course a prince can tell his servants what to do, but even a prince should be kind and polite to his servants, whether they are slaves or royal kin. No matter if they are commoner or of noble origin as I and my siblings are, you should always-”

“The other Akakios is a boy, not a girl.”

“Isn’t there another other Akakios?”

“No. I’m sure. I know all the names of people who live in this palace, and all the guards and the servants and the slaves and the soldiers outside and the nobles who visit and-”

“Erm…”

“Nanny Melita, why do your brother and your sister have the same name?”

Crowley! Aziraphale thought, and thought very loudly, with a great deal of exasperation and irritation all at once.

“Ah…”

“Is it because they’re twins?”

“Well, that is-”

“Why do I never see them together? Are they quarreling? Do twins quarrel? What about the Dioskouri? They talk with each other all the time, don’t they? They should. One of them gave up some of his divinity to the other. Or is it different if the twins are a brother and a sister as opposed to two brothers? Two brothers wouldn’t fight. Unless they’re fighting for the throne. If I had a twin brother, I wouldn’t fight with him, I’d want him fighting by my side. But if we’re twins then he’d be the same age right? What if he wanted to be king too? Would I have to fight him? Unless we’re two kings together like in Sparta? But we don’t do that here. Would I have to kill him if he wanted to be king over me? Father says that to keep being king you have show no mercy to traitors and usurpers-”

“Ah, erm, uh, well, let’s see now. There, be a good boy and lie down. Let Nanny tuck you in. A story, a story. What about Herakles and the lion? Do you know that one already? The one where Herakles takes the thorn from the lion’s paw and they become the very best of friends-”

“That’s not right,” Alexander glared at Aziraphale from under the covers. “That’s not the way the story goes. Nanny Akakios told me the real story. Herakles strangles the monstrous, man-eating lion and flays it alive for its skin. That’s a good story.”

“Oh Lord,” Aziraphale whispered under her breath.

“Tell me a good story, one with fighting and killing. No, I’m going to tell you a story. The right story, about Herakles killing the lion...”

Hurry up and grow up faster, child, so I can come back as a tutor, Aziraphale thought.

“Akakios! Akakios!”

Crowley paused as he crossed the check-patterned mosiac of the atrium, hearing that familiar child’s voice. Over a million square cubits to this palace and somehow this child was still able to find him. Certainly it was occultish enough to give him pause.

“Aah! If it isn’t young Alexander. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t there be a nanny with you?”

“I was looking for you, Akakios,” the child said. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Crowley managed a smile, as suspicion grew. There should not have been any way for the child to find him, and it reminded him that all of this was questionable. For a long time now he had been wondering why an entire Prince of Hell had been sent on this observation mission when it could easily have just been him. He had tried asking Asmodeus before, but Asmodeus had never given him any meaningful reply, so it must have been something serious. Perhaps that was why the Opposition had sent its own observer, but then again did that mean that Heaven was playing catch-up to Hell? Had Hell gotten the jump on Heaven in this case? Or did it mean something else?

“That doesn’t explain the lack of a nanny, Alexander. You’re not allowed to go about unsupervised.”

“I’m not unsupervised, I’m with you.”

“Touché,” Crowley said, or actually the ancient Attic Greek version of this word, which was synchōrō.

“Why won’t you talk to me in Macedonian?”

“I’m afraid I don’t speak Macedonian that well,” Crowley said, even though he knew he could be understood in any language and could understand them all by using his innate abilities. “Besides, aren’t there orders to only talk to you in Attic? I’d rather not go against your father.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” Alexander waved it off as if it didn’t matter.

“If you’ll give me your hand, I’ll take you back to your nannies,” Crowley said, offering his hand. If he hurried, he could get back to Asmodeus in time.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. Not until you answer my questions,” Alexander crossed his arms over his chest in an imperious gesture.

“All right,” Crowley said, moderately exasperated. “What would you like to know?”

“Why do you look like your sister Nanny Akakios but not your sister Nanny Melita? I thought she was your sister.”

“Melita is my sister. And Akakios is my sister who is also my twin. Thus, the same name,” Crowley explained. “Twins, so it makes sense we look alike. Lots of twins look alike. Erm, except for the ones that don’t. Comes from sharing the same womb. Makes sense?”

“Then why don’t you and Nanny Melita look anything alike?”

“Do you look like all your brothers and sisters?”

“No. Not really.” Alexander frowned, thinking it through. “Not even Cleopatra and we have the same mother.”

“Yes, well. So that’s not so uncommon. Melita and I...that is. Well, it’s complicated. She’s a bit older. We both have the same mother. But that was a long time ago…”

“Don’t you mean the same father? And that’s weird, what do you mean a long time ago?”

“Father, mother, what does it matter? It was long before the creation- erm, long before you were born,” Crowley’s mouth moved into a polite grimace that he didn’t mean.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Adult things rarely do. Come on, let’s go.”

Alexander gave Crowley a particularly stubborn look that Crowley recognized.

“Oh, all right. Do you want to be carried on my shoulders?”

“Yes.”

Crowley reached down and swung the child up onto his shoulders, Alexander’s feet dangling against his chest. “Well then, let’s go.”

Two little hands grabbed handfuls of his hair and Crowley winced.

“You’re not being a proper steed! You should charge, like a war horse! And trample your enemies underfoot, crushing them in battle!”

“Fine, fine. But more gently, don’t be tearing out my hair there, Alexander. All right, off we go then, to raze the countryside! Pillage and plunder, and set everything to the torch!”

“Yay!”

Chapter Text

“Sorry I’m late,” Crowley said, settling into the chair at the tavern in town that they met at in secret.

“I hope it wasn’t to hard to get away,” Aziraphale said. “Sorry, I didn’t order anything. Just wine, and not very much of it, I’m afraid.”

“Hmmm? Nah, not too hard to get away, the guys are planning a hunting trip,” Crowley lied. “They’re mad for hunting here. Just went the other day and now they’re already thinking of the next-” Crowley blinked, noticing the empty table. “Didn’t order anything? I thought we were having a lunch. Er, lunch-dinner.”

“I’m afraid that’s canceled. I mean, certainly we’re here together to talk and catch up on our missions but. Well, there’s a banquet tonight, and I thought I’d wait until then-”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I don’t eat too much at those things anyway. Usually I grab something afterwards if I want a proper nibble. Got an in with the cooks, they’re quite good to me. You don’t have to hold back on my account.”

“Actually, I’m to attend. Lanike isn’t feeling well and the others have colds or sniffles so they want me minding the child while...Crowley, are you all right? You look a bit pale.”

“Fine. Just thirsty, I guess. Maybe got a little chilly or something, there’s a bit of a draft...” Crowley muttered, as Aziraphale fussed over him, draping her heavy himation around him, leaving her plump arms bare and revealing a lovely but modest expanse of skin from collarbone to collarbone above the elegant drape of her peplos.

It was warm under that himation – almost hot – and he felt his entire face flush as he stared at the ground, trying not to think about the pale creamy undyed wool tucked about his shoulders.

“There, much better. You already look like you have a bit more color.”

“Y-yeah, thanks. But you should keep the himation on. Decency and all.”

“No one’s looking and no one will. Now, a bit of business first, I suppose. We had ought to set some places to meet. Other than here. Alternate rendezvous points, if you will.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah…” Crowley shook himself out of a daze, realizing that Aziraphale was addressing him. “Good! G-good idea.”

“I think it would be particularly useful especially since we don’t have our own homes this time to meet in. Any ideas?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Please, I’d like to hear your suggestions.”

“A-all right, first alternative rendezvous should be down by the harbor, near where they offload the ships. Not the actual dock but you know, there’s that bit of path where you can see the dock and anyone else coming from a distance. The second alternative should be that olive grove just outside the palace, you know the one, the one with all the gnarled old trees, trees are probably nearly as old as the Earth itself. Oh, and for the third, there’s a waterfall beside a small stream, not the stream that goes down toward the harbor but the one further away up the hills. It’s in a small woodlot we can meet in. Not many people go there, since they just harvested in the last year or so. Waterfall’s loud enough to cover our voices. Top of the hill is too high for anyone to be listening in from above.”

“I’ve see you put some thought into this, Crowley.”

“Yeah. Been...well, whenever I get sent somewhere, I think about these places,” Crowley shrugged. “Even if you’re not there, I keep an eye out for possible places.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked away, but perhaps if one were to look closely, the tips of her ears were faintly pink. “I suppose that’s a clever move, thinking ahead... Ah! I do have some questions. Do tell me what the banquets are like? I’m quite curious. Do they really bring the wine in with the meat?”

“I dunno,” Crowley shrugged. “I mean, I’ve been to plenty but from where I sit I don’t get much of a good look around. Pretty much spend all that time sitting at uh, besi-, be-…being a noble companion and all. You know, conversation, cracking some jokes... Erm, nothing remarkable.” He spoke as casually as he could, hoping Aziraphale would fall for it.

“Ah, yes. I suppose that would be rather dull. What’s he like?”

“Hmm?”

“Your master.”

Lightheaded, Crowley felt as if all the blood left his body at once in one tidal swoop.

“My m-master?”

“Yes, the human. You know, the Egyptian lord. What a strange assignment,” Aziraphale shook his head, “a demon serving a human. I know I really shouldn’t ask too many details, confidentiality and all, but really. A human? I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Oh. Oh... Oh! Right, that human. Yeah. O-of course. Seems fine, just a human. An ordinary human, on the lam. Some troubles in Egypt, I suppose. He doesn’t talk about it much. Okay maybe not too ordinary, he’s some sort of astrologer. The humans think he’s an oracle and a magician but you know, not like real magic. Not like us, absolutely not at all. Not sure why they sent me to him. I mean, he’s not much eviler than most humans, at least I don’t think he’s much eviler. Hard to tell sometimes with these humans, you know, they’re capable of all sorts of things. Ha ha. Maybe I’m supposed to make him more evil? I don’t know exactly. Though, I might have some ideas why I was sent. But you know...erm, can’t tell you. Not even if I wanted to. Confidentiality and such, I mean, you didn’t stop being the Opposition just because we’re on the same…” Crowley muttered, running out of words.

“...project, yes, of course. I understand. Just like I can’t tell you all the details as to why I was sent.” Aziraphale’s mouth moved into the hint of an indulgent smile. “Well, at least we can have a little wine together sometimes and oh, do tell me when we can meet again next? It would be nice to have some company late at night when the humans are sleeping, I’m sure I could get in and out without anyone noticing and I’m sure you could if you wanted.”

“Ah, no. Sorry, nights, that’s not...those aren’t good for me.”

“No?”

“Nah, gotta...get my beauty sleep...er, that is, uh. These days. Been awful tired, you know. Running around doing two roles at once. And the kid. I need some time to rest. Sleep, even. Well, not always sleep, really, just need some time just to myself that is. If you don’t mind...”

“Not at all. Of course I don’t mind, Crowley. You know I’ll always respect your preferences and if you need some quiet time alone. Certainly I could use a bit more alone time myself, preferably in the daytime. You know, that child told me a rather harrowing story the other day.”

“You don’t say?”

“Oh yes, some rather grisly talk about flaying a lion and can you believe the children these days! Anyway...”

Crowley smiled to himself, staring at Aziraphale as he told his story. The angel’s expressive eyes told more than his words ever did, and Crowley listened, his mind wandering.

Chapter Text

Even sitting upright there really wasn’t much to see from here, Crowley thought, looking around from where he sat beside a reclining Asmodeus on the supper couch. Only now the Second Prince of Hell was disguised as the human Nectanebo, having set aside his usual Egyptian finery for woolen clothes in the style of the Hellenes. It was incongruous to see the supposed Egyptian with his dark skin and shaved head wearing a bleached white chiton pinned at the shoulders with golden serpents and draped heavily in a thick crimson himation, looking for all the world like a man who had given up on trying to look regal in his native way and had given into practicality because of the chilly weather. But Asmodeus often did this in the winter, tired of humans commenting on his lack of fear of cold.

As a not particularly important foreign dignitary who these days was more like the court astrologer than anyone of real importance, Nectanabo wasn’t placed particularly close to the king’s couch where all the great lords of the land dined. Instead, his couch was just above those of the minor nobles, as if in a buffer zone between the truly important men and those deemed not important enough to have their own couches and would have to sit on chairs or cushions.

The supper couches here were bigger and broader than those in Athens and there was no need to cozy up as they would have done in Athens. Though they were almost side by side, there was still quite a bit of space between them, enough that Asmodeus would have to sit up to touch him and for that Crowley was glad. Remembering what it had been like in Athens, he shivered; that would not have been something he would want Aziraphale nor anyone else here to see.

When the servants brought around the first course and with it the wine, hot and mulled with spices, Crowley remembered that Aziraphale had asked about the wine, feeling a pang of regret that he had not been able to remember. Musicians strolled about, playing the aulos and the kithara, but they were all modestly clad. So it was not going to be that kind of a party.

He looked around the banquet hall and there, past the king’s supper couch surrounded by those of his closest advisors and lords, were couches set up for his children, each attended to by a nanny.

Alexander was accompanied by Aziraphale who instead of reclining (which would have been immodest and scandalous for a woman at these events), sat politely on the ground at the foot of the couch as a servant might though not behind it as a slave would.

The child was dressed in a little costume made of dyed and knitted wool that had been cleverly shaped into a lion’s pelt complete with a felted head and whiskers. He sat with his feet swinging over the edge of the couch as Aziraphale tried to coax him into eating, taking a bite herself to show him that something was good.

Aziraphale took another bite, and noticing Crowley watching, caught his eye and gave him a little smile. The angel ate another morsel, seemingly enjoying the dish, and that made Alexander clamor for some himself.

Crowley smiled, amused, before remembering where he was and who he was with. His expression grew guarded and he looked away, pretending to be fascinated with a nearby aulist. He wondered what Aziraphale thought of the food; today the first courses were mostly braised poultry and birds, this time of year the ones caught out in the forest weren’t particularly young or fat. Later, there would be a boar, but even that would probably be stewed unless maybe the hunters got lucky and-

“How interesting,” Asmodeus said, interrupting Crowley’s thoughts, “that the king has his children brought in to dine. Rather unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

“Y-yes, my lord. Rumor has it he’s trying to impress someone.”

“Who, I wonder?”

“Some visiting lords or emissaries, no doubt. There’s a bunch of them, now that the weather’s taken a turn for the better. Passes are open again, and sailing season’s started, people are already coming in from foreign lands,” Crowley said, naming the men and where they came from, including their affiliations.

“Very good, Crowley. As always, obedient to my will,” Asmodeus said, meeting his eyes.

“Yeah, of course. Of course, wouldn’t have it any other way…” Embarrassment and a few other emotions fought a conflicting battle within Crowley, and he quickly took a drink of wine, as if that would settle the tumult within him.

“Now tell me, Crowley. Who was it that you were smiling at?”

“Oh...oh! Erm, nothing, lord. No one. Just. You know, kids. Always amusing. Humans.”

“You’ve always been rather fond of them, haven’t you? I remember your children. They were quite beautiful.”

Crowley paused for what felt like a long moment, not knowing how to reply. When he could speak again, he spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words.

“I suppose they were. But that was a long time ago. I hardly remember them,” Crowley lied.

“A shame, really, that angels cannot themselves procreate. I think, had we been able to, together we would have had such powerful, gorgeous children…”

A sharp shock of emotion went through Crowley at the thought, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. This was never a possibility that had occurred to him, not even to consider and it sent a surge of strange feelings through him that left him breathless, clinging to the couch as if it were the only bit of solid refuge among the cacophony of voices, of clinking cups and plates and the babble of men and the smudged blur of music that could be heard just above the conversations and laughter and-

“Akakios!” A small demanding voice called out to him, snapping him out of his daze.

“Huh?”

“Akakios! I saw you and I waved but you didn’t see me so I stood up on the couch and waved and you still didn’t see me. I wanted to say hello but you were too far away. So I came over. Did you know that boars will hide in warm places during winter? That’s how the hunters killed the one for supper tonight. The hunters caught the piglets too and brought them back and they’re not weaned yet but they’re supposed to be good for eating and-”

“Alexander, what are you doing here-” Befuddled, Crowley tried to figure out what to say to the child and a breath later Aziraphale was here as well, having caught up to the errant prince.

Quickly Crowley glanced at Asmodeus, who looked smug and amused, pleased with himself.

“I told you that I wanted to say hello. And you shouldn’t interrupt,” Alexander scowled. “And we’re eating some roast piglets for supper tonight. Along with the boar. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Alexander, we should not bother these nice people during suppertime...” Aziraphale murmured, her voice both fond and stern, all the while giving Crowley a look of exasperated amusement.

“Introduce me, Akakios?” Nectanebo said, his human visage wise and kind, even as Crowley could see the hint of a smirk showing from beneath the mask of ordinary humanity.

“Urk! Ah of course, erm. Lord Nectanebo. Well, this is the king’s son, Alexander, a Prince of Macedon.”

“Young Alexander. I’ve heard so much about you,” Nectanebo said with a pleasant and patient smile. “I see you have a lion pelt too. As both king and priest, I wear one often as well, but not tonight. It’s too cold here for the clothing I am accustomed to. But it looks like your lion pelt keeps you warm, my prince. Is that why do you wear it?”

Alexander brightened up immediately. “No, it’s because I’m Herakles!” He said loudly, causing nearby humans to smile and chuckle.

“And what about you?” In a breach of protocol, Nectanebo addressed Aziraphale. “Who are you?”

Aziraphale looked genuinely startled, and Crowley hastily introduced her.

“So! Lord Nectanebo, I’m sure you don’t know the customs here very well so maybe you shouldn’t...erm uh, I mean I guess it’s not that big of a deal because of course this is not that big of a deal it's fine, introductions are in order. So! This is Melita, one of Prince Alexander's nannies. And...the reason I know her is because erm. My erm. Sister. Older sister. Yes, my sister, she's my sister...” Crowley stumbled through the words in a panic that he was afraid of showing.

“A pleasure it is to meet a sibling of my dear noble companion,” Nectanebo said, his expression sweet and mild. “Are you married, my dear child?”

“Oh, no. I mean, that is to say, I was. A long time ago, when I was younger. But not anymore.”

“A widow, then?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Any children?”

“N-not...anymore,” Aziraphale said, flustered. “That is to say, I have no children.”

“Melita, sister,” Crowley interrupted with a forced smile, all the while cursing Aziraphale in his head for that damned honesty. “You look a little pale. Are you cold? Care for some wine?”

“Oh no, I mustn't,” Aziraphale smiled politely, innocent and unaware. “It would be rather scandalous, I’m afraid. I’m only here to mind the young prince, not to be a guest. Speaking of which. Alexander, we ought to go back to our seats. Your father will be very cross with you if he notices you misbehaving.”

“I’m not misbehaving, I’m just here to greet my friend. Father greets all his friends, why can’t I?”

“Little Herakles has a good point. But who – I mean, where – is your father, son of Zeus?”

At that, all eyes were on Nectanebo; everyone sitting nearby had heard that. There was a brief pause of silence, followed by a sudden wave of murmuring gossip.

“Uh, certainly it’s worth remembering that Lord Nectanebo does not speak Greek all that well,” Crowley raised his voice just enough to be heard clearly, trying not to be too obvious about it. “And is already somewhat drunk, and stumbling his words.” Trying to make it a point, he called to the slave in Macedonian, who came to refill the miraculously empty cups with more heated wine.

“Never mind that, Alexander. Let’s go back to your couch, they’re about to serve the next course.” And as Aziraphale leaned down to pick up the child, her himation slipped, slithering down her torso, revealing plump, sturdy limbs and an ample bosom. Men began to murmur and point. She frowned to herself, bending over to pick up her dropped himation to cover her limbs but then a little metallic snap; one of the bronze fibulae that pinned her peplos to her shoulders broke, the creamy wool falling about her and partially baring her nudity to the world.

The golden crown that represented her Principality gleamed, swinging between one covered and one bared breast before disappearing into a fold of fabric.

Flustered and embarrassed, Aziraphale clutched the loose ends of her peplos against her chest.

“Well, she’s sure not an Amazon! That right breast is far too round and ripe!” A raucous voice called out, and the men laughed and made lewd suggestions as Aziraphale moved to cover herself.

“Akakios is a lucky brother if he gets to see that on the regular!”

“Ah-, erm Melita!” Crowley sprang to his feet, picking up her dropped himation and holding it up to block her from view. Aziraphale glanced at him, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but the look that she gave Crowley was full of intense gratitude as she fumbled for the fabric that had slipped down her back. There was no way to pin it together, and she felt her lower lip quiver; she would have to tie the peplos to hold it together and that would ruin that subtle and delicate pleating she had worked so hard on pressing to get it right.

“Please, allow me.” Nectanebo unpinned his chiton, revealing a muscled chest as perfectly formed as that of a statue. He sat up, reaching over to pin a golden serpent to the ends of Aziraphale’s peplos so that once again the fabric would be held together at the shoulder and for a moment Crowley could not breathe – Asmodeus almost, almost touched Aziraphale’s bare skin but in the last moment, his fingers slipped away without ever making contact.

“Thank you! Oh, thank you, Lord Nectanebo, I don’t know what I would have done without you,” Aziraphale said, her voice trembling as she took the himation from Crowley and draped it about herself very carefully so that it would stay put.

“You may keep it if it pleases you.”

“Surely I couldn’t accept this, it’s far too fine of a gift and besides, then you’d be missing one of a pair…”

“Then think of it as a loan,” Nectanebo answered in a gentle voice. “You may return it to me any time.”

“What can I do to repay you for your kindness?”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Nectanebo smiled, and there was something hard in his expression, obscured beneath a layer of charming graciousness. “After all, this is just basic human decency.”

Chapter Text

Crowley could feel his heart beating hard in his chest as he hurried along the corridor, afraid of being found out. The rest of the banquet had gone as usual; after another course or so, Alexander was whisked off to bed and the party really began, with hard-drinking Macedonians emptying cup after cup of unmixed wine in one long draught. Crowley did not stay much longer than was decent, leaving Asmodeus’ side with an excuse.

Rounding a corner, Crowley hesitated, fine-tuned senses focused on the empty hallway. Hearing nothing and seeing no one, he changed and by the time she made it around the corner entirely, she was already disguised as the other Akakios, the nurse.

If she hurried, perhaps she had time to sneak in a quick conversation with Aziraphale and retrieve that serpentine fibula, to return it to Asmodeus on Aziraphale’s behalf. It was worth a try, and she headed briskly toward the inner palace, obscuring herself so that no human could see her.

But that never worked when Asmodeus was involved.

“Crowley.” The Prince of Hell strode out from behind a massive fluted column as Crowley made her way through a shadowy peristyle, and she recoiled with a yelp, jumping back.

“M-my lord Asmodeus!” Momentum checked, Crowley caught a nearby column for balance, nearly toppling over in the process.

“Going somewhere? You seem to be in a rush.”

“J-just going to get a nibble from the kitchens, nothing weird at all. See if they have a bit of those roast piglets left, saw there were quite a few uneaten slices, maybe if I’m lucky they’ll heat up some rolls for me, roast sucking pig and hot rolls are a good combination-”

“Disguised as one of the nannies?”

“Well, erm, other Akakios was at the banquet, so-”

“And that’s not the direction of the kitchen.” Asmodeus strode forward, putting his arm around her waist and Crowley screwed her eyes shut.

When she opened her eyes again, it was bright, so bright that it made her blink; they were back in Asmodeus’ quarters where the lamps burned even when they were empty of oil.

“Oh…” Crowley scowled to herself, her head tilted down so that he could not see her face through the curtain of her hair. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, leaning into his embrace, hoping he would not ask more of what she couldn’t say. “Musta gotten turned around. Never really good at navigating this maze of a palace, and it really is a maze, didn’t think humans made such big...”

“You seemed rather in a hurry to leave the banquet. Were you perhaps concerned about your little friend?”

“You mean, Alexander?” Crowley went with it, if it could be an attempt at redirecting the Prince of Hell’s attention, any misdirection would help. “Yes. That is, yes, my lord. As a matter of fact I am concerned. Many of the nurses are rather poorly, sick with some human ailment, and I thought I’d see to his health. Humans make each other ill all the time, respiratory things spread amongst themselves like…like the plague and well, you may or may not know that humans five and under are very prone to dying suddenly without any real reason, I mean, the reason is sickness mostly but-”

“No, I meant your other friend. From the Opposition.”

Crowley tensed without meaning to and then was dismayed, feeling Asmodeus’ arm tighten around her.

With his free hand Asmodeus caught her by her chin, forcing her head up to meet his eyes.

“You can’t really lie to me, my darling, no matter how much you might try. I know you, you’re too loyal for that, aren’t you? You lie as a matter of course, for propriety’s sake, and I would expect no less from you. After all, we are demons. But I know you can’t lie to me.”

“Well, you know me. Propriety and all that,” Crowley chuckled weakly, feeling the words false upon her lips, and she kept her eyes on his brilliant green eyes, breathing evenly even as her heart thudded in her chest, hoping to keep her emotions off her face as he scrutinized her expressions.

“So what is it, my darling? Desperate for a snack? Worried about a child? Or is it...an angel.”

Cowley looked away.

“Why don’t you tell me something about your counterpart then?” Asmodeus’ breath was hot against her ear. “You must have picked up some useful information about him. It’s been a long time since you first met him, hasn’t it? I know he’s been skulking around you for centuries. It’s not anywhere near as long as we’ve known each other, but it must have been long enough for you to have learnt some things. Particularly since you seem cozy enough with him to seek him out.”

Trembling, Crowley gently tried to extricate herself from his arms, afraid that Asmodeus would notice as if he didn’t already notice.

“Tell me, Crowley. Tell me about Aziraphale.”

And at the name, a shock passed through Crowley and she felt as though she were about to jump out of her own skin. She had forgotten that Asmodeus knew Aziraphale’s name.

“The...the Representative. The opposition’s representative. Named Aziraphale. A Principality, formerly a Cherubim.”

“Yes, I know all of that already.”

“Angel of the Eastern Gate. Erm…” And Crowley paused. All the things that she could think of about Aziraphale seemed so trivial and far too personal. How Aziraphale loved food, especially fruit but over time as human cooking grew more and more complex, that had shifted toward sweets like honey cakes. That fond look of exasperation that he would give her sometimes when his patience was being tested. Aziraphale’s fussiness over his clothes, whether it was a feathery tufted kaunakes back in Mesopotamia or a shendyt kilt from Egypt or that very conservative but elegant blue-bordered chiton that he used to wear back in Athens. The comforting heat of his arms as he-

“Well, what else?”

“Uh, gullible. Yes, rather. Rather gullible. Far too honest for his own good. And responsible too. Very loyal to Heaven...”

“Darling, you aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know about angels.” Asmodeus smiled, though from experience Crowley knew that this was an empty expression, devoid of genuine emotion, a way of covering up the Prince of Hell’s impatience with the thinnest veneer of charm. “Tell me something specific about this one.”

“Erm...uh. I suppose. Well, let me think. Ah, I might have noticed that this one has a taste for sweets?” Crowley faltered, all the while thinking of how Aziraphale’s eyes sometimes changed colors depending on the light and the season and what he was wearing or what he was feeling, and sometimes that hue could be almost as golden as his own eyes when Aziraphale was in a particularly riotous mood, and often it was such a deep rich brown that it made Crowley a little weak at the knees and even more rare was when his eyes looked like the muddy blue-green-brown of the Earth as seen from far away in the rich velvet darkness of space, precious gems that shimmered in the evening light when the sky itself was tinted gently pink and lavender. “L-look, I don’t really know that much, all right? I don’t...don’t keep that close of an eye on, on the other side’s representative. I just...I don’t know, I don’t really pay that much attention to personal preferences and such, just working on my, my project as best I can given the circumstances...”

“Hmmm.”

And Crowley froze, hearing the considering tone in Asmodeus’ voice, so she put her arms tight around the Prince of Hell.

“Yes, what is it?” Asmodeus stroked her hair back, running his fingers through the curls until his fingers snagged on a knot. Carefully, he untangled that little knot in her hair, snapping the tangled threads. It didn’t hurt Crowley, but she winced all the same.

A few broken hairs floated down to the ground,

“Y-you know I’m loyal to you, Lord Asmodeus. I wouldn’t betray you, not willingly,” Crowley whispered. “I would never...not after you’ve shown me so much...so much favor for so long.”

“If you were worried about being destroyed…” Asmodeus murmured, in a tone that was almost loving but left Crowley wondering. “You’ve had plenty of opportunities for that in the past and have never come close. And of course you won’t be recalled from Earth; that would give factions in the Dark Council far too much power. But prove your loyalty to me, darling, and I promise you’ll be richly rewarded.”

“Rewarded?” Crowley looked up to Asmodeus, alarmed by his words, which seemed incongruous given that the Prince of Hell had lately been censured and punished, and was very certainly extremely out of favor in Hell. Crowley wondered if Asmodeus knew that there was action being taken to sideline him, to confiscate his crown in the same manner as Beelzebub had done to the other Princes of Hell. “M-may I ask how, my lord?”

“Darling, you know I can’t tell you the personal business of a Lord of Hell,” Asmodeus said, pressing a cold mouth to Crowley’s lips. “It would be too dangerous for you to know. But in due time things will change, even for me, and when it does I want to know that you’re mine and mine alone, just as you have always been.”

He let her go, moving away from her, crossing the room to pour himself a cup of wine, reclining upon the bed.

“Yes, my lord. Of course. Nothing’s changed and nothing ever will.” Crowley assented, because there was nothing else she could do.

She hesitated, feeling her will waver but she knew she had to show him that she would come to him of her own accord and so she came to Asmodeus’ side, clinging to the Prince of Hell. Even though she had known before that she couldn’t tell Aziraphale, it was worse now that Asmodeus was looking for any hint that Aziraphale might know. The angel would have to figure it out alone, and the longer Aziraphale stayed ignorant the better it was for her.

But the danger it put Aziraphale in, sent jolts of fear through her. She couldn’t, couldn’t let anything happen to Aziraphale…

“Of course if I find out I have been betrayed…” Asmodeus’ arms tightened painfully around her, and she flinched, whimpering against his shoulder. “I’m certain we won’t need to worry about that, will we?”

Crowley made a pained noise, and Asmodeus eased up on his grip.

“I won’t let you down, Lord Asmodeus. I swear,” Crowley whispered, golden eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Chapter Text

The Land of Punt, 1990 B.C.

“Crowley?”

A gentle shake, and Crowley found herself waking from a decadent afternoon nap, yawning. “Hmm?”

It was a hot day but here in the deep shade beneath the palm trees where the sand was soft and a gentle breeze stirred the air it was almost cool, and it seemed like a great waste not to be napping, and so without thinking, Crowley pulled Aziraphale down by her side, her arms spanning the angel’s plump and curvaceous form.

“Oh, oh!” Aziraphale sputtered, surprised. “Oh my! No, you don’t have to let me go, sorry I was just surprised. And I’m so sorry my dear, I really shouldn’t have.”

“Shouldn’t have what?”

“My apologies, dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. No, actually I did. I did mean to wake you, I’m just sorry for waking you. Even though I needed to.”

“It’s all right.” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale drowsily, a hint of a smile on her lips as she pressed her cheek against the round and delectable curve of Aziraphale’s soft tummy, all the more prominent because of that form-fitted sheath dress. “What’s going on?”

“Ah. Erm, dreadfully sorry Crowley, but I must be away, just received a message that I had to do a bit of work down the river. Do you mind waiting?” Aziraphale smiled gently, untangling herself from Crowley but taking Crowley’s hands in her own, giving them a squeeze.

“Oh.” Crowley tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice, as a sudden pang of pain went through her, realizing that Aziraphale could not stay here forever and neither could she. “Sure, of course. No, I get it. You have to work.” Crowley sat up, though she did not let go of Aziraphale.

“I’m so sorry. I really would rather be here...”

“When will you be back?” Crowley ventured, and a building anxiety scrabbled inside of her when she thought that the answer would be perhaps never, or so long that it would not matter if it was never because those things might nearly be identical, or worse, that Aziraphale would not tell her.

“A day or two, I hope.” Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hands another squeeze. “Of course it could always go longer, but I don’t think it should. Just a little divine inspiration, a miraculous healing or two, that sort of thing. Shouldn’t be too hard. Unless it is.”

“Come back soon.” Relief swept through Crowley, and she stood up in the sand to watch Aziraphale leave, her arm curled around the rough trunk of a palm tree. Yet strangely some part of her ached and painfully so; she could not help but wonder if this was the last time she would see the angel for a long time. A year, a hundred years...

She sighed, and played over their last words together in her mind, fixing them to memory.

Suddenly Crowley smiled to herself; Aziraphale had remembered her real name.

Crowley spent the rest of the day wandering through the tall trees along the Nile, watching the birds as they chattered above her head. The seasons here varied only subtly, and the weather was just starting to grow cooler, still hot during the daytime but not as blisteringly hot as it could be, with genuinely cool nights. She spent the night beside the comforting glow of a fire, shivering from the damp chilly evening air, missing Aziraphale’s strength and the warmth of her arms.

And even though Aziraphale was only meant to be gone a day or so, it seemed as though time moved so much slower without her, so that the days felt really quite unpleasantly long when most days normally skipped by without much trouble. But this time…

Crowley stood up suddenly, scaring off a prowling leopard. While Aziraphale was gone she would gather up some ingredients for a delicious supper, to welcome her back.

She spent some hours picking doum fruit from the tops of the tallest palms that were troublesome and difficult for humans to access and then wandering about where she knew there were local settlements, she traded for tender and sour kisra crepes made from sorghum, a freshly butchered joint of lamb, and even a jar of wine that she brought back to their temporary encampment on the eastern bank of the Nile, where the sun shone gently through a canopy of trees and the grass was soft and dense.

As she worked, filling a basket with wild garlic shoots and tender spear-shaped leaves of mulukhiyah, a pollen-dusted bee landed on the back of her hand, and she wondered what it was doing here; after all there were few flowers in this patch of greens.

“Excuse me, did you need something?” Crowley asked the bee.

The bee buzzed, vibrating and waggling its abdomen in a quick motions.

With a sharp puff of breath, Crowley blew the bee off her hand.

Undeterred, the bee flew back, and began to dance again.

Crowley shook the bee off with an impatient gesture and walked away from the patch of mulukhiyah but the bee followed, landing on her forearm this time to continue its buzzing dance. With a sigh, Crowley watched it dance for what felt a long time – that is, a long time for a bee – scattering golden grains of pollen wildly about as if it were trying to tell Crowley something. But whatever the little fuzzy bee was trying to convey, the message was incomprehensible, leaving Crowley confused.

“I don’t know what you want with me. We may both be female now but I’m not a bee, I don’t need to know where nectar-bearing flowers are.”

Exhausted, the bee stopped, taking a moment to rest and catch its breath before winging off in irritation to quench its thirst in a nearby blue lotus.

Puzzled, Crowley pondered the problem for a bit and watched the bee sip nectar furiously before flying off into the forest.

“Well, that was something.” Crowley set her hands on her hips.

But getting a drink seemed like a good idea, so setting down her basket, Crowley waded into the Nile past the still waters where the lotuses bloomed and out into the open river. The river was up past her waist before she reached the point where cool fresh water ran swiftly. She leaned down to cup some water to her lips to drink, and as she did so, she realized that the silt she had stirred up in her wake seemed to have the appearance of...

Quickly she turned around.

Were those words in the silt? But even where the current was still, that didn’t mean that the water didn’t move at all and all she caught was the sign of a vulture and then maybe a horned viper or something and some bird (and there were so many birds, too many birds, and they were only vaguely distinguishable between each other) before the shapes disappeared, stirred by the movement of water and gravity catching those particles of silt.

Was that some sort of message? Or something else? Crowley stared for a few minutes before deciding that if there was a message, whatever it was, it was not meant to be read or at least not meant to be read by her. And so she clambered out of the river, weighed down by the tight embrace of her soaked dress, the dress she dared not to change because he had put it upon her himself, he who was her master in all things...

With a scowl the water fell away from her, splashing onto the shore as she stepped out onto land.

In a foul mood, she returned to their camp and worked on starting a fire, fumbling the flint and tinder and cursing under her breath. How did Aziraphale do it, she wondered? Aziraphale usually got the fire going.

Oh, Crowley remembered with a wry smile, in much the same manner, with lots of fumbling and muttering and gentle coaxing, though with no cursing.

A real shame, Crowley thought, as she cursed a blue streak until the fire caught, though whether it started by flint and tinder or swears was another question unto itself.

It would be dark in a few hours, and Aziraphale was still not back. The food was all set up, ready to be cooked, and yet there was no one to cook for.

Crowley sighed, and settled in to wait as the sparks caught the tinder and the fire began to burn. Perhaps Aziraphale wouldn’t come back. Or perhaps it would be a long wait. She hoped it was the latter; it would be wonderful if she could see Aziraphale again. As long as the angel returned to her it wouldn’t matter how long she had to wait.

Wisps of smoke came up off the fire and if it wasn’t so wavery, the wisps almost looked like elegant cursive hieratic script written in a very familiar hand though everything was turned 90 degrees because the smoke was drifting upwards in the still air and…

“Oh.” Crowley tilted her head.

Terribly sorry hope you got my messages been trying all day hope it works this time oh you naughty goose please stop shoo I’m trying to send a message don’t make me roast you for supper because I will I am serious Crowley sorry shall be a bit later than I planned for so very sorry I will be back right away tomorrow morning at the very latest but will try to return by dusk however and you need to go away you silly goose no not you Crowley sorry but the goose keeps getting underfoot and grabbing the hem of my dress please excuse me will return as soon as possible A

“Oh.” And Crowley smiled a little, just to herself, putting a good-sized piece of wood into the fire before laying down to nap until Aziraphale would return, a strange warm contentment settling into her as she closed her eyes.

And then just before sunset, Aziraphale was back, carrying a big basket full of wonderful things that she brought for Crowley, jars of millet and sorghum, a good quantity of honey cakes, and even a whole watermelon. Crowley looked to see if there was a goose in the basket, but unsurprisingly there was no goose; it had apparently lived to terrorize another day. It made Crowley smile; Aziraphale was too kindhearted.

“Oh, Crowley! I am so terribly sorry you had to wait so long. Truly I hope you received my messages, I kept thinking that maybe they might not have sent properly so I sent several, in case you weren’t looking in the right place. And look, I brought some things we could have together, let me show you this thing I learned! We need a cooking vessel and some heat and we can turn this sorghum and millet into delightful popped kernels and oh, do you like watermelon? I am so very fond of watermelon, and have you tried it before? No?! Oh my dear, we must have some watermelon then. The point is to not eat the seeds, unless the point is to eat the seeds, in which case you would roast them first, and the rind shouldn’t be eaten, at least not the hard green part, but the soft part can be pickled and humans do so many clever and delicious things with fruit, don’t they-”

The sunset spread ominous over the western horizon, bands of violet and crimson clouds that slowly faded to dark blue and then black, and Crowley waited on the island, alone. If Aziraphale were here, they’d be done with supper by now, drinking wine and talking while a good fire kept the cool evening at bay.

For a long time after the angel left she had gathered food and hunted, readying the ingredients for a supper for two, knowing the exact day when he said he would return. But she had long since given that up; after so many lonely meals she no longer cared whether Asmodeus had any kind of welcome waiting for him.

Crowley was tired of waiting.

It had been over a year since Aziraphale left, and it had been many months after the day that Asmodeus had said he would return. Over a year since Crowley returned to the mysterious island that Asmodeus created for them but still, Crowley was alone. Even after the ship that took Aziraphale away had left, few other vessels had passed the island and no one had ventured upon it.

She was alone, truly alone; not even birds or insects landed here.

A year wasn’t much to an angel, fallen or otherwise, as long as a bee’s buzzy vibrating dance was to a bee perhaps, but for some reason the time wore on Crowley and she felt a creeping sadness upon her that she could not shake off.

All these ages upon the Earth alone and it never seemed to bother her, so why now? What made it different?

Crowley went to those places that she liked, the mouth of the cavern where she and Aziraphale had watched the rain together, the beach where she and Aziraphale had rested together side by side and talked in the shade of the palm trees, the sycamore fig tree where she and Aziraphale had picked fruit together…

They had never made it to their own island in the sea, there was no such time for such a journey together. And yet, having waited so long for Asmodeus, there really could have been time, perhaps, if she had known. Time enough to travel with Aziraphale, to find a place of their own liking, to walk during the cool part of the day, to watch ocean waves break upon the shore from a lofty perch up in a big sycamore tree, to talk and eat and laugh about some little joke, some play on words that-

“A-” And for a moment, just a brief instant, she wasn’t sure if the word she had in mind was Aziraphale or Asmodeus.

But she knew what she would like it to be, had she had the ability to say it.

In a moment of intense frustration, she let go of her human form, slithering up the tree into its branches. Something about the serpent’s form seemed more suitable; Crowley could pretend to not think as humans did but merely exist as a snake did, to sleep and wait for time to pass.

“Darling.” Strong hands plucked the massive serpent off the tall branches of the tree, and the great red and black creature tried to move but couldn’t, sluggish from the cold.

Golden eyes beheld the Prince of Hell in the colorless dawn light, and it was as if recognition was not possible; this was merely a serpent after all.

Frowning, Asmodeus asserted his will and in his arms Crowley returned to her form, her limbs cold and trembling in the icy chill of morning.

“Asmo- Lord Asmodeus?” Crowley blinked. “Is that...is it really you?”

“Of course, Crawley.” Asmodeus’ mouth moved into a smile but Crowley didn’t see it, her arms tightening around him with a desperation that she didn’t know she had within her.

“Oh, thank you, my lord, thank you…” Crowley clung to him, her face pressed against his broad shoulder, grateful for his return, grateful for his affection and warmth. Tears stung her eyes and she did her best to hide them from him; he hated seeing her sad. “Finally. I’m so glad you’re finally here. I was so lonely without you, I missed you so much.”

“Thou hast taken a chill, my darling one. What hast thou been doing, up in that tree all night like that, when cold hurts thee so easily? Let me warm thy icy limbs, thou art safe now with me...”

Chapter Text

Pella, 351 B.C.

Aziraphale stared at the wooden beams of the ceiling, watching the very slow movement of moonlight as it peeked in through a high narrow window. She laid in bed with a blanket over her, wishing she had a little more light and something to read while she waited patiently for the sun to rise.

She missed her house in Ephesus, her old life there, and really, she missed not having to play as a woman all the time. While it was fun to dress up and try new hairstyles and jewelry and so forth, all the other problems of being a woman in the world seemed like just too many problems.

She longed for her chiton, her himation...not that the clothes were really all that different in structure, but how it was draped mattered and she missed wearing that rugged masculine style with one shoulder bared and those very manly boots that were worn in winter, and she envied Crowley for being able to wear that handsome Macedonian military-style chlamys that looked so very dashing on him. She thought it would look good on herself as well when she was a man and looked forward to some future date where she could toss off this disguise for another, that of a man. After all, she was far more comfortable in the guise of a man than not and had been for so many years now, almost right from the beginning.

If only she didn’t have to be a woman right now.

It had been a week since the banquet. She had spent as much of it as possible, including her time off, in the women’s quarters, staying close to the child. She had only gone out once during this time, down to the port to send a letter to a human friend. A week should be enough time for the humans to forget, Aziraphale thought, still irked and embarrassed by what had happened at the banquet. She scowled to herself, still wondering how that pin broke. It was an old fibula, certainly, and one partner of a pair that she had been keeping for a long time with nary a spot of corrosion or discoloration. It had always seemed very sturdy and even its partner was good and strong; Azirahaphale had gently manipulated the entire length of metal of the intact fibula and knew it was sound. So what had happened? Some internal weakness, some inherent property that cracked the metal beyond repair.

Aziraphale’s lip quivered faintly; that had been her favorite set of fibulae and now she had to use her second-favorite. Which were fine but not quite as fine and she sighed heavily.

She listened to the sleeping breaths of the other nannies and Alexander. No less than three or four women at any given time were around him, responsible for his safety and well-being and Aziraphale thought that this could justify a late night trip to the latrine. Not that she would actually go there, there was no need for that. She just didn’t want to lie here with her thoughts and nothing else, pretending to be human while all of humanity slept.

If someone asked, Aziraphale thought, she would say something about women’s troubles, or better yet, that something didn’t agree with her digestion. Those were good, reasonable human excuses, and she was of course a good, reasonable human.

So she tossed off the blanket, getting out of both bed and nursery in a miraculously silent manner, and with a sigh of contentment stepped out into the hallway past the unseeing guards before letting herself out into the chill spring air of a central courtyard.

The moon was hung as a sliver of silver, and she could smell the scent of the sea in the air, damp and salty, with that faintly fishy scent that the fresh sea air often had around ports, and something inside Aziraphale calmed a little. It was just a fibula, and like everything else but for angels fallen and otherwise, bound to a limited lifespan. Material matter just wasn’t quite as robust.

Aziraphale decided to go for a walk. A loop around the palace would take too long, perhaps just out toward the port and back again.

It was still early and Asmodeus wouldn’t expect him until later; right now Crowley had a little bit of free time. Most people were asleep, in the first sleep of the night, and the humans wouldn’t be waking up for another few hours or more.

Crowley thought about going to see Aziraphale. He had taken his usual turn as the other Akakios earlier but hadn’t been able to get anywhere close to Aziraphale, instead spending all day chasing around a very active and boisterous Cynane, Alexander’s older half-sister. In fact, all week that had been the situation; whenever he went in as the nanny Akakios, it seemed that he had been either stuck with some sibling or another of Alexander, or far too busy wiping up messes and dealing with the minor crises of bloodied knees or noses to exchange more than a few words in passing with the angel.

Now, even though now he had time and opportunity, he hesitated. Not only had he already and perhaps foolishly ruled out meetings at night, there was no use in trying to sneak around now that Crowley knew Asmodeus could be lurking invisible anywhere in the palace, just waiting for him to slip up. Perhaps it was better this way, that he go it alone until their next planned meeting.

But then there was the matter of that gold serpent-shaped brooch. Aziraphale still had Asmodeus’ fibula, and he knew that the angel would try to return it, with or without Crowley’s interference.

If only the angel weren’t so damned polite and respectful.

“Grgh!” Crowley said very reasonably, at what felt like a mountain of problems that was on the verge of collapsing into a region-destroying landslide.

He started to head out of the palace to go for a walk to clear his head but then he turned back. And then he proceeded out again only to take a handful of steps before returning toward the inner palace, only to try to leave once more. Three of four more attempts later, torn between two directions, Crowley eventually found himself standing in the shadows of a deserted colonnade that passed along a large courtyard, open to the uncaring sky.

Crowley made a terrible noise of frustration. Either way he was unable to proceed.

Lately it felt as if he was spending all of his waking hours either worrying or working as hard as possible so that he couldn’t worry. But no matter what he did, his thoughts were consumed with troubling questions.

He longed to discuss it with Aziraphale, but that was impossible, not without giving too much away. The angel was too clever for his own good, and would intuit Asmodeus’ hidden identity. The prospect of slipping up filled Crowley with an uncountable number of anxieties; Aziraphale could never keep the truth off that far too honest face.

A shiver passed through Crowley, wondering what the Prince of Hell would do, and specifically, what Asmodeus would do to him if Asmodeus knew he had been betrayed. Unlike the machinations Downstairs, it wouldn’t be hard to find out who betrayed him here.

If he betrayed Asmodeus, it wouldn’t be the first time, but he couldn’t let it happen again, not after last time. The thought of Asmodeus’ expression, tight with a tension that hadn’t existed before...

Guilt overwhelmed Crowley. He knew intellectually that it was not supposed to be a feeling that demons had, after all, betrayal and distrust were part and parcel of existence in Hell after the Fall. But after much consideration, he had decided that sick unpleasant feeling must have been guilt, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

With a heavy sigh Crowley collapsed against the rough surface of the finished stone wall. Underneath his hands he could feel the tiny grooves made by the stonemasons. He pressed his head against the cold stone, trying to will away the painful beating of his heart and the vast sea of upset that he seemed drowning in. And yet the thoughts within him did not relent.

What did Asmodeus mean about things changing? What kind of things changed in Hell? Almost nothing, other than the endless tedious jostling for power, and that made him wonder what Asmodeus was plotting, who Asmodeus was intent on betraying Downstairs. Beelzebub, likely, as no one else was worth the effort these days.

But besides that, never had Asmodeus offered him rewards for loyalty and obedience. Loyalty and obedience to Asmodeus was a given, and there was nothing in return for that, beyond the obvious protection that any Prince of Hell afforded members of their court. But rewards? Why now? What was changing? Did Asmodeus distrust him? Well, of course, they were demons after all and they weren’t meant to trust each other but...

If it seemed that Crowley was glaring at the intricate mosaic floor made of tiny, carefully chosen pebbles, it was because he was actually reserving all his irritation for Hell, glaring down as if he could glare into the depths of Hell itself from where he stood in a very lavishly appointed palace in Pella.

Crowley’s scowl darkened. It suddenly struck him that Asmodeus had said that his business was his own. Not the business of the Dark Council, but the personal business of a Lord of Hell. Whatever this was, it was unauthorized: Asmodeus was playing his own game.

Crowley remembered the confiscated crowns, shining black upon Beelzebub’s incongruously dainty fingers. They were gold once; he remembered the first time he had been sent to the Dark Council, when those fallen Archangels still wore their golden crowns upon their heads, crowns that were slowly turning iron black, charred by the Fall.

So Asmodeus was the last and only autonomous Prince left that could stand up to Beelzebub. Was Asmodeus plotting against Beelzebub and the Dark Council for revenge? Perhaps it was the kind of revenge that involved a power grab? That seemed likely but one Prince of Hell against three others, even if two had been sidelined, was a losing proposition. There was no way Asmodeus could win if Beelzebub called in all favors.

And yet Asmodeus seemed confident that whatever was going to happen, it would be to his advantage.

Crowley groaned, a hand balled in frustration pressed against stone, as if that would be of any use. It felt like an impossible, improbable task, to try to outmaneuver Asmodeus. The opportunities were far too few and Asmodeus always seemed several steps ahead of him and everyone else. It didn’t seem like he could ever come close to meeting the Prince of Hell on equal footing, much less leave the engulfing blackness of the shadow that Asmodeus cast, and Crowley could feel despair inching along his soul, like a little furry caterpillar creeping the contours of his heart.

If only he could talk to Aziraphale...

Chapter Text

Instead of going down to the port, Aziraphale found herself lingering in the palace, admiring the art. In daylight hours there wasn’t much time to gaze at the paintings and mosaics; usually she had to be fast on Alexander’s heels. Though there were higher-ranked nurses and nannies that were ostensibly in charge of him, they had left her to the dirty work: keeping an eye on him. She suspected that this was for one of two reasons, either that it was because she was low-ranked, or because she tired less easily than humans did, at least when she wasn’t running.

This task that seemed like it should be easy at first was much more difficult than she had anticipated; the child could sometimes somehow slip out of her view, which was something strange that she had never experienced before with a child. Not that she had spent much time with children – well, ever – but something about it seemed unusual. After all, no humans had ever evaded her, but then had she really had to follow one specific one around like this before? And were perhaps the small, not fully-formed humans subject to another set of fundamental rules of reality that she was not familiar with? All of these seemed possible.

Aziraphale frowned; this was beyond her experience. But then she decided that this was a problem for future Aziraphale in daylight hours. Right now she was going to enjoy beautiful things. The moonlight on the pebbled geometry of the courtyard was so lovely and as her eyes traced the patterns she wondered what the colors would look like in sunlight, and somewhere nearby the soft song of nightingales in the early spring lulled her senses and she did not hear the steps of booted feet behind her.

“You’re the sister, aren’t you?”

Surprised, Aziraphale whirled around to notice that a human had snuck up on her. Bad form, she thought in irritation, somehow she had let her guard down and was visible to the humans.

“You’re much prettier up close, but not as pretty as you were without your clothes,” the man stepped forward, and Aziraphale vaguely recognized him as someone who had been at the banquet, some lord of middling rank.

“Yes, well. I’m certain you’re mistaken; I’ve never been nude anywhere near you,” Aziraphale managed a grim polite curving of her mouth.

“No, I know you’re the nanny called Melita. What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Sneaking out for a taste of sweet honey on your own?” The man began walking toward her with deliberate steps, and Aziraphale found herself backing up.

“Now I know you’re mistaken,” Aziraphale said, trying to decide what she should do. Miracles were one thing but to change a very determined human mind was beyond her ability.

It had been a long time since anything like this had happened, and something about that made her tremble with upset.

Perhaps if they were in a forest, she could miraculously disappear into the undergrowth without startling the human too much, but in the middle of an empty courtyard like this there was nowhere to go.

“No, I know what women like you like.”

“Ah, now, you see, this is where you’re wrong. I am merely on my way to…erm, the latrine and if you recall I do have a brother and I don’t think my brother would like this very much-”

“Pfft, Akakios,” the lord said. “Maybe that Egyptian astrologer can keep questing hands off of him but he doesn’t have influence here.”

“W-what do you mean?”

“He might be nobility but he’s hardly even minor nobility and besides, if anyone asks, I’ll say that you asked for it.”

Aziraphale blanched, and suddenly realized she had been backed up against a wall.

The man leaned over her, trapping her between his arms.

“Come on, I want to see those round ripe-”

Crowley startled, hearing something of a commotion and a familiar voice.

“Please, no! You’ve got the wrong idea-”

Aziraphale! Crowley moved quickly to see what the problem was, catching a glimpse of Aziraphale shoved against a wall, the looming figure of a man trapping her.

And with a quick snap of his fingers, the lord froze, still leaning over Aziraphale.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale gasped, nearly melting with relief. “Thank goodness.”

She ducked out from between the man’s arms, and into Crowley’s, and Crowley drew her close. Stopping time gave him a little freedom, at least in this little space he could not be seen by anyone.

“Shh, s’all right, angel,” Crowley murmured, holding her tight. She trembled in his arms, and he remembered the last time Aziraphale had been afraid like this, and a frisson of cold fury went through him.

“Sorry, I know I shouldn’t be afraid of humans, it’s not becoming of an angel-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley said nothing, just tightened his arms about her.

Eventually her trembling ceased and he gently began to let her go, much to her dismay, and she held onto him, unwilling to leave the comfort of his embrace.

“It’s all right, angel. Not your fault. Bad memories get...trapped in these bodies.” Crowley gestured. “Can’t help it.”

“I know, but still, I’m a Principality and I shouldn’t. I mean, I’m supposed to be responsible and powerful and protective and-”

“And you are. You just. Well, everyone needs a little support now and again, even Principalities.” With great reluctance, Crowley let Aziraphale go. “All right. I can handle it. Let me deal with this.”

“Crowley? What are you doing?”

“It’s fine, I’ll do the dirty work.”

Crowley ducked under the man’s still-outstreched arms, slipped into the spot where Aziraphale had been. Standing taller than Aziraphale, Crowley had to bend his knees a little to be positioned where he wanted to be.

“Crowley, why-”

“Hang on, angel.”

Crowley stared the man down, slowly easing just the frozen moment of time that the man had been trapped in so that it flowed normally once more just for the human, but he could not move, transfixed by a serpent’s hypnotic gaze. Slowly straightening up, Crowley stepped forward, forcing the man to stumble backwards as the demon stalked toward him.

“All right you. Lordling Whateveryournameis. No more propositioning...well, anyone. Got it? Not at night, not in the daytime, nowhere, not ever again. You’ll be respectful from now on to anyone of any age and gender.”

“I…” The man nodded slowly, in a dreamy stupor. “Yes, no more propositioning.”

“And you’ll never look at Alexander’s nanny again. If you do, you’ll suffer from the torments of-”

“...Crowley, no! Please!”

“...erm, terrible nightmares. And incontinence. And impotence. Got it?”

“Yes…incontinent impotence.”

Dazed, the man wandered off, unseeing and unhearing, unable to notice the two celestial figures standing in a patch of frozen moonlight, paused in a moment of time.

“Well, one down,” Aziraphale muttered. “Thank you for that. I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s not going to be enough.”

“No?” Crowley gave Aziraphale a look of surprise. “Is something wrong? That seems...an odd thing for you to say.”

“Well, ever since that banquet...he isn’t the only one you know, just the boldest so far.”

“Oh.” Crowley’s mouth moved in a scowl. “I thought-”

“I know you meant well, and I think that your place in the hierarchy merely means lower-ranked men, like those soldiers and minor nobles would keep away from me. I’ve noticed that no one that sat to your left has done anything other than look. But to your right? That was just one of those men.”

Crowley scowled, a dark expression. Aziraphale could not have known that the man who had been reclining beside him was probably behind all of this, and he bit back a growl of frustration, wishing he could curse Asmodeus out loud. Just because the Prince of Hell promised he wouldn’t interfere directly didn’t mean that Asmodeus wouldn’t interfere indirectly.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be careful about going about without an escort. I just wish that you could…” Aziraphale smiled gently to herself. She looked away from Crowley and in the icy moonlight her curling pale hair shone like silver. “Never mind, it’s nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“A silly thought, nothing to be concerned about. So, were you out for a walk too?”

“Erm, yeah. Something like that. I mean…” Crowley took a breath. “Just...out on some business for my erm, human lord?”

Aziraphale’s mouth moved in a polite smile. “Sulking about at night like a demon does? Really, what kind of mischief does your human get into?”

“As…” And for a moment, Crowley felt all thoughts slip out of his mind before the word ‘astrology’ managed to stumble out past his lips. “Oh er, astrology. You know, phases of the moon and stars, that sort of thing. He sends me out to check. The human.”

“I thought you knew all those things by heart?”

“Yeah, but...this. Erm, you know, this gives me a little time to myself at night. I say I’m out to observe the stars, but really, it gives me time to myself.”

“Your beauty rest?” Aziraphale smiled.

“Yeah, something like that,” Crowley mumbled.

“Unless…” Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “Unless, do you mean that he’s...doing things untoward with you at night?”

“Me? Untoward?” Crowley looked genuinely surprised for a moment, not certain what Aziraphale had asked, until realization slowly sank in as the rain soaks into parched earth, and his eyes went wide. “Oh, wait, you mean uh….untoward. That untoward. N-n-n-no, it’s not like that, he uh, he doesn’t have passions like that. For women. Or for men. He’s just, you know. Himself. Focused on magic and astrology and such, movement of the stars, er, the nature of things, the Good Life and all that. I don’t know, but it’s not like that. Absolutely not, I swear.”

“Oh, thank goodness. For a moment I was afraid that Hell had sent you to...you know, serve. Serve up yourself on a silver platter, that sort of thing.” And Crowley could almost sense what was unspoken, as they had done in the past. But Aziraphale was too courteous to mention such things, and for that Crowley was glad.

“Yes, well.” Crowley’s mouth twitched. “Hell certainly sent me to serve but it’s not what you think.”

Chapter Text

“Nanny Akakios, why weren’t you at the banquet?” Alexander asked sleepily.

“I wasn’t invited, dear. And it was my night off,” Crowley said gently, tucking the child in with exaggerated patience, all the while cursing herself for having forgotten to ask about the serpent-shaped fibula.

“Oh.” Alexander stared up at Crowley. “I thought you didn’t work at night. But why are you here now? Isn’t it still night?”

“Yes, dear. But your Nanny Melita was not feeling well, so I came to fill in for her.”

“Is Nanny Melita in trouble?” Alexander sat up immediately.

“No, no. Just a little tired,” Crowley said, patting the boy’s head. “Lie back down, dear.”

“I heard that only certain kinds of women get naked at feasts,” Alexander whispered. “Bad women.”

“I’m sure Melita is not bad. Just unlucky,” Crowley managed a grim smile. “Certainly you can understand bad luck. A broken fibula is beyond anyone’s control.” Except Asmodeus, Crowley thought, feeling teeth grit behind that smile.

“Maybe. Mommy says bad luck means that the gods don’t favor someone. But good luck does. Is that why I’m so lucky? Because the gods favor me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Crowley lied. “Could be all sorts of things, really.”

“Nanny, can you keep a secret?” Alexander’s voice dropped to a hushed whisper.

“Of course, dear.”

Alexander gestured Crowley close. “I didn’t tell the Egyptian who or where my father was, because…” And here, Alexander paused.

“Because?”

“Mommy says my father’s mightier and more powerful than any man here.”

“Oh. Well, of course. He’s the king.”

“No, Nanny Akakios. More powerful than any mortal man, including the king. Do you think that means my father is a god?”

“What?” Crowley gasped. “How-”

“I heard the other nannies gossip.”

“Is this something you heard from erm, my sister?”

“No, Nanny Melita never gossips with the others. But I think that’s because she’s new and no one knows her that well. And she’s not an important nanny like Nanny Lanike. Nanny Lanike is the one who said that Mommy was visited by some gods before I was born, and she knows everything about me.”

“Oh yes, Lanike…” Crowley swallowed, realizing that she had apparently not been listening hard enough to human gossip. Or perhaps, the humans were just not as open around her. “Wait, how did you hear this?”

“They were whispering about it when they thought I was asleep. But I wasn’t, I was just pretending.”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop, dear. It’s not a good habit.”

“That’s what Nanny Melita says.”

“Oh, then you should eavesdrop. It’s good for keeping track of your enemies. And friends.”

“That’s confusing.”

“Most adult things are. Well, time for sleep, Alexander. No more chatting.”

“Nanny Akakios, will you sing me a lullaby? I don’t like it when Nanny Melita sings.”

“No?” Crowley’s eyebrows went up. “Why not?”

“Nanny Melita never actually sings. She just says the words. I think she thinks she can fool me, but I’m not fooled, that’s just talking and not singing.”

“...oh. Well, that’s odd.” Crowley swallowed, feeling a deep unease to those words. There should be no way that a human would be able to tell that Aziraphale wasn’t singing, after all he had spent decades pretending to be a poet without any trouble. “Of course, Alexander. Of course I’ll sing you a lullaby…”

With care, Crowley gently tucked the boy in, making sure he was comfortably warm underneath his blankets.

Sleep, baby. Dream, ocean. Wake, boundless evil.
I command you. Change will come. God! Mother!
May some change come! Forgive presumptuous prayers!
Whatever words I say are far from just…

Chapter Text

Egypt, 3300 B.C.

Crawley came out of the desert like a wavering black mirage, ashen robes fluttering about a tall slender figure as a desiccating desert wind picked up. But as hot and dry as it was, the desert wind could not overcome the sudden expanse of swaying green that was spread out before the demon. Just looking at this verdant land was like the sensation of cooling water, and some of the pain that had gripped Crawley’s heart seemed to unclench.

A voice. Crawley startled. There was something familiar about this voice, and so Crawley disappeared into a the deep shade in a thicket of tall reeds that grew along the banks of the Nile, as if melting into the shadows.

Beside the bank was some dark disturbed soil, and it was approximately in the shape and size of a human. Crawley wondered; was it a grave? Crawley held up both hands, staring as if muddy dirt still clung to these self-same hands that had dug a deep grave for two small-

And then movement distracted the demon. With both hands Crawley parted rustling reeds, peeking out cautiously. From this dense patch of vegetation the demon could see Aziraphale, a splotch of white against the dark water of the river. The angel was up to the thighs in the river, standing in the irregular shade of starry-fronded papyrus and Crawley relaxed a little, realizing that the angel was facing away from the demon. Gentle swarms of flying insects hovered about the angel, birds sang in a cheerful chorus, lotuses began to bloom all around the celestial being, and a crocodile floated by placidly, seemingly unaware of what was going on.

“Now...if you will just. Stay. Dead!” A flash of a pale stone knife of human make gripped tightly in a broad hand, and Crawley realized that the angel was cutting something up.

No, not something. Someone.

Crawley stared; the angel was covered in blood to the elbows, stained crimson all over. Even the sleeves and the entire front of that white celestial garment was soaked. Aziraphale severed a limb and another one, tossing them into the current with annoyance.

“Honestly, the project has been over for ages and you were supposed to stay dead. Now look at you, what a mess! I can’t believe they sent me to do this.”

Aziraphale disappeared from view as Crawley pressed both hands to a shocked mouth, muffling a sound that came from deep inside that surprised even the demon. It did not seem that this angel could be capable of such violence, and yet-

“At least I didn’t have to kill you myself, but, I am very, very disappointed in you, Osiris! Burying you in a hole didn’t work. Sealing you into a lead box didn’t work. Please stay dead from now on, the Mandate must be enforced.” Aziraphale finished by cutting off the head and tossing it into the river.

The angel sighed, grumbling. “Just look at this awful mess! I’ll always know that everything was blood-stained. What a sight I must be.” And with a gesture, the blood was gone and the angel put the now-pristine knife away, carefully sheathing it before tucking it into some hidden pocket in those fluttering white robes.

Crawley watched as the angel waded back to shore, and realized the angel was headed in Crawley’s direction.

With a hiss, the serpent form overtook the demon, and Crawley disappeared into the reeds unseen.

Crawley followed the angel down a narrow path that meandered along the bank of the Nile but kept a cautious distance, afraid of being seen, ducking into the waving reeds and rushes whenever it seemed like the angel might turn around.

But Aziraphale did not seem to notice. Instead, the angel grumbled the entire way.

“Really, who creates a Nephilim so powerful that it keeps trying to climb up out of the grave? Honestly, at least they can’t reproduce, but if they were going to make such powerful Nephilim, someone had ought to have put some systems in place to keep them from being so powerful. After all, even an angel or a demon can be discorporated.

“A-and who keeps finding this Nephilim and bringing it back to Thebes? I thought stashing it north would have solved the problem, but no, some human keeps finding the grave. I am so very fed up with this, and need to find out what’s going on. Who is doing this and why?”

Aziraphale paused, before huffing a deep sigh.

“All right, I suppose it’s time.” And with a gesture, the angel’s appearance changed to that of a human. Tall, lean, with desert-colored skin and a rapacious face that reminded Crawley of a wild dog, Aziraphale looked so entirely different that Crawley was taken aback.

The human strode forward with an arrogant sway of his hips, down toward the edge of the river. He was mostly bare; besides jewelry, his only garment was a pale linen kilt belted tight around a slender waist. The human leaned over to peer at a miraculously clear and calm patch water.

“Oh, goodness, not again.” Aziraphale said, voice tight with upset, as he looked at himself in the reflection of the Nile. “I don’t think his nipples looked like this. Oh, they certainly didn’t. Goodness, how could I have made this mistake! I got the nipples all wrong!”

The demon threw up both hands in silent annoyance. Come on, Aziraphale!

“I just can’t remember what they looked like!” Aziraphale lamented. “And I don’t want to have to dig him up to check!”

They’re just nipples, it can’t be that hard! You’re an angel, for Hell’s sake! Crawley fumed silently, pressing both hands over a rebellious mouth, wanting to shout at the angel in secondhand frustration.

“Oh wait, I know. I can fix this.”

Really? You can fix this? Crawley was skeptical and wondered how Aziraphale was going to get around this problem. If humans in this area wore only kilts and skirts, there was no way to get around not having nipples or having the wrong nipples.

But then the angel surprised Crawley.

With a gesture, a headdress plopped onto Aziraphale’s head, of some long-eared beast that Crawley could not quite identify.

What is this supposed to be? A jackal? A giraffe? A donkey? A fox? An aardvark? That looks ridiculous. You look ridiculous! Crawley thought the words very hard and in Aziraphale’s direction.

But whatever beast these clothes were supposed to represent, it didn’t matter much as the headdress had flaps that hung down along both sides of a tightly muscled chest, long enough to cover the human form’s nipples.

Crawley fought the urge to clap, albeit in a slow and sarcastic manner, and had to be content with a very disappointed shaking of the head. Well done, angel. You’ve just solved one problem by creating another problem.

Aziraphale sighed, adjusting a heavy golden collar necklace set with precious stones. “All right, I’m ready. Let’s get this over with.”

The demon watched for a moment in stunned silence as the angel continued walking, heading downstream.

“Well. That was something.” Crawley said in a low voice to no one in particular, following in Aziraphale’s wake.

Chapter Text

Crawley hid behind a row of standing humans, crouching down quite a bit as the demon was much taller than most of the humans here. This seemed like some sort of meeting, or maybe it was a party. Whatever it was, it was a big gathering of humans, the very important ones seated in chairs, and many others standing or sitting on woven mats on the ground. There were a variety of humans of many different sizes and shapes and colors, but the vast majority seemed like what Crawley thought of as partially-formed humans, some years off from being fully grown, many of them nearly larval to the demon’s discerning eye.

But what stood out to Crawley was that these humans wore headdresses that had the appearance of animal heads, others wore a variety of headgear: feathers, animal horns, a pot, a stuffed and dried bird… Fascinated, Crawley feasted curious eyes upon all the finery and frippery, almost forgetting to listen.

“...and the office of Osiris, beautiful in his appearances, son of Ptah….”

Then again, perhaps not listening was the better option. Crawley stifled a yawn in that very particular and discreet way that had been learned from ages and ages of meetings in Hell. Whatever was going on with the humans, it seemed so much like Hell in so many ways: lots of important titles for lots of unimportant people.

Crawley smiled suddenly, a mean and indulgent smile. With a jolt of joyful malice, Crawley made the distinct and privileged choice to not bother at all to try learn any of their names. But once Crawley was done staring at all the costumes, the demon’s attention kept sliding toward that lazy recumbent figure of the disguised angel, and the demon thought that it must have been from curiosity about the angel’s motivations for being at this human thing. Sure that had to be it.

Crawley did not have to wait long.

“Actually, I disagree.” The humans began to murmur among themselves as Aziraphale stood up, pushing his chair back, in the guise of that tall lean human. “I, Seth, that is, a very important Lord of the Ennead and son of Nut, do hereby proclaim my claim to the throne of Egypt. By which I mean, I should be the rightful king,” Aziraphale said very loudly and clearly, to the gasps of the humans about him.

Seth’s cold hard eyes passed over the crowd, and perhaps there was a little flinch, but Crawley did not notice it.

“Lord Seth, the demon slayer? I thought he was dead.”

“Last I saw him, he wasn’t breathing.”

“That’s Seth for you all right. Mysterious in his form-”

“Well, I’m not dead,” Aziraphale snapped, in the deep and gravelly voice of Seth. “And as you can see I am breathing just fine. Certainly I am standing alive before you, o princes and magnates of the two lands.”

“And what kind of a hat is that? I thought Seth wore a jackal headdress.”

“Looks like a greyhound to me.”

“A dog and a jackal are two different creatures-”

“It’s an ass. Obviously an ass.”

“No, no. I think the animal of Seth is an oryx antelope.”

“Ooh, is it a camel?”

“No, idiot, it’s obviously a jerboa. You know, those tiny desert jumping mouse things with the long skinny legs. Don’t eat them, they’re not worth the trouble.”

“I could have told you that. Why would you want to eat a mouse? And it’s clearly a giraffe. Is it a giraffe, Seth?”

“Tapir! I think it’s a tapir!”

“Oh I like this! This is a fun game, do you think it’s an okapi?”

“Nah, more ordinary. Maybe a boar?”

“Oh please, boars don’t have tall ears like that-”

“But donkeys do.”

“I already said ass!”

“That’s different from a donkey-”

“Not it’s not!”

“A fennec fox. The animal of Seth is clearly a fennec fox.”

“I’m going to guess that it’s an elephantfish.”

“Fish don’t have ears!”

“What about the nḥ bird?”

“Birds don’t have ears either, you fool!”

Seth threw up his hands in exasperation. “It’s not any of those animals! It’s...it’s a...erm, a Seth animal, all right? A very special and unique creature meant to represent me, Seth. I’m Seth. Obviously.”

“But what about the son of Osiris? What about Horus?”

“Osiris has a son?” Seth blinked, visibly taken aback. “How the Hell does Osiris have a son?”

“Oh yes,” a young woman stood up, one with something tied onto the top of her head that looked a bit like small blocks of mudbrick or a little building. Or maybe it was supposed to be a part of a chair, Crawley thought. “And I, Isis, am his mother. Behold, I followed foul Seth to the river, and found him throwing the body of Osiris into the river.”

“To be fair, lady, it wasn’t his body so much as pieces of his body. And I know you weren’t there. No one was.”

Crawley’s mouth twitched with amusement.

Isis ignored Seth. “Later, I found and took the pieces of the body out of the river and put them together, and Osiris came back to life.”

“All right, that’s just not possible. I know at least one of those parts was eaten by crocodiles and it was not a trivial piece, you can’t live without a torso-”

“Osiris and I joined together, and I conceived, giving birth to Horus, our son. And before Osiris returned to the land of the dead, he himself told me that Horus should be in charge from now on. With me as his advisor, of course.”

“Of course,” Seth sneered. “How very convenient for you.”

“Where is Horus? Who is this child of Osiris? Why have we never heard of such a thing?” A human in an ibis-headed headdress demanded.

Isis gestured, and a skinny gangly youth walked in, standing beside the chair of his supposed mother.

“It is I, Horus, the son of Osiris and Isis, rightful heir and lord of the two lands.”

Seth stared, shocked for a moment before finding his voice. “T-this supposed son of Osiris and Isis looks more like Isis’ little brother. He can’t be more than two or three years younger than you, Isis! You couldn’t have given birth when you were a toddler! Or a few days ago, for that matter!”

“He doesn’t look like Osiris or Isis…”

“Nose is rather beaky. Kind of has the look of a falcon, doesn’t he?”

“Pretty pale, don’t you think? Doesn’t look like one of us. Even my palm is darker than him.”

“Is it just me or does he look like one of the Nine Bows?”

“Good point. Do you think Isis might have brought him back from those northern lands when she went to find Osiris’ body last time?”

“Maybe, if she concealed him well since then and taught him our ways-”

“Well, he hasn’t gotten enough sunlight yet, he was just born,” Isis declared. “And so what about Horus, son of Osiris? What about his right to the throne?”

“What about Horus?” Seth paused to think, before turning to wave a dismissive hand at the young man. “Send him outside with me and before all of the Ennead, I will show everyone just how my hands will prevail over his hands.”

Horus scowled, and Crawley noticed something of a tight sourness to the youth’s expression and the unpleasant twist of his lips. “Yeah, let’s fight. I’ll fight you any day, old man. And win.”

“Oh please, you couldn’t win in a fight against me, child. It would be like setting a duck against a crocodile. Where I’m the crocodile, of course.” Seth put his hands on his hips, indignant. “Just look at this brat, who is still an unweaned fledgling that puts his finger in his mouth. Horus has not even grown a beard yet, whereas I am fully a man, great in virility.”

Crawley stared from a gap between two humans, wondering how Aziraphale was managing to say these words with a straight face.

In fact, Aziraphale was just barely managing, and had briefly phased out of reality to stifle a giggle before phasing back, causing the humans to murmur as the image of Seth flickered in and out of view.

Aziraphale as Seth stared at the ground for a moment before composing himself, straightening his collar necklace with both hands, making the beads rattle.

“If there’s nothing further, I suggest that we proclaim me lord of the two lands-”

“But Seth, with this new revelation we must send a letter to Neith and await her response.”

“I suppose if we must.” Seth’s face was a study in impatient politeness. “But if that’s the case, we’re done here for the day.”

Days passed and Crawley attended every meeting, hiding in the back and watching Aziraphale as the human Seth present himself before a crowd of powerful humans, posturing and arguing.

It all felt very comfortable and familiar, quite a bit like Hell to Crawley’s mind, but without the fear of destruction and the horrors of torture, and so Crawley was content to watch, amused by the antics.

Two major factions fought for kingship and it was surprising to Crawley that despite Seth’s insolence, he actually had some allies like the not particularly clever but wealthy and powerful Re-Harakti. Re was a human who owned all sorts of different headdresses that he would wear on different days, depending on his mood. Unlike the others who wore the same headdress every day, sometimes his headdress was a falcon, other times it could be nearly anything else: a ram, a heron, a serpent, a bull, a cat, a lion, and once in a while, something that to Crawley’s eye looked like a thin round cooking pan. Or maybe that was supposed to be a flattened dung ball? Crawley did not know enough about human things to guess.

Of course, Crawley’s favorite headdress of his to look at was the scarab beetle, which to the demon's delight, the human wore today. That was designed and devised in a cunning manner with insectile legs and antennae made of painted, jointed reeds that wiggled on Re’s head. A light breeze and Re’s own movements made the jiggling legs twitch and dance about, and the demon watched the hat in a happy daze before startling, hearing Seth’s voice for the first time today.

“Why should I be content with merely being enriched and having the two daughters of Re-Harakhti when I could have all of those for myself anyway when I am the lord of the two lands?” Seth asked, in a voice dripping with insolence.

Impressed, Crawley nodded in agreement; Aziraphale made a very convincing Seth. It was almost easy to forget that there was no actual human lordling named Seth, only an angel in disguise following some strange orders that Crawley could not begin to fathom.

“It is said that Horus is the rightful son of Osiris.”

“Are you all so sure about that?” The look Seth gave the others was scathing. “Are we really to believe that his mother somehow fished the pieces of Osiris out of the Nile, pieced together the rotten corpse until it was alive again, joined with it, conceived, and birthed a son that is somehow so large now that he walks on two legs and is getting rather squeaky-voiced and pimply? A son who is obviously of about 12 or 13 years of age when the mother is only a few years older?”

“Well, it’s possible, isn’t it? After all, Isis is powerful in magic.”

“Right.” Seth gestured. “Perhaps a demonstration should be in order. Please, show us some of this so-called magic, Isis.”

Isis stood up, brushing back long black braids. “If it must be done, I will demonstrate. Look! Behold! My most powerful of miracles and magic! From the ear of Seth, I draw out this signet ring, which appears immediately in my hand through the great powers vested in me by my mother Nut and my father Geb!”

Aziraphale as Seth paused for a moment, impressed by human ingenuity, but remembered at the last minute that he was not supposed to be impressed.

The crowd murmured, gasping in surprise, and a great chatter went up about magical powers. Seth threw up his hands in exasperation. “Oh, all right, fine. She can do magic. By the very, very low standards of- wait, that letter of Neith, does someone have it handy?”

“Yes, it is right here, Lord Seth.” A scribe handed over the letter.

Seth took up the scrap of papyrus. “Look. Neith may have her reasons for choosing the so-called son of Osiris, but the fact of the matter stands that I, a grown and manly man, powerful in arms and mighty in war, greatest in virility among the Ennead, should be the rightful ruler of the lands of the sedge and bee, and this boy who is only a few days old should be allowed to grow up in peace without the troubles of adults-”

“Yeah, and Horus is despicable!” Re-Harakhti added. Despite the fact that Re was one of the very few fully formed humans in this lot, and old enough to even have wrinkles and gray hair in his head, with age did not come wisdom.

The princes and lords of the land began to mutter amongst themselves in irritation.

Seth bit back a sound of frustration. “Let me talk, Re, now’s not the time-”

“And, and this office is too much for the lad-”

“Re, you are not helping, in fact you’re doing the opposite of helping-”

“And in fact his breath stinks too!”

Men and women alike began to shout down Re.

“Re,” Seth said tartly, voice dripping with contempt. “Your shrine is vacant.”

“W-what does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, you absolute fool. Your shrine is vacant, just like your head. No one cares about you and your stupid ideas.”

Re stared for a moment, before tears filled his eyes. “Wah!” With that cry, Re lay down on his back, the legs of the scarab hat wiggling despondently as if a beetle turned over upon its back, and Crawley had to press both hands over a giggling mouth, trying to stem the laughter.

“Seth, you’ve gone too far!”

“Seth!”

“Have I though?” Seth’s mouth twisted in a malicious smirk. “After all, what other of the Ennead is powerful enough to do what I do? Mighty in arms, great of strength, I am Seth the demon slayer!”

Demon slayer? Crawley wondered what that meant. Were those actual demons or perhaps just very vigorous crocodiles and the occasional extremely large catfish.

Geese, Crawley decided, as the demon walked out into the blazing sun, sneaking out first before the humans dispersed in the uproar. It must be geese. Those creatures were a menace to humanity, notably humanity’s tender, biteable flesh.

Glancing back, eyes fixed on that lean confident figure and its rapacious face, Crawley was amazed at how Aziraphale openly insulted other lords. It sent a thrilling shock of excitement through the demon; not even Asmodeus dared to insult the other Princes of Hell like this.

A strange feeling crept up through Crawley that felt more and more like longing.

Chapter Text

It was more and more like Hell every day, and Crawley wondered when it would be over and when Aziraphale would finally grow tired of all the disputes.

Then again, perhaps for an angel it was a nice change of pace from Heaven where no one was ever allowed to do any kind of contending, not if they wanted to be demoted downstairs for all of time ever, with no chance of forgiveness or mercy.

“None of you lot are willing to do what I do,” Aziraphale as Seth said as he stood before the assembled humans, boasting and posturing, “standing at the prow of the Bark of Millions, slaying the opponents of Re daily.”

Crawley had finally seen this phenomenon, having followed the human once out of curiosity. After the daily trials, Re would go boating. The Bark of Millions was a rather sizable boat that the human liked to sit in and have paddled about the Nile. But as the human was something of a coward, Seth would perch on the prow and with a long pole, punt away various swimming things that got near the boat, which mostly came down to nudging away the dire hazards of ducks and egrets, and the occasional very small crocodile.

“None of you have the strength of arms to incapacitate crocodiles and demons and...and other bad things. Like erm, those bitey flappy things, what are they called...anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I should receive the office of Osiris.”

A murmur went up among the humans, and to Crawley’s surprise, even more this time agreed with Seth.

Isis and her faction grew restive, and among them, a few humans stood up to make their objection.

“But an actual son of Osiris is here, conceived by his body. How should the office of Osiris be awarded to a mere uncle?”

Despite yesterday’s turmoil, there were now even more humans supporting Seth and a new addition to Seth’s faction spoke up. “But Seth is the elder brother and still living. How could that office be awarded to a mere child?”

“I’m being cheated and deprived of my father’s office,” Horus complained.

“Quiet, adults are talking,” Seth snapped.

Isis stood up, her voice shaking with fury. “That you don’t believe me is one thing, but I will not have you insulting my son, the rightful lord of the two lands. I swear, by mother Neith and Ptah-Tatenen that these matters should be submitted for consideration before Atum, the great prince of Heliopolis-”

“Isis, don’t worry.”

“Don’t become angry.”

“The rights will be given to the one who is in the right.”

“All you have said will be done, Isis-”

“Oh, excuse me?” Seth interrupted. “Are these not the adjudication trials? Or have you all already decided in advance for Horus?”

“Of course, we are all of us neutral, not deciding for anyone in advance-”

“So very neutral that perhaps I shall take my sceptre of 4,500 nemset-weight and kill one of you a day.” And as if to prove his words, Seth picked up a massive and rather dangerous looking sceptre as if it weighed nothing.

Gasps all around, and Crawley’s eyes went wide, wondering if Aziraphale had what it took to go about smiting and killing humans. Was Aziraphale really that kind of angel?

“You don’t have the balls,” Isis said, right in Seth’s face.

“All right.” Seth dropped the sceptre with a clunk, cracking the tamped earth floor of the courtyard. “Fine. If you want to be like that, I swear by the Universal Lord that I will not continue another minute of this tribunal while Isis is still in it.”

Shocked, Crawley stifled a giggle; this was the apocalyptic option, the War in Heaven motion, and the demon wondered if the humans would stand for it.

“Fine.” Re spoke up. “We shall ferry across to the Island in the Middle to continue the deliberations. Tell Nemty the ferryman, not to ferry any woman across resembling Isis.”

Crawley watched as the lords of the Ennead boarded a boat and crossed the river to a large island where a linen-draped pavilion stood, with pale hangings of cloth that seemed as if they wafted cool in the breeze.

With a sigh, the demon wondered how to cross the river. Sprout wings and fly over, concealed from human eyes? Then again, the Opposition’s agent could probably still see Crawley even if the demon were concealed in that manner, so that wouldn’t work. It seemed that the best option would be to swim across in the shape of a serpent. But just before Crawley changed shape, the demon saw an odd sight: an old woman with young skin, making her way down the path toward the ferryman. She had the hair of an old woman, but the skin of her arms and legs were smooth and firm, and even though she hobbled and walked with a stick, the hair beneath her old woman hair was young and black. In her free hand, she held a bowl of porridge.

This was definitely Isis and in an embarrassingly bad costume.

And then Crawley had an idea.

The demon intercepted the human on the road, and with a few words and a deep gaze into slitted serpentine eyes, left the enthralled human asleep in a protected thicket of rushes. Crawley studied the sleeping figure carefully, and then with a gesture, took on the same guise, down to the same dress and golden signet ring upon a petite hand.

Now, to cross over to the Island in the Middle.

Walking was already a bit of trouble even before this; Crawley found the significantly reduced height of this form confusing at first, and it took a little practice that mostly involved trying not to look down and getting surprised by the sheer proximity of the ground. But quickly, she learned and managed to make it all the way over to the ferry crossing without stumbling and in a gait that she thought seemed like how a normal human would walk.

Of course, this might have been made easier if Crawley had remembered the walking stick, or if she had forgotten the porridge. But because she had remembered the porridge, there was a trail of spilled, dropped, and broken bowls of porridge, in a loose and awkward trail behind Crawley.

“Boat human, take me across to the island,” Crawley said confidently, looking up to the ferryman. It was already exhilarating taking on the form of a human to interact with other humans; Crawley never thought it could be so fun. For one, it seemed that almost everyone was taller, and Crawley was not used to that, so the novelty was exciting.

“No.” The ferryman crossed his arms.

“No?”

“Can’t. Orders are not to ferry any woman that looks like Isis. Just to be safe, I’m not letting any woman across.”

“I’m not just any woman. I- I’m trying to see... erm, what is it that humans want to see. Oh yes, I want to see my son. And bring him some porridge. He’s uh, doing some work on the island and is hungry. Yes, humans get hungry, of course.”

“No. No ferrying any woman.”

“Well, that’s just Isis. Do I look like Isis?”

“I don’t know what Isis looks like, but I know she’s a woman, so-”

“Look here. Boat human, if you let me across, I’ll give you this porridge I was bringing to my son.”

“Don’t that defeat the purpose of feeding your hungry son?”

“Eh, I can always cook some more porridge,” Crawley shrugged.

“No.”

“What about a cake?”

“Where did you get that cake? No, I don’t want a cake, why would I want a cake? What good is a cake to me?”

“What about...a goose?” Crawley turned around and when she turned back, a goose appeared in her arms, hissing and honking, generally making a racket. “I hear humans like geese.”

“Not...like that! I don’t want a live goose! A goose is only good cooked!”

“Oh.” Crawley let the goose go, flapping off. “Well, what if I caught one and cooked it?”

“Look, lady, I don’t want anything. You can’t bribe me with food.”

And then Crawley remembered. “What about...some gold?” She slipped the signet ring off her hand.

“G-gold.” The ferryman paused. “That’s an altogether different story now, innit?”

Under the thickly shaded trees, Crawley disguised as Isis disguised as an old woman carrying a bowl of porridge made her way through the dappled shade; it was a surprise to the demon that the Ennead did not pick this place to meet because it was so pleasant. Must be the commute, Crawley thought. Humans did not seem to like moving around very much.

The breeze ran almost cool here, and the fluttering hangings of the pavilion that Crawley had seen from afar were disappointing up close, merely plain banners that hung from poles outside a large reed hut. But the hut itself was painted with colorful scenes inside, and Crawley caught glimpses of trees and birds and the river Nile itself swimming with fish and fowl, of the figures of people fishing and hunting, and the demon realized if she weren’t careful, she could stare at these things all day.

Already this little adventure was tinged with more excitement and enjoyment than Crawley had ever encountered. The demon had never taken on the guise of a human being before now, and had never realized that a human could be enticed in a similar manner to bears and deer. It was harder with humans, but not much harder, just needed a bit more finessing than a panther or a boar, though perhaps not as much as an octopus. Moreover, the demon had never been on a human conveyance, and there was something very exciting about that boat ride; Crawley had been tempted to make the ferryman take her back and forth several times just for the sheer novelty of it.

Making her way around the reed building, Crawley hid herself behind a nearby tree and peeking around it, saw what seemed like the most scandalous thing that the demon had ever seen in her entire existence: there among the humans who sat in the shade of the trees and before her very eyes was the angel Aziraphale in the guise of Seth, and like the other humans, he was eating human food.

Human food! He was putting human food into his mouth!

The demon gasped aloud, watching Aziraphale nibbling at some freshly baked bread with gusto. And while no humans noticed the prowling demon, that didn’t mean Aziraphale didn’t notice.

“If you’ll excuse me…” Aziraphale said, standing up. Heading into the grove of trees, he gently slid out of reality once he was far away enough.

Before the humans could notice anything unusual, he was gone.

Patience and care, Aziraphale as Seth thought, as he cautiously stalked a wily dangerous demon through the trees. Which was not very much stalking or hunting at all so much as just walking up to Crawley from behind.

“Aha! Finally! So it was you this entire time!”

“Eep!” Crawley, who had been hidden from human eyes, had forgotten that that didn’t work with other celestial beings. She spun around and backed up quickly, whacking herself against a tree and part of the disguise fell off, leaving only the figure of Isis and yet another spilled and cracked bowl of porridge.

“Ow.” Up close, there was something utterly thrilling about seeing the disguised angel, tall and lean but made all of muscle, almost taller than Crawley, though not as tall as Asmodeus, with the lines of cold cruelty marked on that human face.

The demon stared up at the disguised angel, and that longing passed through her again, only this time it was sharper, the yearning stronger. Seth loomed over the slight figure of Isis, and the way he stood over her reminded her of Asmodeus so much that Crawley wondered what those tightly muscled arms would feel like around her own body and then the rest of the disguise slipped off, leaving Crawley exposed as just an ordinary demon in long black robes, meeting the figure of Seth at eye level.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale demanded.

“W-what are you doing?” Crawley pointed at the bitten bit of bread in Aziraphale’s hand.

“Eating bread,” Aziraphale said, taking a rather savage bite and chewing it furiously in his mouth. “Well, I was trying to enjoy some bread, until you showed up.”

Crawley made a face. “But they made that. With their hands. How could you-”

“So? It’s delicious, especially with butter or cheese. Or butter and cheese.” Aziraphale finished the rest, before dusting his hands off. “What do you want?”

Crawley felt all the words run out as if an emptied vessel.

“I-I don’t know what those words mean. I’ve heard them before but I don’t know...Butter? Cheese?”

“Human foods. Delicious ones. Quit trying to change the subject, foul demon. Tell me, what do you want?”

“I-I don’t know. I was just…” Crawley blanched.

“Just?”

“Curious.” Crawley whispered.

“Really. And this isn’t one of your...infernal wiles?”

“I don’t know,” Crawley mumbled, shrinking back. “Don’t even know if I have those. Infernal wiles that is.”

“Oh. Oh!” Aziraphale shook off the disguise of Seth. “Oh dear, oh dear, I’m sorry, so sorry! I didn’t mean to- T-that is, I have been in this disguise for too long, I should say. Pardon me, I did not mean to act like...like-”

“A demon?”

“A manager.” Aziraphale blushed, and there was something very charming about how pink the angel looked, as if the rising sun giving the blush of life to the sky. And that made Crawley notice how different the Aziraphale was from the disguise, how much more expressive the angel was despite those deep-set eyes, with delectable rounded cheeks and the upturned nose and that little bit of soft belly that hung out over the shendyt kilt and it was funny that Aziraphale really didn’t look like anything as to what anyone thought was bodily perfection which was nothing like Asmodeus and then Crawley realized that Aziraphale was still saying something and that the demon had forgotten to respond.

“...do believe me, I did not mean to insult you in any way, it’s just...you took me unawares and-”

“Eh? Huh? Oh, no, I’m fine. I’m just fine, me. Don’t worry.” Crawley shrugged it off. “Not upset at all. You’re not that scary, you’ve got nothing on-” And Crawley shut a nervous mouth, looking away.

“Yes, rather. I suppose you’re right.” And if the demon didn’t know any better, Aziraphale’s voice seemed to grow more gentle and soft. “Still, I would like to apologize.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Crawley said. “It’s not like I’m not used to it.”

“Oh.”

They walked away from the reed house until they reached the edge of the shore and there the two angels, fallen and otherwise, stood together underneath the protective shade of a sycamore tree.

Beyond, the low afternoon sun glittered across the expanse of the Nile. Rushes swayed lazy in the breeze and Crawley pointed to a solitary bird that hovered above in the sky, wings unmoving as it soared past them, disappearing into the canopy of trees.

“So. Ahem. I may have noticed you skulking about.” Aziraphale adjusted the collar necklace, making sure every bead was laid out in a manner that pleased him. “Were you sent here to cause trouble? Is that why the humans have been so...intransigent?”

“No, I haven’t done anything,” Crawley paused, and then quickly added, “but even if I were, I couldn’t tell you. We’re on opposite sides.”

“Yes, of course. Then why are you here?”

“Curiosity. Never seen an angel interact like this with humans before.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale drooped. “It’s been a frightful mess, hasn’t it? Goodness, I am so ashamed, how much did you see?”

“All of it?”

“Oh dear, oh dear. How dreadfully embarrassing. Mortifying.” Aziraphale looked away, and Crawley stared, hoping to see the angel turn red again.

“I even saw you cutting up a human being into bits.”

“Even that?” Aziraphale flushed hot. “Oh...oh, I thought no one saw and then I thought maybe no one was watching other than maybe the Almighty-”

“It was impressive. I didn’t know you were capable of it,” Crawley teased.

“For the record, it was a Nephilim and he was already dead! I was just...just tidying things up. I’m still tidying things up. It’s all a dreadful mess. I thought it was just a simple assignment, but now I have to also figure out if Horus really is the son of a Nephilim. They’re not supposed to reproduce, you know, but they’re also not supposed to rise up out of the dead. Repeatedly. I’m just sewing up the loose threads, as it were.”

“You mean cutting the loose threads. Cutting them up into bits.”

“I had orders, you know,” Aziraphale said glumly. “I was just doing what I was told.”

“Didn’t know Heaven sent angels to do dirty work like this.”

“I’m not...a very important angel. If you must know. Just. Well, in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose. Got assigned to Earth and all that. Oh, what trouble this has become, I hope Upstairs isn’t looking in on me right now, what would they say? It would be an awful scandal if they knew you were skulking about me.”

“I’m not skulking about you! Just...near you.”

“Skulkingly near me,” Aziraphale said, indignant.

Crawley stared for a moment and then suddenly laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yes, well. You aren’t much better. You could have disguised yourself as anyone, but you disguised yourself as Isis disguised as an old woman? What were you thinking?”

“That I wanted a boat ride?”

Suddenly it was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh.

“Goodness, we’re quite the couple, aren’t we?”

“A couple of idiots,” Crawley suggested, causing Aziraphale press his hands over his mouth to try to stem the giggles.

“No, oh dear, no, that’s unfair, I can’t just spend all my days laughing,” Aziraphale gasped out the words. “Unlike you, I have work to do.”

The smile slipped off of Crawley’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you said you’re just here for curiosity, which means you don’t really have any reason to be here, but I really was sent to do some work, and I had ought to-”

“Then do it,” Crawley said, offended. With a flash of black wings, the demon flew up into the top of a nearby acacia tree. “Don’t let me get in your way.”

“Oh no!” Aziraphale immediately sobered. He looked up, calling out to the demon. “Please, I didn’t mean it like that-”

Crawley paused, looking back at Aziraphale with a flat, unreadable expression, before flying off.

Chapter Text

“All right.” Aziraphale as Seth adjusted his collar necklace briskly, making sure each bead was placed just the way the disguised angel liked it. “If you really are your father’s son, as everyone seems to think you are, prove it.”

“Huh?” Horus stared, even though his hands still gripped the cleaver. “I thought we were going to fight.”

“Fighting is for children. Prove yourself with magic instead,” Seth said, his deep voice tinged with irony. “Do one of those tricks that they say your father could do, like turn into an animal.”

“No one can do that.”

“Actually, I saw Osiris do it once. He turned into a ram. I saw it with my own eyes.” Re-Harakti piped up, causing a murmur to go through the crowd.

“Yeah, I saw that too. He was bleating and everything.”

“Osiris could do all sorts of god-like things.”

“Does this mean Horus can turn into a bird? His legs are skinny enough and his nose is beaky enough.”

“If he’s a real god he could turn into anything he wants to turn into.”

“See?” Seth sneered. “With a mother so magical and a father as powerful as a god, I’m surprised you can’t do anything simple. Like turning into a hippopotamus.” And as Seth spoke, he waded into the Nile, striding confidently right past a floating crocodile which caused the humans to exclaim and shout, though Crawley didn’t realize what exactly would have been the problem until the demon remembered that sometimes crocodiles ate humans.

With an indignant gesture, the disguised angel turned into a hippopotamus and shimmied off into deeper waters.

Horus turned pale and looked to Isis. “Uh, M-Mother?”

“Go on, go,” Isis gestured. “You can do it. If he can go into the river, you can too.”

“But I can’t turn into a-”

“You’ll be fine, my son.”

Skeptical, Horus began to wade into the river, trembling as he did so, though he stopped when he was just about ankle deep.

Aziraphale, disguised as Seth disguised as a hippopotamus, had swum onto a submerged sandbank in the middle of the river where he could stand up a little ways out of the water.

With a voice that had the deep belching timbre of a hippo but with the tone of Seth but with the elocution of a very snippy angel, the hippopotamus spoke, showing off a pair of tremendous tusks as he did so:

“Well then. I suppose you’ll be wondering what we are doing here. I propose that we submerge ourselves in the waters, and whoever comes out first before three months time shall not have the office of Osiris awarded to him.”

“That’s impossible!”

“Ridiculous!”

“Horus will get killed!”

“No human could do that!”

“But a god could,” Seth reasoned. “And if Horus is a god as his father was, then it shouldn’t be hard, should it? I’m ready if you are.”

Isis darted forward, coming to Horus’ side with something held up triumphantly in her hand: a segment of prepared, cut reed.

“Horus, son of Osiris! Remember, I have magic that I will lend to you.” Isis handed Horus the reed, whispering instructions in his ear.

Horus nodded understanding, clutching the reed, and spoke in a shrill trembling voice full of bravura: “With the magic bestowed upon me by my mother Isis, I shall surely conquer! That old man can’t beat me, now that I have my mother’s magic. After all, I am the son of the god Osiris, lord of the universe, the king of gods!”

The boy waded in, to just past his knees and stopped there, head turning this way and that, looking for crocodiles.

“If you’re afraid, scrawny fledgling, I’ve done you a favor and scared off the crocodiles, just for you. But you won’t be able to beat me.” And the hippopotamus wiggled his little round ears before moving in a ponderous waddle, turning a well-padded backside toward the humans. A particularly rude noise filled the air and a stench arose as its tail whisked back and forth, dung flying through the air, causing the humans to back away from the riverbank, stumbling over each other to get out of the way.

Horus dove into the river to avoid the hippo dung and disappeared underwater.

“What just happened?” Crawley laughed breathlessly, clutching heaving sides. “Did he just flick dung on the Ennead?”

Once the stench of hippo feces had receded and the dangers of flying wet poo had disappeared, the humans began to crowd around the riverbank once again, muttering to themselves, trying to see if the figures of Horus and Seth could be seen in the sediment-clouded water.

“Do they continue to live?”

“I thought Seth was already dead. Could he die again?”

“Maybe if a crocodile gets one or either of them. Then there wouldn’t be enough bits to sew back together. Can’t sew up what’s in the stomach of a crocodile.”

“Surely Seth lives. Horus? Not a chance.”

“Water’s all murky, can’t see anything or anyone.”

“The child of Osiris will become like his father: dead and rotting, floating about in pieces in the Nile River.”

“Oh he’s a goner all right.”

Hearing all this, Isis began to wail. “Seth has killed Horus, my son!” But her eyes were dry and soon enough she walked away with a determined and decisive step.

Curious, Crawley followed her as she went to nearby homes, watching her as she looked to borrow a strong net. But to the demon’s surprise, she came back from one particularly prosperous-looking house missing a golden bracelet and with no net in hand but a harpoon. The weapon was made of strong wood with a barbed copper tip tarnished with streaks of green, tied to a long thick coil of rope that was hung with small triangular floats that she had looped over her shoulder.

“If no one else will do anything, I will. I’ll get revenge on that Seth for killing my chance to rule the two lands,” Isis said to herself, hefting the harpoon in her hand. “It’s time to go hippo hunting.”

“Oh, so you’re going to kill both of them,” Crawley said sarcastically, knowing no one could hear the demon. “Good idea, human.”

But that would mean that the Opposition’s agent could get discorporated. Which if anyone was going to do it, that would be Crawley. A human discorporating a fellow angel, even if they were the Opposition, seemed to be too degrading for words.

Suddenly, Crawley had a very clever idea. In the form of a serpent, the demon slithered through the papyrus that grew along the path beside the bank, moving fast to intercept the human. As Isis passed a thicket of papyrus that grew heavily onto the shore, Crawley stepped out of it, catching her gaze before she could continue on her way.

“Sleep,” Crawley said, with the hypnotic sway and mesmerizing eyes of a serpent, and once the human was asleep and carefully hidden that thicket of papyrus, the demon took on the guise of Isis once more.

Crawley picked up the harpoon and the rope. With a gesture, the demon applied a bit of an intervention, to make certain that the barb would not seriously injure or kill anyone, especially not the Opposition’s agent. After all, there would be no fun in such a thing, even if it did cause trouble for the Heavenly counterpart. It would be rude of Crawley to send the Opposition’s agent into a nightmare of filling out documents and writing up reports in the middle of this amusing adventure.

Crawley returned with the harpoon in hand, and some humans immediately guessed as to what Isis meant to do and tried to stop her. But Crawley disguised as Isis shrugged them off. With a loud cry, Isis threw the spear into the water, and a moment later Horus came up, splattered all over with pondweed that stuck to his skin, coughing and sputtering tossing aside the hollow reed. “What was that all about! Mother, I almost won!”

“No you didn’t. You couldn’t even turn into a hippo. You didn’t even get a hippo hat. Could you have gotten a hippo hat? At the very least you should have gotten a hippo hat. And breathing through a reed underwater doesn’t count as magic. Anyone could do that.”

“Well, I could have if I wanted to but I didn’t. And aren’t you worried if I’m hurt?” Horus rubbed his head where the harpoon had whacked him without actually piercing his skin.

“You’re fine, you’re not even bleeding. Let me get that rat Seth.” With another loud cry, Isis hurled the harpoon into the water again.

“Rat? I thought his headdress was a jackal.”

“Maybe Isis meant a jerboa. That’s kind of like a rat.”

“See! Jerboa! I was right!”

“I still think it’s an aardvark.”

“Giraffe. That’s a giraffe if there ever was one-”

With a roiling bubbling, Seth came up roaring out of the water, only the hippopotamus form had been dropped and now Seth was merely a wet human with a sopping wet kilt and a wet headdress with dripping drooping ears.

“Ow, what was that all about?” Seth walked out of the water, lotuses falling off of him as he rubbed at his shoulder. He paused as he stepped onto dry land, flinching in surprise when he realized that Isis was not who she appeared to be. “My ahem, dear sister, was that really necessary?”

“This harpoon isn’t effective.” Isis tossed it aside. “And neither is my foolish brother or my even more foolish son.”

“Ahem. So! That wasn’t quite three months,” Seth said, turning his attention to address the humans. “But if you notice, Horus was also the first one out of the water. I think we can all agree that I win. Therefore, I deserve the office of Osiris.”

“Seth’s got a point there, Isis.”

“Sorry Horus, looks like your mummy cost you the crown.”

“I guess Seth did win but does that really make him the new king?”

“I’m not sure I can agree to this-”

“Oops,” Crawley said, with a grimace. The demon had only done what Isis was obviously going to do, but apparently this harpoon business had disrupted some kind of contest. And then Crawley remembered that it was some contest about the kingship of this region, whatever that meant.

“‘Oops?!’” Horus shouted, stamping his feet in a fury. “What do you mean, ‘Oops’?!”

“I meant exactly what I said. Oops.” Crawley began beating a hasty retreat. If the demon could get away fast enough, the switch could be made with the real Isis and the problem of dealing with an angry youth could be left to the supposed mother.

“Hey, this wasn’t what we agreed on!” Horus screamed, picking up a discarded cleaver and stomping after Isis.

“Agreement?” Interest piqued, Aziraphale quickly followed, applying a bit of a miraculous powers to both hide from the humans and to distract them by sending a large crocodile snapping up onto the shore, scattering the humans so they would not follow.

Horus was fast, faster than the demon had anticipated and so Crawley broke into something of a stumbling run. Never having had to run or even really walk very quickly, and also not being accustomed to the shorter legs of a different form, Crawley quickly realized that the legs did not seem to want to cooperate and instead of going down the path or into a thicket of vegetation, the demon began to veer away from the river, toward the desert, onto the slopes of a nearby mountain.

“How do these even work?!” Crawley hissed, as the legs seemed to go every which way except the direction the demon wanted to go. “When I want to go fast, I still want to go in a directio- oof!”

With a jolt and the sensation of being shoved from behind, the demon fell hard, hard enough to have the air knocked out of her, leaving Crawley gasping for breath as a merciless hand grabbed at her dress at the middle of her back, dragging her up.

“Slut! Witch! You broke our agreement!”

Crawley twisted to face the human. All the words were already worked out in her head, and she was about to speak, but the words could not come out as she desperately gasped for air.

“H-human son-”

“I'm not your son, you stupid hag, I'm just pretending! You said I was going to be king if I pretended to be your son! And I was going to let you rule using my name! But you ruined it for me! You tried to kill me! I’ll kill you!” Furious, Horus brought up his cleaver over his head, and Crawley’s eyes went wide as the copper weapon was raised, ready to strike.

“Stop!” A voice interrupted, suddenly Horus collapsed onto the rocky ground, a sizable piece of hail falling to the ground beside him with a thud, melting and evaporating immediately as the hot desert sun baked down. The cleaver clattered, falling forgotten from Horus’ lax hand.

Strong arms caught Crawley before she could fall, and amazed, she looked into golden desert-colored eyes, not like the color of flame like the demon’s own eyes were, but darker, the color of honey, rich and sweet.

“Crawley, are you all right?” Aziraphale asked, and the shadow cast by the strange animalistic headdress covered Crawley’s eyes, shading them from the sun, and Crawley’s breath caught as her arms went around lean muscled shoulders. Heart pounding, she felt a sharp yearning go through her as Aziraphale’s arms tightened about her.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot.” And a moment later, the disguise fell off, and Crawley was in an angel’s arms, the body plump and soft beneath her grip.

“Me too.” And Crawley let go of the disguise, long curling dark hair falling about slim shoulders, revealing a braid tangled within the mass of curls, and it took both angels, fallen and otherwise, a moment to realize that they were in each other’s arms.

“Goodness, my apologies!”

“Sorry.” Crawley backed up, nearly falling over again, but Aziraphale caught the demon before Crawley could fully tip over.

In a panic, Crawley pushed away only to almost fall again but this time the edge of Aziraphale’s wing tipped the demon forward, helping Crawley catch balance with the barest touch.

“Terribly hot, isn’t it?” Once Crawley stood steady on both feet, Aziraphale’s white wings came up, blotting out the heat of the sun. Outstretched white feathers that gleamed brilliant in the bright sunlight provided a bit of protective shade for the angels, fallen and otherwise, and the insensate human lying prone on the ground at their feet.

“Terrible,” Crawley agreed. “Feels good to me though. Could stand to be a bit wetter.”

“Hmm, that would make the heat worse. No, I rather like this dry heat. Not that heat really bothers me, but I recognize humans could die in this heat. Do you think he’ll die?”

“I don’t know, how big was that hunk of ice?”

Aziraphale shrugged, gesturing, opening both arms wide.

“Isn’t...isn’t that a bit much?” Crawley stared at the human, who was definitely still breathing. “How’s he not dead?”

“Well, it started off that big, but you know, as it fell it lost quite a bit of itself to evaporation and such in the heat, until it ended up about this big, and then I realized it was still rather too large, so I made it a bit smaller to about, I suppose, about the size of an egg, which then landed-”

“And how far did it fall from the sky?”

“As far as hail normally falls?” Aziraphale guessed.

“Eh, he’s still breathing; he’ll be fine,” Crawley shrugged. “He’s not even bleeding that much. I wouldn’t worry too much unless his heart stops or something.”

“Well, I suppose I should heal him.” But Aziraphale made no move toward the human. “Though he did call you some terrible things. And you’re all scratched and bruised all over.”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it-” Crawley began, but the angel gestured it away, and Crawley reached up to touch an abraded cheek only to find that the skin there was smooth, and that the pain was gone. The palms of both hands were healed as well, and Crawley supposed that if a check had been made, all the bruises and cuts on the arms and legs would be gone too.

“Really, he ought to be punished,” Aziraphale fretted.

“Yeah, probably.” Crawley leaned down over the human. “Annoying human, you should have some awful dreams. Like, maybe you cut off my head, and as punishment, Seth plucked out both your eyes.”

“Crawley!” Aziraphale came over, and the demon retreated, scowling. “Poor human, even if you have been an utter, incredible, absolutely intolerable nuisance... All right, in your dream, someone comes to heal your eyes. Why not that nice girl with the cow horns. She seemed very kind. You can tell everyone about this later, I suppose.” The angel paused, remembering something. “Oh wait, what about Isis? Didn’t she get her head cut off?”

“What about Isis? She’s got magic, she fixed herself.” Crawley said, snarkily.

"Good point. She certainly has been troublesome. They have both been very trying; I shouldn’t have to go through all this trouble just for some humans. There must be a better way to do this,” Aziraphale sighed. “What did you do with her?”

“Eh, she’s just napping by the Nile. She’ll be fine, I saw to that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been in disguise like that. What if you really got hurt?”

“I’m fine, I always am. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen, discorporation?”

“Humans will do much worse than discorporate you,” Aziraphale warned the demon sternly. “They...they could carry you off! That is a terrible thing, and I hope they never try that with you.”

“Oh.” Crawley paused. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes, well. I’d rather not talk about that,” Aziraphale muttered. “But I suppose most of the mysteries have been unraveled. Certainly this boy is not an actual son of Osiris, which is good, because then I- that is, Heaven, doesn’t have to kill him. And while Isis is very clever and good at finding Osiris’ body somehow, that was just basic sleuthing and no real supernatural abilities. I think she just knows who to talk to. Really, humans can be unusually good at finding other humans.”

“So are you done then?”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale looked glum, and there was a bit of disappointment to his voice. “Though maybe not quite. I suppose I still have to deal with Horus.”

“Probably.” Both angels, fallen and otherwise, leaned over the human.

“Come on, wake up,” Crawley said, nudging the human with a bare foot. “Can’t sleep all day.”

“Oh right, the head injuries! I should probably do something about that.” And with a gesture from Aziraphale, Horus sat up, rubbing his head. “What happened?”

“Heat exhaustion,” Aziraphale as Seth said.

“You tripped on a rock,” Crawley as Isis said, at exactly the same time.

“What’s going on?” Horus looked about, before looking up to Crawley. “Isis, my eyes! Oh no, my eyes!”

“If you can see me,” Crawley said drily, “your eyes are fine.”

“Oh wait, I can see! My eyes are miraculously restored…it must have been a dream.”

“No, no. Not a dream, human son,” Crawley said. “It was all very real but I forgive you for lopping off my head. Merely a flesh wound for one as magical as I am. As you can see, I’m better now too.”

“Now come along,” Aziraphale said, before Horus could speak. “To celebrate everyone’s miraculous cure, we’re going to go eat and drink and make holiday in my house.”

“Is this all right? Erm, Mother.”

“Sure, why not? What could go possibly wrong?” Crawley shrugged. “Let’s all go to Seth’s house.”

Chapter Text

As Horus snored, Aziraphale had to intervene to keep Crawley from putting a thick pile of bedding over the human’s face to stop the sound.

“Goodness, Crawley, no! You’ll smother the poor boy.”

“So?”

“So that would kill him.”

“Oh.” The demon dropped the bedding. “Then at least let’s move him outside, the noise is just awful. Why won’t it stop?”

“It won’t stop until he wakes. Look, why don’t we go outside ourselves? It’s much more pleasant outside anyway.”

“Fine.” Still annoyed, Crawley followed Aziraphale out into the courtyard that opened onto the Nile. Even though it was night, blue and white lotuses bloomed, filling the air with a sweet heady scent and above them, birds twittered their songs sleepily in a massive sycamore tree whose branches spread out, blotting out the sky.

“It’s too bad we can’t see the stars better. The tree blocks the view.” Aziraphale said thoughtfully. “I suppose you could see it better from here though.” The angel padded out onto the water, tiny fish nipping at bare feet. In the moonlight, the angel’s short curling hair was as pale as the reflected light of the moon itself and it seemed beautiful in its own way, a beauty that should have been celestial but somehow was not, reminding Crowley neither of Heaven nor Hell, but something completely of Earth.

“How come you can walk on water now but you could go into the water before?”

“Oh, that. I’m not totally confined to the world above, you know. I can go in the water. Certainly it befits my station as a Principality.”

“Ah.” Crawley said, as if that explained everything. “Wait, did you really flick poo at the Ennead?”

“Well, I suppose I did. What of it?”

“Angel, how did you manage to become an anatomically perfect hippopotamus with precise understanding of hippo behavior, down to the whisk tail and the dung flapping, but you can’t manage human nipples? How is that even possible?”

“I...I happen to like hippos quite a bit, I should say! And that is proper hippo behavior, for a male marking territory, that’s just what they do-”

“You like...hippos?”

“They’re cute.”

“Cute?!”

“Yes, with their fat stubby legs and their chubby bodies and their funny teeth and those little round ears and...and oh, I just want to hug all the hippos!”

“How you manage not to get discorporated, I really can’t understand…” Crawley shook an astonished head. “Hippopotamuses kill so many things! People! Crocodiles! Water buffalo! Lions! And those things all kill lots of other things! But hippos kill them all! You are ridiculous, Aziraphale, absolutely ridiculous.”

“So what if I am?” Aziraphale pouted. “It’s Earth and not Heaven, and I’m glad to be here, being ridiculous.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right. No, you’re entirely right.” Crawley toed the water, pressing the bottom of a cautious foot onto the surface, but nothing happened other than wetting tentative toes; there was no way for the demon to step onto the water.

“Of course I’m-” Aziraphale paused. “Oh. I see. Yes, I suppose it must be better for you too.”

“Yeah. Much better. So much better to be here than Downstairs. Though…”

Wary, Aziraphale watched the demon, wondering if the demon was going to confess to crimes and atrocities, but Crawley’s shoulders merely slumped as the demon sighed, and the entire slim frame of the demon looked smaller, as if trying to shrink down into nothing.

“Suppose it’s a bit boring sometimes, by myself,” Crawley said. “Been kind of fun spending this time with humans lately. Interesting to watch what they do.”

“It has been interesting, hasn’t it?” Grateful for a safe topic of conversation, Aziraphale smiled, polite and gracious. “They’re quite fascinating. I’ve learned so much about them.”

“Yeah.” Crawley nodded. “Been learning too. Kind of new at it. Haven’t been at it long, really.”

“Orders...weren’t your orders to cause trouble?”

“Good memory. Yes, and I did, but then that was done.” Crawley shrugged. “I suppose they had more important things than tell me what else to do next so I just...wandered. All over.”

“For how long?”

“Since Eden, I guess? But I’m here now. Don’t know how long that’ll last.”

“Oh. My goodness, it’s been almost 700 years since Eden. You were alone for that long?”

“Not always alone. Sometimes he comes to visit me and I get to spend some time by his side. Erm, the Prince of Hell I serve. I mean, I’m still his companion and all. Oh, that’s my rank. Title. Whatever. A Companion to a Prince of Hell. Doesn’t really mean much.” Crawley touched the tangled serpent mark, unaware of the motion. “Well, it means something, but it’s not a real title like a Duke or a Prince...erm, a companion’s just an ordinary demon with a powerful master. Not a lot of us. Actually, I might be the only one. Anyway, not the point. So he’s come before to visit me.” Crawley put thin arms around the broad trunk of the sycamore tree, feeling the rough-smooth bark against a weary cheek. “Not often though. Mostly I just wander.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my dear.” Aziraphale walked back to shore, and it seemed in the way that he walked that there was no actual transition between land and water. “That seems very lonely-”

“Say, Aziraphale,” Crawley straightened up, changing the subject, deliberately walking away from the tree, ignoring it as if it didn’t exist. “Why don’t you leave now that you know what you wanted to find? If you don’t mean to actually rule this place as their king, why are you being so difficult? Why not just let the humans have it? I mean, this seems like an awful lot of trouble to be putting a young human through.”

“It’s called building character,” Aziraphale said tartly. “He’s rather too arrogant and insolent and...I mean just look at the dinner earlier. After we each took a piece, he ate all of the remaining bread and didn’t leave another piece for anyone else, and he even ate yours after you didn’t eat- oh, you wouldn’t understand, you’re a demon.”

“Touché,” Crawley said, though in ancient Egyptian this was some other word. “So what are you doing with him now?”

“He’s having a dream. Not a very nice one, I should say. All his greatest fears, whatever those are. But tomorrow there will be more trials. I have some ideas for challenges.”

“Oh, like your hippopotamus challenge? That went just great, didn’t it?” Crawley said, sarcastically.

“Yes, it worked just as planned. Well, not entirely as planned, if someone hadn’t been throwing harpoons at people-”

“Oh, like that was my fault. I only did what Isis meant to do. Only I did it without killing anyone. Miracled it.”

“Don’t you mean a demonic intervention?”

“Whatever,” Crawley snarled.

“A-actually, what I meant to say was that I’m glad you interrupted the trial.” Aziraphale met the demon’s eyes. “That was very helpful.”

In the dim light of night, Aziraphale’s eyes were dark brown, and they seemed to sparkle with an inner light, and for a moment Crawley wondered what that could be, until the demon remembered that yes, of course, this was an angel.

And then the angel’s words sunk in. “Glad?” Crawley was taken aback. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m very grateful, Crawley. It made things a bit easier for me, probably kept that poor human from drowning. Thank-”

“S-so what now? What’s the plan now, angel?” Crawley said, looking away, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, the demon looked flushed and flustered.

“Well, if you must know, I have an idea about stone boats-”

“Stone boats? Did you mean to sink down to the bottom of the Nile?”

“If that happens, I can always be...be a hippopotamus!” Aziraphale beamed.

“Oh bless it all...why am I even here?!”

“I don’t know. Why are you here?”

Crawley flinched, surprised, and for a moment, Aziraphale thought the demon would fly away as before. But Crawley did not move, though slim shoulders once again drooped.

“I- I...I don’t know. Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be alone anymore,” Crawley muttered.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that?”

“It’s not important.” Crawley unfolded black wings that were even darker than the night around them. “It’s not important at all.”

Pella, 351 B.C.

True to Crowley’s description, the little woodlot was bare of trees, having been recently harvested. It would be some years before young trees shot up from the cut trunks; it was merely green shoots now, growing out from between weathered winter-grayed stumps.

But where the trees were gone, the flowers thrived; lilies and larkspur, violets and irises, roses and crocus, a veritable garden of delights that left the cool spring air heady with the scent of flowers.

The waterfall was small, but whereas in summer it might have only been a trickle, in spring the meltwater came down in a wild rush, going down a creek that curved a squiggle of a border around the woodlot.

Aziraphale was early, so he sat down on a level stump. There were a few alternate personas he had been working on for meetings such as this, and today he thought he’d try the wandering poet. Very much dressed as traveler who was just passing through, not impressive enough to be trying his luck at the court, merely the kind of man with a battered kithara that showed up in the agora to sing for his supper, too poor and humble to be dreaming of king’s courts.

He tuned his kithara, which was certainly not quite battered enough to fit the part, and played.

All around him, the birds hushed in their chatter to listen, the rush of the water became a soft murmur, and it seemed that the very world held its breath as Aziraphale played, as he whispered the words to himself, not daring to sing out loud.

Thank you my dear
You came, and you did well to come
I needed you.
You have made love blaze up in my breast

Bless you!
Bless you as often...

And here Aziraphale had to stop, overcome with a profound emotion that sprang up unheeded, one that he could not quite identify at first, a sudden sadness that choked up his throat so that nothing could come out, not even that faint whisper of song. He blinked, eyes blurry with tears, not sure why this feeling had welled up within him.

Aziraphale brushed away a tear, wondering what had gotten into him. His lips tightened as he frowned a little to himself, and tried again. Yet nothing came out, the words once again choked in his throat and he felt strange, trying to shake away this unusually intense sentiment that had swept through him.

It made no sense; this was a favorite of his that he played often and here he was, so overwhelmed that he was unable to properly complete it.

With a huff of breath, did his best to set aside his feelings and merely played the rest of the phrase on the kithara, eyes half-closed, thinking of the words he was unable to even whisper.

Bless you as often as the hours have been endless to me
While you were gone.

Aziraphale let the plectrum fall, swinging down at the end of its tether, feeling the vibration of the instrument die down between his hands. He couldn’t continue the song. There was more, but he couldn’t continue.

He sighed, hugging the kithara to himself, not understanding why he had been overcome.

Aziraphale sat for what felt like a long time though it was probably only a few minutes, as the wind stirred his chlamys and the straw hat that hung from a cord about his neck tumbled against his arm.

“Angel, I thought that was you.” Hesitating as he looked around the clearing, Crowley stood tall, a stark figure in black surrounded by a galaxies of blooming flowers that trembled in his wake before stopping, frozen in a moment of time.

Aziraphale gasped. Among the starry flowers with his fluttering himation like a scrap of deep space floating about his shoulders, Crowley looked so much like the kind of angel that worked on building the stars that it took his breath away.

“Crowley!”

Chapter Text

“Nice disguise Aziraphale. A bit flash for a humble poet, but I suppose that can’t be helped; poets are often rather stylish aren’t they?” Crowley sat down on a stump to Aziraphale’s left, looking him over. The angel wore a chiton and chlamys of brown undyed wool which had been embroidered with a border of orange-yellow flowers and a wide-brimmed straw hat that hung down his back.

“Well, I didn’t want to seem too tattered. After all, it’s not like I’m traveling all over Hellas, going about here and there, wearing out my sandals. I’m merely stretching my legs a bit while the ship is unloading and picking up new goods before getting back on. The ship is headed to erm…”

“Crete?”

“Oh yes, Crete. A wedding of an old friend’s son, musn’t be late.”

“Sounds nice, Crete.” Crowley leaned back, bracing his arms behind him on another stump, soaking in the warm sunlight. His hair fell back, revealing a single braid tangled within the curling mass. “All those hot sunny days and fresh seafood at every meal. Octopuses, squids, fish…just jump into the sea and slurp them right up.”

“Those things are all better cooked, you know,” Aziraphale said tartly.

“It just isn’t as fun if it’s not fighting for its life,” Crowley smiled toothily. “I like it when dinner has a fighting chance to escape.”

“Then you must like hunting.”

“Nowhere near as much as the humans. The nobles are all mad for it here. They keep trying to get me to go with them, but I’ve been able to get away from it. Well, except once.”

“Oh?”

“They wanted ah- um, you know, that human that I work for, what’s his name, uh, Nectanebo to go boar hunting with them. That’s why he can recline at dinner and why, incidentally, I don’t.”

“I did notice that not every man reclined at dinner, not as they would in Athens. Is that some local custom?”

“No one’s allowed to recline at meals unless they’ve killed a boar that’s slipped the nets. I mean, that’s why I just sit. I’ve only been just the one time to a hunt and that was because I had to. You know, serving my human master and all. Otherwise, tromping around a mountain all day looking for things to kill doesn’t seem all that fun.”

“I thought you liked that.” Aziraphale gave him a curious look.

“I do. I mean, it is fun. But by myself, and not with a group of noisy humans whose smells scare away anything interesting. Better when it’s just me alone, quietly going about the underbrush or I suppose, when we’ve gone together in the past. You watching me kill things. That’s great fun.”

“I don’t...watch you kill things for fun!” Aziraphale sputtered, outraged. “It’s you getting something for supper, that’s all.”

“Right, right. Well, it’s great fun for me. Killing things- erm, getting something for supper. Almost makes me wish we could do it sometime soon. Find a nice meadow somewhere far away from people, set up a little camp under a tree...maybe even find those hot springs around here I’ve heard so much about.”

“I suppose you’re right. As much as I like it when humans cook – and they are so skillful and creative! – I do sometimes miss those old days when we had to make do ourselves. But that does sound rather exciting though, doesn’t it? A great hunt, with all the hunting dogs and boar nets and spears and such. I’ve read Xenophon of course and have seen humans coursing about the forests but never in Macedon. I suppose it must be a great land for hunting.”

“Too bad you’re a woman most of the time. They’re not invited to go hunting. Too bad I’m not a woman more often, they’re not invited to go hunting.”

“Yes, rather a shame,” Aziraphale sighed. He straightened up even more, adjusting the folds of his chiton and straightening his straw hat from where it hung down his back, even though he did not wear it. “All right, I suppose we should get to business. Thank you for meeting me here, I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

“Yeah, seemed about time we should talk. Well? Any news on your end?”

“No. Not a single directive, not a hint of any new instructions. I suppose it means the standard orders: continue observations and submit regular reports. You?”

“Pretty much the same,” Crowley shrugged, leaning down to pick a solitary crimson anemone. He stared at the flower, wishing that he could tell Aziraphale the truth. “Not sure what’s going on that they sent both of us here but it’s certainly suspicious.”

“I have some ideas.”

“Oh?” Crowley turned the flower over in his hands.

“Oh yes. I’ve been putting some thought into this. Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the child – Alexander – has some rather unusual traits about him. I’ve compiled a list.” Aziraphale tapped his head.

“Yeah, I might have a list too. Not as formal of a list, of course, you know, just erm, some observations.”

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley suddenly, meeting his eyes. “Crowley, do you remember Gilgamesh?”

“Gilgamesh? Big...hulking guy, king of Uruk-the-Sheepfold greater metropolitan area?”

“Yes, the very one.”

“Been a long time since I thought about it,” Crowley muttered, irritated. “A very long time. Not…my most favorite memory. I recall a very long and unpleasant walk limping back from the countryside. Hips have never been the same since.”

“Yes, and I recall that was dreadful for you.” Aziraphale frowned. “I apologize for bringing up such a bad memory, but, well. Remember what the humans said about Gilgamesh?”

“Erm, uh...been a while let me think. Handsome and perfect and powerful.”

“Go on.”

“Didn’t leave a son to his father or a girl to her mother?”

“Yes, that. What else? Something they wrote about him, long after he was dead. I know you read about it too.”

Crowley’s mouth twisted in thought. “I don’t know, maybe I didn’t read it.”

“That he was two-thirds divine and one-third human?”

“Oh yeah, I remember it now. Yes, I did read that. Rather surprised that I made an appearance, right at the end, that whole bit about the magic plant.”

“Yes, that was strange. I didn’t think anyone was watching. Anyway, why two-thirds though? Why’s that important? It’s a rather strange value, isn’t it? How does that work, with a mother and a father?”

“Angel, I think that’s because they don’t count the mother in this calculation. They only count the father. Fathers.”

“They ought to count the mother.”

"Yes, I know, it's foolish not to.”

“So then, let us assume, applying the human calculation. Where one-third of that being is human. What does the remainder imply? I’ve been troubled by this thought for a while. I have some ideas, but do tell me what you make of it.”

“Shit.” Crowley hissed, thinking out loud. “Wouldn’t...wouldn’t a Nephilim would be at least half divine by human calculations? There’s no way that Heaven and Hell would have both sent someone almost simultaneously. Unless-”

“I suppose that it would have been what the humans call...industrial sabotage?”

Both angels, fallen and otherwise, looked at each other in a moment of dawning realization.

“Someone Upstairs or Downstairs must have ordered a Nephilim to be created-” Aziraphale began, breathlessly.

“-and someone else, Downstairs or Upstairs, must have intercepted the message and interfered!” Crowley continued, leaping up out of his seat on the cut tree trunk in excitement.

“Thus creating a being that was two-thirds divine and-”

“Oh. And, and only another divinely created wild man from the forest was able to stop him...” Crowley paled, collapsing back onto the stump.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale quickly reached over to steady Crowley. “Are you all right?”

“Just...realizing why this hitch in my step never went away.” Crowley shuddered. “And I can’t even shake it in this new body, it’s been too long of a habit now. I can still stop time, somehow that wasn’t tied to the body – which sort of makes sense since it was a magic plant I guess – but this walk is still the same even with the new body and I don’t know-” And as he stammered through the words that dropped off without warning, he started wondering who in Hell was responsible for siring that lustful Nephilim, and he thought he knew the answer well.

Shivering despite the heat of the sun, Crowley continued: “H-he always said he wasn’t involved in the orders, that it came from higher up. That he didn’t know about it and would have been against if he knew. But…” Trembling, Crowley wondered if Asmodeus had enjoyed watching.

“There now, it’s all right…” Aziraphale murmured, taking Crowley into his arms. Crowley felt stiff and awkward in his embrace, as if unaccustomed to close contact. “...which is to say that it’s not all right at all! It’s outrageous! It should never have been done and you should never have had to do it. No one should have been able to permanently damage your celestial body like this. And a human should never have been put in the possibility of that kind of danger. But even though it’s horrid and unfair, I’ll be here for you just as I was then.” He gave Crowley a squeeze. “Do you need a Moment?”

“At this point I’m starting to think my entire existence is a Moment,” Crowley muttered, turning his head so that he could bury his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder, taking in the fresh scent of lavender and sunlight and that sweet cold scent of mountain wind that Aziraphale smelled like, wishing that he could lose himself in Aziraphale’s pleasing and tender warmth instead of intrusive dark memories.

Aziraphale said nothing, just holding Crowley close, surrounded by the heat of the afternoon sun and the unmoving flowers that sprang up all around them, feeling Crowley slowly soften against his shoulder, his lean body slowly relaxing.

“All those years...all those years ago!” Crowley’s voice cracked. “And they were still playing with Nephilim centuries after the Mandate...how did we not know?”

“Assembly of Heaven and Dark Council decisions. It would have been impossible for us to know. We don’t get invited to planning meetings,” Aziraphale said bitterly.

Crowley’s arms fumbled for Aziraphale and then he turned from that awkward twisted position to face Aziraphale, putting his arms around Aziraphale properly, sinking into Aziraphale’s embrace as he exhaled, and somehow for a moment, it seemed like the warmth that he felt outside could melt some of the cold within him.

Inhale. The hot sun against his black-clad back, the scent of Aziraphale and green and sweet flowers and damp spring earth and the sound of fresh flowing water reminded him that this was not the dusty plains of Mesopotamia where the sun scorched away all that was not near water and even the water too, if there were not enough rains.

“Fuck,” Crowley said succinctly, and drew away without warning, surprising Aziraphale. “Okay. Sorry. Sorry. I have to get through this. I mean, I have already gotten over it, it’s just...no, I haven’t, this is not something I had thought was possible and yet…”

“Yes. I’m sorry, I knew it was never going to be an easy conversation but I didn’t realize...I had forgotten about Enkidu. Rather, I had forgotten that the humans also recognized he was not fully human,” Aziraphale said gently, taking Crowley’s hands.

Crowley looked down at their entwined fingers, and tightened his grip on Aziraphale.

“It’s fine, go on. We were…” Crowley sighed. “Discussing this concept of a being two-thirds divine, one-third human.”

“Yes and I suppose you wondered why we were both sent on the same assignment.”

“Yeah. Wondered about it back then. Thought it was maybe them trying to see who could thwart the other the best, and then got busy and forgot to think too much more about it.”

“I wondered about it for a long time. And now here we are again, thousands of years later, both assigned to the same human. I don’t think it is a coincidence, my dear.”

“It would make sense,” Crowley nodded. “A lot of sense. After all, Alexander has found me when I should have been hidden to human eyes.”

“I thought his ability to evade me was a bit unusual.”

“Oh, and he can tell when you’re not singing when no other human can. Sorry, Aziraphale. I shouldn’t have told you that.”

“It’s all right, it’s good to know. I’ll make up some excuse for him. Oh, and sometimes in lamplight, I can see his true form.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think what he looks like to ordinary eyes is a construct. A Nephilim this powerful, with the combined powers of Heaven and Hell in one person...perhaps the outward appearance of a human being is less stable as he’s growing, as his form is continually changing. Maybe we’re here to cancel each other out but also perhaps to cancel him out? So that his form stays that of an ordinary human and stabilizes into adulthood. After all we are no longer in Mesopotamia in the olden days when the kings were thought to be gods, in these sophisticated modern times humans would notice.”

“Makes sense.” And immediately Crowley wondered, was this why Asmodeus was here? To maintain the child’s outer form so that it appeared normal and human and not some amalgam of conflicting divine powers?

He remembered that Nephilim were designed to die young and childless, their own progeny – if by some happy accident they were fertile – rarely making it anywhere near to adulthood. But that didn’t mean that in their time, a Nephilim could not change the entire face of the world with their actions.

Some powerful hand was trying to tip the scales, and he wondered if it was Heaven or Hell. It was probably Hell, Crowley thought, if Asmodeus was still here. And Heaven had with that powerful surveillance somehow intercepted the plans and thwarted them, sabotaging the creation of a Hellish Nephilim with Heavenly interference.

“You seem to have a thought?”

“No. Yes. I mean…” Crowley gestured helplessly. “I don’t know what I can tell you. I know what I want to tell you but I can’t. Angel, I wish I could tell you more. I have so much I want to tell you. But you’ll probably be mad at me if you ever find out. Maybe you’ll never speak to me again. And I’d deserve that. But if I do, the consequences-” Crowley shrugged, a miserable defeated gesture,

“Yes, I understand. Don’t tell me anything, my dear, please. I know how dangerous it is for you.” Aziraphale sighed. “And I can’t promise I won’t be angry, but I promise I’ll still trust you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Crowley sighed, and before Aziraphale could protest, Crowley gestured it away. “Just...maybe someday I could tell you everything. I wish I could.” Crowley looked around. He had dropped the anemone he had picked somewhere, somehow, and the flower was gone.

“Yes. Someday.” Aziraphale’s smile was gentle, understanding.

“I suppose we’re done here then.” Crowley tried to will himself to move, but nothing made him want to leave this place, this moment, with Aziraphale close by his side.

If he could just freeze time forever in this spot...

“But oh, there is something else.” Aziraphale said, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a golden fibulae shaped in the form of a serpent. “I need to return this.”

Crowley felt a knot twist in his belly and a sickening chill passed over him, but whatever he felt, he managed to curtail, keeping his voice steady and calm. “Oh, that. Right. Here, hand it over, I’ll run the errand for you, you don’t need to trouble yourself.”

“Certainly it’s no trouble. And I would like to thank your master personally. Your supposed human master, that is. Oh, and I made him a hat too, not like the ones the soldiers wear but something warmer, like a warm little hood for his shaved head...do you think he’d like it? Wool would be better for keeping warm but I remembered that as a priest and a king, those would be ritually unclean. So I got some nice pieces of bleached linen that I traded some scribe work for; the ladies are certainly mad for help writing up love spells. I told them I don’t write hexes, that’s something that they’ll have to ask someone else for help with. Do you write the hexes? Anyhow, it’s probably a bit too modest and humble for a man of his stature, but perhaps he could wear it to bed to keep warm?”

“Oh. Um. I suppose? But make sure I’m there, all right? Don’t go alone.”

“Is there something wrong?”

“No, just...you know, erm propriety. Can’t let my sister meet with another man unescorted, right? What would the humans say?” Crowley laughed nervously.

“Oh yes, of course.” Aziraphale chuckled. “Mustn't besmirch the family honor. Certainly, let’s plan some time to get this done. When is your next free afternoon? When do you think he’ll be free? Shall I make an appointment?”

“Uh…” And Crowley thought about it; if it was done without a plan, then Asmodeus would not have time to come up with something nefarious; they could steal a march on the Prince of Hell, surprising him for once instead of the other way around.

“Actually, let’s go now and get it over with. He’ll be free, I’m sure. This time of day he’ll be wanting a break,” Crowley lied.

Crowley stood, and suddenly the flowers all around them began to sway again. He took a step and as he did, he looked down and saw the crimson anemone crushed beneath his sandal, the flower staining the heel red.

Aziraphale’s smile was gentle, and he bent down to retrieve the fallen flower. In his hands, the petals were restored, and he carefully tucked the anemone behind Crowley’s ear.

“Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Crowley walked back with Aziraphale, leading them through the longest and most circuitous route possible through the port town so as to put it off for just a little longer. As they walked through the shaded colonnade of the agora, Crowley scowled darkly and wondered what kind of nightmarish confrontation they were about to face. He could imagine it now, Asmodeus with that smirk hidden just under the surface as the Prince of Hell played nice, all the while trapping Aziraphale in some kind of tangled web of malice that would only tighten upon the angel as Aziraphale struggled to free himself.

“Something wrong?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be fine?” Crowley sputtered, even as everything was extremely far from fine unless fine was defined as in part being on fire and in other part vibrating out of one’s own skin from nerves. He looked away, pretending to be interested in some small bronze figures for sale until he realized that they were depictions of Apollo.

“Hmm.” Aziraphale folded his hands behind his back, glancing over at Crowley. “You have quite a rather troubled expression on your face. Is something paining you?”

“Nah, course not. Nothing’s wrong. Just...thinking.”

And then it occurred to Crowley that if Asmodeus somehow made a move to harm Aziraphale, it would mean that Aziraphale would realize that this was not an ordinary human, but a demon and a powerful one at that.

But this would be to Crowley’s advantage, as it seemed that Asmodeus preferred to stay concealed from the Heavenly representative. As long as Asmodeus didn’t reveal himself, and as long as Crowley kept his mouth shut, Aziraphale could stay safe. Perhaps it would be better to just pretend that nothing was awry, and that everything was fine, and that they were all good, normal human beings doing good, normal human things. Well, not so much good as merely ordinary. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, if they were just able to maintain this precarious balance...

“Obol for your thoughts?”

“Huh?” Crowley blinked. “N-no real thoughts, nothing serious- Erm why, is something wrong?”

“I just noticed that we’re not really heading toward the palace in any reasonable manner,” Aziraphale observed. “Trying to avoid something?”

“Nah, no, what could I possibly be trying to avoid? I like the palace, big palace fan, me.” Crowley managed something like a weak smile. “I just...also like walking with you. That’s all. Trying to draw it out a little more while I have the opportunity.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s head tilted down with sudden demure shyness. “Oh, I didn’t realize…”

“Yeah. Makes me wish we could do it more often,” Crowley sighed. “Would like to do this all the time with you, really. Long chats in sunny meadows, long walk through town, get some supper-”

“And have some wine and music, our own little party. That would certainly be nice, if only we weren’t on assignment.”

“Yeah, good point,” Crowley said, glumly, falling back into scowling.

As they walked together, Aziraphale turned down toward the docks and Crowley followed, glad that the palace that loomed in the distance stayed safely in the distance.

“You know, my dear, it occurs to me that we can’t just walk in,” Aziraphale said suddenly, and for a moment Crowley’s legs didn’t seem to work correctly as he stumbled, surprised by Aziraphale’s words. Aziraphale unobtrusively straightened him out without making much note of it.

“What?”

“It seems we should have a plan. After all we are supposed to be brother and sister. It wouldn’t do to just...show up all of a sudden.”

“Suppose you’re right.” Crowley felt the words stumbling out of him, and wondered if they sounded as shaky as he felt. “What should we do?”

“Well we’d need an excuse for seeing each other in the middle of the day-”

“Ah yes, an alibi.”

“Must we use that word? It seems nicer to say excuse.”

“Alibi, excuse, what’s the difference? It’s all lies in the end,” Crowley said, before abruptly shutting his mouth at Aziraphale stern look of dismay.

“I’d rather not lie,” the angel said primly.

“Eh, it’s not a lie so much as...as, you know, acting.”

“Acting?” Aziraphale perked up, eyes brightening with excitement.

“Yeah, you know. Acting. Like in the theater. The two of us, we’d be like...you know, like...Dionysus and Xanthias. Or Peisthetaerus and Euelpides.”

“You always like the funny ones the best, don’t you?”

“Well, better that than ending with everyone dead and the city sacked and burnt to the ground,” Crowley muttered. “Anyway, besides that, you’re not lying to anyone, you’re just acting. Playing a part. Melita and Akakios, an Older Sister and a Younger Brother, appointed to work in the court of Pella.”

“Oh! Good idea, brother,” Aziraphale said, and with a snap of her fingers she returned to her feminine disguise. To any passerby, they might have seen a poet and a young gentleman on a walk, briefly disappearing from view behind a mound of stacked amphorae and reappearing as a modest and respectable woman with her himation over her head dutifully escorted by a young gentleman.

“But wait, if I were actually acting, I’d have a mask,” Aziraphale frowned.

“You have a mask!” Crowley pointed at the disguise, from head to toe, gesturing broadly. “It’s just...better and more realistic.”

“Oh, right. Good point. All right, if it’s theater, we should have some lines. Properly written ones.”

“Come on, you’ve been a poet. What’s that thing that the humans do with music, where they just...make things up on the fly?”

“You can’t write on mosquitoes.”

“No, I mean,” Crowley stuttered, frustrated. “Y-you know, when they just...make up a tune right there, out of their own heads. I think we could do that.”

“You mean improvisation? I’d prefer a script,” Aziraphale said, pouting.

“Okay, why not a little of both. We’ll rough out a script and anything that goes wrong or changes, we do like the humans. Make it up, right there on the spot. Improvise.”

“I’m not sure how much improvisation I could do...”

“Aziraphale, you’ve done this sort of thing dozens of times,” Crowley said, exasperated. “I’ve seen you do it before! Remember, you’ve been all sorts of different people over the years: a hunter, a poet, a trapper, a merchant, a traveling cousin, a sailor, a hippo-”

“Well, that’s a good point but these are modern, sophisticated times. Most of those happened so long ago and humans have changed so much since then. They’re much harder to fool now. We can’t just walk in and…”

“And flick poo everywhere?”

“I was going to say, hope for the best.” Aziraphale scowled. “Besides, even if I have played many roles before in the past, it’s different this time.”

“Eh? How so?’

“You’re involved in this too. We haven’t ever done anything where we’ve had to coordinate as carefully as this. We’ve only been sent to the same assignment once before, and did not have nearly as much interaction with the humans. In fact, we hardly interacted with them at all. It was certainly nothing this complex.”

“Point taken,” Crowley admitted. “So what’s your plan?”

“All right. I think I should say that we met coming back from the agora. Oh, but we need motivation. Why were we at the agora?”

Crowley gave Aziraphale a look. “Does that really matter?”

“Yes, of course it does, motivation is key! I was friends with Euripedes, you know.”

“You met him once at a party, that doesn’t count.”

“Well, all right, but he did say that character motivation made stories more realistic.”

“He didn’t say that to you, you read that out of a- Okay, fine. Motivation, we’ll have motivation. What’s yours?”

“So, I was running an errand with...with some of the other women, and you were...uh…”

“Out for a walk,” Crowley said, annoyed.

“Out for a walk. And we happened to meet each other by a...uh, by a flower seller!”

“Flower seller?”

“In case he notices that you’ve got pollen all over your clothes. Which you do.”

Absently, Crowley waved the pollen away, tiny flecks of golden pollen disappearing from sight, leaving the plain black clothing of his clothing blank and unremarkable.

“And then what?” Crowley asked.

“And then, after we greeted each other, you reminded me that I had a duty to fulfill-”

“After which you thank the man, return his stupid fibula, and get out.”

“Oh, I can’t forget the hat I made for him. I hope he likes it.”

“No, mustn’t forget the hat,” Crowley said, snippily.

“Azi- erm sister, wait. Before we go inside, let me go in first to announce you. Propriety and all,” Crowley shot Aziraphale a nervous smile and took a deep breath, steeling himself. Opening the door with a confidence he didn’t quite feel, Crowley went in.

Somehow it seemed that Asmodeus didn’t hear him as he came in.

The Prince of Hell was sitting upon the bed on the far side of the room, a solitary figure in black illuminated by a beam of warm sunlight that streamed in through a high narrow window. As unmoving as a statue, Asmodeus was staring transfixed at the little rectangular piece of the firmament that a high window revealed, watching the slow movement of wind-torn white clouds in the milky blue sky.

“Ah, excuse me, Lord Nectanebo? You have a visitor.”

Asmodeus startled, looking at Crowley with genuine surprise, and whether it was because Crowley was back at an odd hour or because there was actually a visitor for him, Crowley didn’t know. But between one heartbeat and the next his appearance had changed, and the now-disguised Prince of Hell was sitting in an elegant chair at a desk covered in wax tablets incised with astrological data, looking like any other haughty Egyptian lord, though perhaps not quite as haughty and certainly more lordly.

Crowley stepped out to escort Aziraphale in and concentrated on his breathing, hoping that he didn’t throw Aziraphale off the script by forgetting to add that Aziraphale’s entry should be announced.

“Pardon the intrusion, Lord Nectanebo. I really had ought to have made an appointment,” Aziraphale smiled nervously as she stepped in with trepidation. Crowley positioned himself slightly behind her left side where she couldn’t see him without turning around. He glanced nervously at Asmodeus, hoping that this interview would go well.

“Nonsense, no intrusion at all,” Nectanebo said, perhaps a bit too smoothly, even as his gaze skated over to Crowley who managed something like a wink, albeit with much more of an uncontrollable eye twitch mixed in than Crowley had meant to include. “A sister of my dear companion Akakios is always a welcome visitor. What brings you here?”

“So, erm. Just a little while ago I happened upon my brother as I was running errands in the agora,” Aziraphale said, in an utterly artless and believable manner, and Crowley felt his heart fill with pride as Aziraphale spoke, the angel had had remembered their agreed-upon excuse. “And he reminded me that I had a small duty to fulfill-”

“Oh, let us not speak of duty. Akakios, would you call for the servant to fetch us some refreshment? You must be tired and your mouth parched after all that walking. Perhaps a drink of...something that you would like? And some sweets, perhaps? What kind of sweets do they like here, Akakios? Please sit, my dear.”

“Oh, I couldn’t!” Aziraphale said demurely. “It sounds lovely but really I musn’t.”

Crowley shrugged helplessly, grimacing to Asmodeus before quickly changing his expression as Aziraphale turned to look at him. “So...so very sorry,” Crowley said, not sorry at all. “My apologies, my lord, please understand that I cannot step out at this time. As you might recall it would be against the custom of the land here, to leave a single woman alone with a man who is unrelated. After all, there is propriety to consider.”

“Ah yes, of course. I had forgotten. There certainly is propriety to consider.” The facade that was Nectanebo seemed to crack just a little bit before it smoothed away.

Somehow it didn’t seem that Aziraphale noticed any strange discrepancies, and for that Crowley was extremely grateful.

“Thank you so much for the other day,” Aziraphale beamed, taking the golden serpent-shaped fibula out from some hidden pocket within her clothes. “I very much appreciated your concern and your help at the banquet, and for lending me your fibula. I particularly wanted to thank you in person.” She stepped forward to set the fibula down on the desk before Asmodeus where the gold gleamed so brightly that Crowley wondered if it was still a match for the other fibula.

“Never you mind, my dear child,” Asmodeus said. “Of course you’re welcome, and I would like to be of service to you any time. Whatever you need, please come to me for help.”

“Oh, no need to trouble yourself, Lord Nectanebo,” Aziraphale replied, hands clasped before herself politely. “After all, I’m a servant of the royal family these days so I’m certain I won’t need your assistance in the future. Please, don’t concern yourself with me, I’ve got all the protection I need.”

Crowley’s mouth moved into a brittle smile, hoping that was true.

“Y-yes, yes of course.” And Crowley blinked, surprised to hear hesitation in Asmodeus’ voice. The demon stared, or at least he tried to stare without being obvious that he was staring.

If he didn’t know any better, it seemed that Asmodeus had been wrongfooted; whatever plans the Prince of Hell had, they had been somehow neatly sidestepped completely by accident. There was the barest hint of irritation in Asmodeus’ eyes, but the expression flattened out to placid calm as he turned his attention back to Aziraphale.

But Aziraphale spoke before the disguised Prince of Hell opened his mouth again.

“Well, that’s settled. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Nectanebo, I’ll be taking my leave-”

“Wait, Melita. Let’s not forget the hat,” Crowley added, not wanting a repeat of this farce in a few days time.

“Thank you brother, I almost forgot.” Aziraphale beamed, presenting Nectanebo with the linen cap that she set down upon the desk beside the fibula, where the pale bleached fabric seemed to almost glow in the warm afternoon light that came through the high narrow windows. “I hope this hat suits you and keeps you warm, Lord Nectanebo. I made it myself for you, a gift to thank you for your assistance. Thank you so very much!”

With that, Aziraphale left, Crowley trailing her in his wake, turning at the last minute to give Asmodeus a puzzled shrug as if he had no clue what just happened either.

Asmodeus stared as the two left, brow furrowed in confusion.

Chapter Text

Giddy with relief, Crowley accompanied Aziraphale as far as the nursery, trying not to giggle and grin like an absolute fool.

“So we’ll have to set another meeting soon,” Aziraphale was saying, and Crowley nodded, hearing the words he had been hoping to hear.

“Yeah, even if there’s not much business, I think I’d like that. Let’s get some lunch sometime, shall we? On a day off or something.”

“I’m certain our days off shall miraculously align themselves,” Aziraphale winked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be surprised if such a thing were to occur. Well, I suppose that’s that. I’ll be off then.”

“Wait, Crowley.” Aziraphale reached out to touch Crowley’s hair, and Crowley was taken aback.

“What is it?”

“Your flower, it’s almost fallen out of your hair…”

“Oh.” A sinking dread crashed through Crowley as if being drenched in cold water, and all of that good mood was suddenly gone, replaced with that familiar gnawing fear. Asmodeus must have noticed it, it would be impossible for the Prince of Hell not to notice. What would he think, Crowley wondered, what could Asmodeus think it might mean?

Before Aziraphale could touch him, Crowley reached up for the flower and plucked it from his hair himself. Meaning to make it disappear, he paused. There was still the tingling glow of an angelic miracle that clung to every atom of the flower, as warm between his fingers as if he were reaching out with one hand to cup a handful of blazing bright sunlight on a hot day.

“Must have been all that walking. Shook it loose,” Crowley managed something that was almost like a wobbly smile. And then he had a thought “Wait, Aziraphale. Here.” Carefully, he tucked the crimson anemone behind Aziraphale’s ear, careful not to muss the pale shoulder-length locks of silvery blonde hair that had been bound up with a filet.

“It’s not really my color,” Aziraphale began.

“It is now,” Crowley said, with a little smile, before stepping back. “All right, best get back to it. I’ll be on my way then.”

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale smiled. She went back upstairs only to find the nursery miraculously empty; apparently everyone had left to enjoy the pleasant spring weather outside. But she had had enough of the hot sun for one day, and reveled in the shady quiet of the upstairs rooms.

Pleased, Aziraphale sat down on her bed, and seeing as no one was there, decided she would dare it and reached out to pull out a very lovely mirror that she kept safe in her house in Ephesus. Made of finely polished silver chased with gold, it was set on a handle shaped like a winged siren, every finely wrought feather standing out in sharp detail.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror and turned her head. With a gasp of delight, she realized that the anemone was now orange-yellow, the exact shade of the flowers upon the embroidered chlamys that the angel had worn earlier.

Touching the flower cautiously, she thought to rearrange it in a manner that she preferred, but then thought the better of it and left it as Crowley had, thinking that it might be some time before they could properly see each other again.

She brought her fingers to her nose and sharpening her senses temporarily with a miracle, she picked up the hints of roses and myrrh, sunlight and fresh earth, all intermingling with the faintest scent of the flower itself, a scent not discernible to human noses.

But it had no other scent. Not the crisp icy scent of a Heavenly miracle, nor the sharp sulfurous scent of a Hellish intervention. Once again it was just a flower, now that their powers had canceled each other out.

Aziraphale smiled and hugged the mirror to her chest before putting it back where it belonged, on a table in Ephesus, far away.

“Mind how you go,” Aziraphale had said.

“Oh right.” Crowley muttered to himself, as he began the slow trudge back to Asmodeus’ side. “Can’t forget that. Minding how I go. I certainly mind how I go and where I’m going to. Straight into the jaws of Hell...well, not literally. Though I suppose as a serpent he does have pretty big jaws. Only because he’s a really big snake.”

Crowley stopped in the hallway, somewhere halfway between where he had just left Aziraphale and before the quarters he shared with Asmodeus, and it seemed that he couldn’t move forward. He closed his eyes for a moment as humans passed him by, servants and lords alike, noticing but not particularly caring about some minor retainer who stopped for no particular reason in the wide corridor.

He couldn’t go in like this, unprepared. Like Aziraphale had said, he had to come up with some lines. Put on his mask. Dionysus and Xanthias...but wasn’t Dionysus torn apart and eaten at some point?

Crowley shuddered, but there was no way to avoid Asmodeus. It was not like he could walk away or run away, he would at some point always have to return to his master’s side.

“Okay...okay, Crowley, you can do it. Come up with something.”

And yet no clever thoughts came to mind, no clever excuses. Perhaps the only thing he could do would be to blame the angel entirely. But that was impossible; he had kept that flower in his hair. No, he had put it there himself; it was a pretty thing that he thought Asmodeus would like. But no, it was gone now, and Aziraphale had it, and that excuse couldn’t be used.

Carefully sliding out of visibility to the humans, Crowley turned around, leaning against the wall, his forehead pressed the smooth plastered surface and when he opened his eyes, he realized he was staring at a splotch of crimson-painted wall. Curious, he looked up and realized it was of some gory scene, Aktaion being ripped apart by hounds.

Crowley made a face and turned away.

He tapped on the door, before coming in. “My lord? It’s me…”

“Yes?” Asmodeus looked up. “You’re back early.”

“Thought I’d see…” and Crowley felt a sinking fear shiver his bones and he did his best to not show it. “My lord?”

Standing in the middle of the room where Crowley had left him, Asmodeus was turning over the hat in his hands, looking at the work, the geometrical perfection of cloth cut and sewed together with careful little stitches, all neatly even and with no stitch out of place.

“An angel made this,” Asmodeus marveled. “With their own hands, turning material into an object. Is this even allowed?”

Crowley shrugged. “Dunno what the rules are, Lord Asmodeus. You would probably know them better than me.”

“And yet, this is something that was never discussed.” Asmodeus stood up, dangling the hat from long, elegant fingers. “Nothing that was ever expressly allowed or forbidden. We can’t create humans ourselves. We’re not to raise the human dead. It’s not allowed to try to destroy the planet through cosmic mishaps. Forbidden from destroying their sun. Forbidden from taking their water or their air, the things they need to live. Even our powers come with limits depending on our ranks. And yet…it never occurred to us that a celestial being might be interested in making material things the way the humans did.” He tossed the hat to Crowley, who caught it with fumbling hands.

“My lord?”

“Put it on,” Asmodeus commanded. “The Heavenly representative has placed a miracle upon it. I want to see what it does.”

Crowley swallowed. “...really? But erm, what if it destroys me?”

“It won’t. Whatever that miracle is, it’s small, not strong enough to to do serious harm. And if you’re hurt, I’ll heal you. You know I’ll always protect you.”

Crowley stared at the hat in his hands. It was bleached to such a pure white that he didn’t think such whiteness could exist in this world. It was as white as angelic raiment.

He tried to remember what angelic raiment had looked like upon his body, what it felt like to be clad in dazzling white embroidered with gold, but he could not remember anything that wasn’t the memory of a memory. It had been too long.

“Lord Asmodeus, shouldn’t we...call for Under-Duke Legion for this sort of thing?”

“Not for such a trivial matter. It would arouse suspicion. The others would want to know what I was up to, calling for almost all my court. No, it must be you.”

“Y-yes, of course. Of course, my lord.” Trembling, Crowley closed his eyes, feeling the familiar gentle heat of the miracle within his hands. This was something that Aziraphale made, and he knew Aziraphale couldn’t have known that Asmodeus was a demon. Something that was made to keep a human warm…

A breath, and release. Trust Aziraphale, Crowley thought. He could always trust Aziraphale.

He could always trust Aziraphale.

Crowley put on the hat.

“Well?” And when Crowley looked up, Asmodeus had Crowley in his arms, green eyes full of concern.

“My head is very warm. Not...in a bad way. Not too hot or too cold. Just...perfect. It’s a very cozy hat.”

“Ah. It’s just a hat then.” Asmodeus exhaled sharply, as if letting go of a long-held breath. “I almost thought that you had betrayed me, darling.”

“Of course not,” Crowley gulped. “Never. Wouldn’t ever dream of it. Why would I? You’ve...always been good- er, kind to me, my lord.”

“Yes. I suppose I have.” Asmodeus kissed Crowley on the forehead, letting him go. “You may be dismissed. As per our arrangement, you won’t have to return until after dark.”

“Y-yes, of course.” Crowley bowed, stepping away politely. “What about the hat?”

“What about it?” Asmodeus shrugged. “Keep it, destroy it...it doesn’t matter. It’s just a hat, even if it someone placed a miracle upon it.”

“Mind...if I keep it?”

“Why?” Asmodeus’ eyebrow arched.

“W-well, erm, my lord,” Crowley stammered. “Sometimes I get cold? At night.” Crowley’s hands wandered to the hat, tugging it down about his ears, straightening it on his head.

“Yes. Keep it, if it pleases you.” Asmodeus slowly turned away, and Crowley saw that the Prince of Hell’s hands were clasped tight behind his back, his head tilted up so that his gaze was fixed upon the high window.

The patch of clear sky beyond was no more; black clouds had blown in off the sea and it was as if that mild milky blue sky had never existed.

Chapter Text

East of Eden, 3301 B.C.

The demon appeared like fragrant smoke out of the desert wasteland, black robes twisted around the tall column of its form, and then the demon took a stumbling hop backwards, nearly falling over in the process as the human yelped in surprise, pointing at Crawley.

It should not have been possible for this lone human to have been able to discern Crawley’s form, and yet it did, recoiling from the demon. And even when Crawley tried to disappear from the human’s view, the human’s bright brown eyes still followed the dark figure.

Well, they said to find a human, and this was a human.

Crawley did not fully understand the orders but orders were orders, and so many seasons ago the demon had headed to the land east of Eden where the descendants of Eve lived, to find a wife among the daughters of Eve. Not immediately of course but eventually, once Crawley got around to it, taking a long, meandering path that gradually wandered into the land between the two rivers. Well, the land adjacent to the land between the two rivers.

And then, to the demon’s surprise, the human found Crawley first.

Crawley took a moment to assess the creature to see if it was the right kind of human, a daughter of Eve. Dark coiling hair springing up strongly from a soft rounded face, full lips parted in surprise, skin as shining black as the space between the stars, where Crawley knew there were countless other stars hidden behind a veil of distance, glittering bright.

A memory, and it was that of Eve, and Crawley stared at the human, as if the face of that original ancestor was still discernible.

There was an angel too in this memory. What did that angel, Aziraphale say? Oh yes, that Eve was called a ‘she’ and Adam a ‘he’. It would make sense then, that perhaps the daughters of Eve and the sons of Adam should also be called the same.

The human was alone and that was very unusual; humans generally moved in groups and were rarely alone, especially out here on the edge of the desert. But Crawley saw the bruises, the marks of fists and stones, the scratches and cuts from where she was bleeding, and wondered if something had happened to this human.

“Solitary human, take my hand. For thou art to be my wife and bear my child,” Crawley intoned, in a very serious voice as this seemed like it was a very serious matter.

The human froze at the sound of the demon’s voice, and tried to run, but Crawley was fast too, catching her by a thin wrist before she could get away.

“Be not afraid,” Crawley said, and with a gesture healed the human’s hurts.

Tears glimmered in deep brown eyes like raindrops welling upon the rich dark soil of the earth before soaking in.

“Do you want some food? Water?” Crawley gestured, a handful of ripe cherries appearing in one hand, and a cylinder of water appearing in the other, floating and defying gravity. Within the water, a small fish swam placidly before suddenly darting about in distress as it realized it was no longer in a lake.

She shook her head violently, flinching away, licking at parched and cracked lips.

“Oh.” With that one demonic miracle, Crawley exhausted almost everything known about humans. Disappointed, the demon dropped the water, where it splashed onto the hard stony ground, evaporating quickly in the heat. The fish was caught with the tips of long fingers before it could squirm away and swallowed whole, Crawley savoring its struggles as it went down a demonic throat.

The human’s eyes were wide with fear, and she quickened her pace.

While pondering the problem, Crawley ate the cherries one by one while following her, crunching through the hard pits for their bitter cyanide flavor, sometimes swallowing fruits whole.

She quickened her step, but the demon was inexorable, following patient at her heels.

It was fascinating watching the human at her labors. Instead of returning to the settled lands where she had come from, she walked for a long time alone through scrubby hills and parched valleys for many days, often with nothing to eat and drink. At first Crawley was not certain where the human was going, but eventually it seemed that they were heading toward mountains that rose hazy on the horizon like smoke from a faraway fire. Sometimes when she faltered, Crawley would try to help out by leading her to water, or to fruit, for which she was grateful. But even then, the human kept her distance; she never took food or drink from Crawley’s hand if Crawley had miracled up out of thin air, not even if she was nearly collapsing from thirst or hunger.

Eventually Crawley learned to lead her to the food or drink regularly, before she was in distress. After all, it would not do for him to lose control of the project so soon.

Gradually the ground was slowly growing greener, the air became cooler and wetter. Together they passed over rolling hills scattered with hesitant grasses that were no longer yellow and dying in the parching summer heat, and into narrow river valleys grown scrubby green, where fast-flowing clear icy water cut through unforgiving layers of towering stone.

They headed north out of the land of black-headed people, and even more northward still, until they came to a place of heavily forested valleys where the trees grew as tight as grass and were massive as to blot out the sun, and water ran freely everywhere, even down the sides of the mountains.

To Crawley’s surprise even here the land was peopled, though the people kept their distance as the human kept her distance from them.

Crawley helped when it was possible, and was now holding up part of a wooden frame as the human set up a simple shelter to keep out the drizzling rain. She was strong and capable; she probably didn’t actually need the demon’s help, but it lacking anything else to do, Crawley put both hands to the work. The human said very little to Crawley, and seemed for the most part to try to ignore the demon as much as possible.

Once the frame was set, Crawley yawned, watching the human puzzling out a problem of weaving long flexible branches of birch to cover the frame. Humans were so very industrious, spending their days toiling, but that seemed like the right thing to do. After all, that was the command. God’s voice had been so loud that even a demon hidden among the branches as a serpent in Eden could hear that. Condemnation to perpetual toil and suffering for what seemed like a trifling mistake. Seemed rather unfair to Crawley, but a lot of things were, and that just seemed normal.

Suddenly the ground parted and cracked with a thunderous rumble, and tremendous gout of flame erupted from beneath the earth, scorching the trees around it. The human cried out, a terrible sound, dropping the branches that she had gathered. She tried to run but Crawley caught her before she could go, pressing a hand over her lips to stem the screaming.

“Quiet, human. Got to take this message.”

The human gulped, choking back shuddering sobs, trembling in the demon’s grip.

Whispering voices like the susurrus of wind through parched desert sands, only with strange unnatural overtones and growls emanated from the crack in the ground.

“Yes, yes, not a problem, not a problem at all, that’s not too far from here. Probably thirty minute commute if that. Won’t even need to fly. Sure thing, will do. It’ll be done; you can count on me.”

The flames subsided, and the crack abated, as if the earth had never known the terror of Hell peering out from the innocent ground.

“Stay here, daughter of Eve.” And with a gesture Crawley shook off the guise of humanity and slithered into the forest, off to do the bidding of Hell.

Chapter Text

Round mud brick homes clustered as if huddling together against incursions from the deep dark forest and yet neither walls nor safety in numbers could keep out Crawley who entered the human settlement with ease, weaving through narrow footpaths unseen.

As the massive serpent slithered along invisible to the humans, a goose honked at the demon, and they both hissed at each other for a moment before the serpent slipped into the first dwelling in sight.

“Okay, spread some suffering and troubles. That’s a change of pace,” Crawley muttered. No orders for a long time, and suddenly order after order coming in, with no pause for air.

Crawley got up on two legs into the preferred form and looked about. It didn’t seem like there was much that was worth causing trouble. In fact, it seemed like the humans had plenty of trouble already as it was: rotten fruit in a round black obsidian jar was giving off a sour, fermented smell; the tamped dirt floor was strewn with bits of straw and animal dung; a hollow and frail human was sitting on the ground, wrapped in a blanket and coughing while trying to braid straw for a basket; and a not-quite-fully-formed human was grinding grain on a bit of smoothed stone while occasionally stopping to rub at an inflamed jaw where a decaying, broken tooth was hurting it.

One by one Crawley went into the dwellings to see what could be seen. Sick humans, tired humans, overworked humans, humans quarreling. Some were hungry, some were overfed, and wherever Crawley went, no one seemed like they were having much of a good time. Except for the vermin which strolled through the human habitations with an arrogant entitlement the demon had only seen in the royalty of Hell.

“Really, what kind of trouble could I cause that they don’t already have?” Crawley said out loud, while the humans labored away without seeing or hearing the infernal being that lurked among them.

Crawley scowled. Quite frankly this exile from Eden to an existence of toil and suffering seemed more and more like what demons were exiled to do, under circumstances that were not significantly better. Especially since the humans had been given bodies that were far less sturdy, which seemed rather rude.

With a sneer, Crawley stepped outside.

A goose honked at Crawley as the demon’s foot crossed the mudbrick threshold. Crawley leapt back in surprise, hissing at the goose who hissed back at the demon.

“Fine, go bother humans. This counts as suffering.” Crawley pointed the goose indoors, and walked away, hearing a squawking of honks and shouts, the sound of shattering crockery and spreading fire.

By the time Crawley came back it was raining heavily and had been for some time. The work of the shelter was incomplete still, and the daughter of Eve sat slumped where the demon had left her, with loose birch branches in her lap, staring at the scatter and mess of materials, the empty frame of the shelter.

Crawley sat down beside her, and carefully arched a black wing over her head.

“Shouldn’t get wet like this, thou wilt get a disease and die,” Crawley said sensibly, miracling away the water so that she was dry beneath a canopy of ebon feathers.

She turned away from the demon but did not leave, and her swollen red eyes darted to the place where fire had come from the ground.

“Oh, did you want some fire too?” Crawley said, offering her a handful, and she yelped, backing up until she bumped into black feathers, before moving forward to avoid Crawley’s outstretched hand and really it seemed like a very awkward and uncomfortable situation, shuffling back and forth until she ended up huddling in the center of the shelter that the massive black wing provided, where Crawley could not touch her nor could she touch the demon.

“Guess not.” Crawley closed a burning hand, and the fire went away. With a frown, Crawley shook off the sensation of hellfire from that still-smoking hand. “Say, human. Nothing personal, really. It’s just orders, and orders are orders. But thou wert chosen to conceive and bear my child.”

The human flinched, hunching up even tighter as if she could compress her form into a smaller and smaller point and disappear.

“If it’s not thee, it’s someone else,” Crawley said reasonably. “And well, finding someone else would be harder. People have some pretty sharp things these days, and it’s hard finding a daughter of Eve to borrow who isn’t guarded by lots of angry humans with pointy sticks. I know, I’ve tried.”

“Eve? Who’s Eve?” The human tilted a curious head.

“Oh? Thou knowest not?” Crawley was taken aback. “Mother of humans, ancestor to all?”

The human shook her head.

Crawley started counting on fingers, and when the demon ran out, went to toes, but that was all counted out quickly.

“Erm, suppose it’s been a while, hasn’t it? Well, all right, daughter of...well, I don’t know and it doesn’t matter much does it? What matters is that it has to be done, and so let’s get on with it.”

Crawley didn’t move.

Neither did the human.

They looked at each other, awkward and confused.

“All right, well. They didn’t say how it should be done so let’s just...call it a miracle. Put the seeds in the right place and so forth,” Crawley said, gesturing to the human. “That’s really what I was told to do, make you conceive. They didn’t exactly tell me by what mechanism the seeds are supposed to get the egg, just that they’re supposed to be there. All right, the deed is done. Thou hast conceived, and shall bear a child...soon? How long’s that supposed to be, with humans? Like, tomorrow?”

The human drew marks on the soil with the end of a branch, and Crawley stared.

“Nine eggs? Really, that long? Wait, what’s nine eggs long?” Crawley held up both hands, as if curved around imaginary eggs, trying to imagine what volume and units of time had in common.

“Moons. Nine moons.” The human rolled her eyes. “They’re called months, idiot.”

And that was the most they ever talked.

Chapter Text

The first thing Crawley did was to help finish the shelter, preferring that the project had a place to stay out of the weather rather than use the shade of a demonic wing, which Crawley had quickly found tiresome. It was nothing like the round mud brick houses that the demon had seen in the area; after some trial and error, the shelter had been pieced together with interwoven branches in a frame of thicker branches driven into the ground and held up by stones that Crawley had helped her carry from the river. The woven structure had been slathered with sticky mud mixed with dried grasses to keep out the wind and rain, and a small round hearth had been made inside.

But smoke from the fire made her cough and not liking the pathetic percussive sound, Crawley spent one very productive afternoon giving the fire, the smoke from the hearth, and the hearth itself a stern lecture until they came to an agreeable state of frightened obedience where the smoke decided to waft out of its own accord and stay that way, rather than risking the demon’s wrath.

The weather, meanwhile, was growing inclement and she was shivering a lot. So besides leading her to places where there was fallen dead wood that she could use for fuel, Crawley went out in the forest and enticed animals to her shelter before snapping their necks, as it was a lot easier than trying to carry an entire bear (which was impossible for the demon without using a temporary miracle). Soon enough, she had enough to eat and warm skins to wear, and did not seem nearly as miserable as she was before.

Of course, that was not the point of the project, to keep this human safe. There were other things to consider too.

For sometime now, nothing seemed different about the human, who went about her usual toil with grim determination. But as time passed it seemed that her body was changing and that she was growing, albeit in a lateral manner rather than a vertical way as small humans did. This was rather disappointing to Crawley. The human seemed rather short of stature and in the demon’s opinion, could use some more vertical growth, especially if she wanted to kill bears for herself in the future without the demon’s help.

But then again, the lateral growth was good news to the demon and meant that the project was well underway.

“Well, I guess that worked,” Crawley said one morning, when she made a face as if pained, putting her hand to her growing belly.

She glared at the demon, furious, and stomped away.

Besides the occasional check up on the project, Crawley spent time working on demonic interference at some nearby homesteads and harassing a local settlement with plagues and boils and geese. Though really this was mostly just plagues of geese as the actual plagues and boils seemed to erupt of their own without any help. Crawley decided that if anyone asked, those would be mentioned as part of the miseries that the demon had brought upon the humans.

Of course, just because the vast majority of the miseries happened of their own accord didn’t mean that Crawley stayed idle. The demon used that time in human settlements to figure out what a birthing human might need.

There weren’t any birthing humans in the settlements nearby. Perhaps it was the wrong season, and this made Crawley worry and fret, thinking perhaps a mistake had been made in the timing of the conception. But despite the fact that no local humans were ready to give birth, there were some tiny, not fully-formed humans. Larval humans, very small and round, that wriggled in sacks of soft animal skins. Those were very helpless and did not seem to be able to see well, much like the infants of some other animals. They did look and smell rather delectable though, tender and soft and sweet, but were too big to swallow, not unless Crawley felt like fully unhinging flexible jaws which was just too much trouble for a bite to eat.

Humans treated these larval humans well, rarely letting them out of sight.

Then there were slightly bigger larval humans, nestlings, that could toddle about and form words, though not well. Those were more interesting to Crawley but humans kept them close too, without letting them get into the sort of trouble that could easily befall them like stumbling into a fire or being carried off by wild animals.

And they grew even bigger from there, all the way to partially-formed humans to fully-formed ones.

It was interesting to Crawley how these represented something like a continuum between humans and animals. The smaller they were, the more they were like animals, without any cunning, motivated only by hunger and fear and fatigue. The more fully-formed they were, the more they started resembling actual humans, talking and becoming clever and dangerous and ever more likely to start using pointy sticks and sharpened rocks.

It was all very strange to Crawley, who was much more accustomed to animals these days, despite a strong start at the creation of humanity. Since then, the demon had wandered the world alone for a long time, discovering all there was to see of Earth and had for the most part, only seen humans from a distance.

Though, Crawley thought, not always alone. Asmodeus had joined Crawley a few times, as lord and master.

Crawley sighed, feeling a pang of longing, touching that single braid tangled within long dark hair. And then the demon’s attention was drawn away; a human with a child on its hip and another human began to talk. Listening intently for a while, the demon made sure to note that larval humans should sleep on their backs. Or face-down on their bellies. No, it was the back. One of those was better. Or maybe neither.

And oh, there were certain weeds that the humans seemed to like to eat that were good for their bodies. Crawley watched as a higher-ranked fully-formed human with silver hair that seemed to suggest importance showing another human where to find the right plants and at what time to pick them. Crawley remembered the shape of the leaves; it would be easy to find other patches to lead the project to, and hopefully the project would eat them.

Special foods, certain plants…Crawley could get these things for the project without any trouble at all, but knew she wouldn’t accept it, not directly from the demon’s hands if a miracle had been used. After a few failed attempts at getting her to follow the demon into the deep forest, Crawley realized that the human had become too ungainly to be clambering into ravines and over boulders. The growing child was becoming something of a burden, and she was just not as agile as she was before.

Besides that, it was cold and icy now. The human didn’t want to leave her shelter where the fire was kept going all the time, giving some feeble warmth. Until of course, Crawley had another stern talk with the hearth again and the warmth improved drastically, to the point where the fire didn’t need fuel anymore.

If the project wouldn’t accept Crawley’s help getting the right things to eat, getting other humans to do the work was more than possible.

So the demon started adding a voice to the conversations to nudge them to help her.

“How do you do fellow humans? What do you think about that human in the forest?”

“The woman in the woods, the pregnant one? Did you know that animals just walk up to her and die? She doesn’t do any hunting of her own.”

“She comes from a distant land where our foremothers come from.”

“She says can see and hear things that other people can’t. She knows things. Secret things, like healing magic and the places of power. We should respect her and get her on our side to help us.”

“Among her people, she is anathema.”

“I hear she commands a mighty serpent to do her bidding.”

“She’s powerful all right,” Crawley added, as a familiar voice that emanated from among a large group of humans working on dragging about some kind of wooden device over dried grass while others swept up loose seeds and turned the grasses over. “We should do our best to keep her happy. Wouldn’t want to see her mad, her serpent might do something terrible to us, like kill us all and erm, eat our babies.”

“Good idea,” a plump human said. “Let’s bring her some pots. I bet she could use a pot, everyone likes pots, and I make good pots.”

“I could give her a knife. I’ve got an extra obsidian knife, it’s probably better than whatever she has.”

“How about some cheese? Or soured milk?”

“Gold? There isn’t much of that but we could gather all the gold we have.”

“Good offerings,” Crawley suggested, in the voice of a friendly neighbor. “Something that someone would actually want. Like fruit and nuts. In a cake. Or lumps of fuel for the fire like that black stuff that you burn. Wait, I know, I bet she’d like some new socks.”

Chapter Text

It was still winter when the children were born, two of them, a boy and a girl. Whatever happened, Crawley never knew; the demon had gone to do the bidding of Hell and upon returning, had found that the babies were already born, sticky with blood and mewling softly, still attached by ropy umbilical cords.

The human was exhausted, asleep, her arms around the infants.

Crawley sighed, gently miracling away the tears that flowed from the human’s eyes and with a gesture, healed the all the hurts of her body so that her face relaxed in sleep, no longer tensed in pain. With that demonic intervention went the blood, the sweat and all the other signs of birth and it was as if it had never been.

Unsure of what to do, Crawley covered the human and the children with a blanket that had been offered by the villagers, staring at the new life as they squirmed, sucking at her breasts.

Now, that was something unusual. Crawley had never been this close to a newborn human before, much less two of them, and the demon reached out with a hesitant hand to touch the fine dark hair that sprang curling from the nearest child’s forehead. Beneath the mottled blush of birth, its color was somewhere between the color of its mother’s skin and his own, as if dark and pale sediments of two rivers twining together to become one.

This nearest one opened confused and bleary eyes to stare at the demon.

Crawley’s breath caught; those eyes were as golden as Crawley’s own eyes.

The pregnancy and labor had been hard on her, and she had lost flesh even as Crawley tried to keep her well-supplied with food. The end of winter had been hard, and spring was no better. Despite Crawley’s efforts, too few humans came with offerings and she often would not accept demonic help. Soon, in this lean part of spring before the growing things grew enough to become food, her milk dried up, and Crawley was made to understand that without milk, the babies would die.

So Crawley took the babies, and fed them. It was not hard to add milk to the physiology that was already there, and the children’s hungry sobbing soon stemmed.

And that was when the human left.

She did nothing to hide that she was leaving, packing up and taking her meager possessions. After all, it was not like the demon slept.

“Going somewhere?” Crawley asked, and the human stiffened, freezing up at the sound of the demon’s voice. Without replying, she nodded, just a little tilt of her head.

She went about her day as usual, toiling as all humans did, waiting until the children were asleep, dozing off in the cautious warmth of a spring afternoon.

She said something to them. Whatever it was, Crawley had been too far away to hear it, and so never knew what it was that was said. But then, when she picked up her things, her eyes were filled with tears in a way that Crawley had not seen since early on, since before the children were conceived, either in thought or in truth.

She looked away when she noticed Crawley watching. Slowly, deliberately she stood up, walking away. Though she hesitated many times, sometimes stopping and standing unmoving for a long time before she continued on her way, eventually she disappeared into the forest without turning back.

And just like that, she was gone.

Later, after the children started wobbly efforts at sitting up, Crawley realized it had been some time since the human had been seen.

There was no fault that the demon could ascribe to her. If their places were reversed, Crawley probably would have been gone sooner, long gone. After all, nothing said that this project was forever, just that a daughter of Eve had to be found, taken as a wife (whatever that meant), and conceive by the demon. Crawley had always expected that a human could only be borrowed for a short amount of time for this project, not that it could be kept indefinitely like a pet or a companion.

And so the demon was left to raising two small children in a humble shelter in the woods.

“You’re not hungry, you just ate. And you’re not wet; that’s been cleaned up. So what’s the problem?” Crawley asked, staring at the two infants as they fussed. The demon frowned, propping them up against the roughly-plastered wall of the shelter so they could sit upright in the bright summer sunshine.

Two pairs of bright golden eyes stared up at the tall figure of the demon, confused.

“Sick? A disease?”

The children began to make unhappy sounds, at each other and at the demon.

“Oh wait. You’re humans. Mostly. Partly. At least half. At most half. No, just half. Half, exactly. Yes.” Crawley paused, remembering that a demon could know what humans wanted. How that worked exactly, Crawley was uncertain, knowing only that it had something to do with Asmodeus’ powers, but the demon looked at the children and they looked back at Crawley and for a moment, a strange, intensely clear flash of insight passed through Crawley, making the demon gasp with surprise. It was much more powerful than the demon was familiar with, nothing like the simple insight that had led the demon to point out food and water sources for the project when they traveled through the desert together, in those days that were not so long in the past but felt like a lifetime ago.

“O-oh.” Crawley blinked, getting over the surprise that came from using a power that was beyond the demon’s own abilities. “You’re just bored.”

With a hiss, a distraction meant for all three of them, the demon changed shape, and felt the soft grass beneath its belly, the crackle and crack of dead leaves and twigs, and the children laughed, patting smooth scales that flexed smoothly over a muscular body. The serpent twined around the round forms of the children, tasting the air with a flickering tongue before realizing that between their sweet milky scent and their swift-beating hearts and the heat they gave off, they looked too delicious, and with a shake Crawley slipped back into the more favored form, lying on the ground, staring at the children who squealed with delight at the trick.

“Well, that’s enough of that, right? No more snake, that’s too dangerous.” And Crawley sat up, brushing fallen leaves off of curling dark hair. One child reached for a leaf, and tried to put it in an inquisitive mouth.

“No. Listen to your mum. Well, she’s not here, but if she were, she’d say we don’t eat things that can’t be eaten,” Crawley said, making the leaf disappear, and the other child laughed.

Crawley played with the children, disappearing various things. Leaves and sticks, pebbles...a bird that came too close, and a squirrel just because they liked to try to sneak into the shelter and filch stored food from the project. But soon enough, the children were bored again, unimpressed by Crawley’s abilities.

And so it occurred to the demon that perhaps things could be summoned that could keep their interest.

The first thing the demon thought of was hellfire, which came readily to hand. But then the demon remembered that humans and fire did not go well together and they were liable to get injured, so Crawley extinguished the infernal flames before either child could touch it.

“Erm, right. Maybe not.”

But the demon could summon other things to hand. At first it was all sorts of things that Crawley could see nearby: green acorns and wild apples, a scatter of firethorn berries not yet crimson, hard green pears and leathery pomegranates that were more flower than fruit still. It was too early, not yet the season for harvest, and soon without anything colorful or edible, the fruit lost its novelty and Crawley moved on to more interesting things to call to hand like a bird.

And was this the one the demon had made disappear earlier? Perhaps, because it looked at the beings that suddenly appeared around it with an indignant air of annoyance before flapping off in a flurry of rude and angry chirps. Then a young hare, which Crawley kept enthralled in a trembling trance as the children patted it with awkward hands.

“Gentle, gentle. No need to hurt bunnies unless they’re food. And this one isn’t. At least, not now.” Crawley’s tongue flicked out, tasting the delicious scent of the hare’s fear. It would probably make a good meal, but this wasn’t quite the right place to be downing a live hare before two small children. They were bound to mimic what the demon did, and their physiologies were not up to swallowing an entire hare.

Maybe another time, the demon thought, freeing the hare from its mesmerized daze. Once it came to, the hare darted off into the underbrush.

The children tugged at the demon’s black robes, making different unhappy noises and it seemed that all this playing had left them hungry. Picking up one child and then another, Crawley took them back inside the shelter to feed them.

Crawley yawned, closing the makeshift door of the shelter and laid down on the bed that the project had slept in at night. Only the children slept in it now, but it seemed like a comfortable place to nurse, so Crawley didn’t think twice to use it.

“All right, food time,” Crawley said, bringing the children up to meager breasts, and that was the last thing the demon remembered before waking up sometime in the middle of the night, with a pair of spreading wet puddles upon a thin and narrow chest soaking through the blanket that covered all three of them.

“Well, that was something.” Crawley yawned again, puzzling over what had happened and where the time went. The demon miracled away the human waste with an absent gesture, and closing weary eyes, promptly fell back asleep.

Chapter Text

Crawley had learned from both the project and other humans that the children could not be left alone. So when the demon went about to stir up trouble in the way that had been ordered, Crawley would carry them in slings, in imitation of what humans did when they had children.

This reduced the ability of the demon to slither through settlements and houses, a giant black and crimson serpent bent on all the little mischiefs of making milk go off or tipping over valuable pots and breaking them. Besides that, as the children grew they also grew heavier; a pleasant burden but a burden nonetheless, one that reduced Crawley’s mobility.

Mostly the two slept through the work, but sometimes they watched with wide open eyes, quiet, as Crawley tempted humans or enticed vermin into their grain.

Stem rust was a favored tool of Hell, but Crawley preferred geese. After all, plant diseases were devastating, but geese hissed and bit and could cause nightmares.

Crawley stood in the wheat field in the lingering heat of the late afternoon sun, fingers passing over ears of golden ripe grain. Here was where the humans put their most toil and effort, so here was where the demon planned to cause the most trouble.

The children babbled from their slings, making cheerful sounds to each other as they reached out to grab handfuls of the grain. Gently, Crawley brushed their hands away from the plants.

“No, this is not for us. We don’t eat their food.”

The demon paced about in a circle, before raising both hands to the sky, in a broad gesture, and spoke the words loudly.

“Dinner is served!”

For a while nothing happened. But then a faint and distant sound, one that slowly grew closer.

Honk.

Honk honk.

Honk honk honk.

Honk honk honk honk.

HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK!

Gradually, inexorably, the happy chatter of the children were drowned out by a terrifying chorus of inhuman honking.

The geese were coming, and their flapping wings cast such a dark shadow over the field that it was as though the hosts of Hell themselves were descending upon the undefended farms.

Crawley stepped out of the wheat and into a nearby vineyard, fingers lingering over dusty clusters of unripe grapes as the geese began to attack the ripe grain. The childen giggled and clapped their hands, excited by the commotion of fluttering wings and snapping beaks.

And as expected, the humans were not far behind.

Anger, frustration, panic, and despair gripped the humans as they tried to protect their fields. They shouted and screamed, lashing out in violence at the geese and occasionally at each other. Crawley watched, hands curled protectively around the children pressed against the demon’s chest as they watched wide-eyed at the battle.

“See, this is why we should never try to fight birds. I never eat them; they’re too much trouble. Oh, they seem cute and funny at first, and those little feet make them appear weak but they’re accustomed to violence. Birds thrive on it. They wouldn’t think twice to draw blood or peck out an eye. The humans have taken down a few, but certainly they can’t win against all those geese. And now that the geese know these fields are here, they’ll be back. Day after day, year after year, they’ll come and eat the crops.”

Soon it seemed like enough. The wheat was ragged and torn, leaving barely enough for the people to live on, and Crawley gestured, freeing the birds from that infernal will that had caused them to descend from the sky, gray and white hordes honking back up into the clear skies from which they came.

The air was filled with the strange savory scent of roasting goose, fat crackling on the fire, making the flames jump up and Crawley stalked about the humans, irritated that the trouble turned out to be of benefit; would this have counted as doing the right thing?

With a shiver, Crawley paced about the cookfires, and paused at the sound of a soft, hiccuping sob.

“Oh no, no...this isn’t about you two, I’m not mad at either of you. I have no reason to be angry with you. Just upset about- well, never mind what I’m upset about, it’s not important.” Crawley’s arms went around the children, and the demon rocked them, trying to soothe the two little ones before it turned into a bout of seriously wailing.

Two pairs of tearful golden eyes stared up at Crawley.

“Look, I have work. Maybe this is work you’ll have to do someday too? I don’t know what they want you for, not exactly. But at least now you can watch and learn. Work is difficult sometimes, you don’t always get the outcomes you want no matter how well everything is planned. But...I won’t give up so easily, this is just what they call a minor setback. Watch. I have an idea. See, from what I’ve noticed, humans like fairness. They’re all mad for it, and I suppose that makes sense. But that makes fairness a useful tool.”

Crawley wandered around, looking for a well-cooked goose that was coming off the spit.

“Say, you should split that with your brother,” Crawley said, in the voice of a still-living parent.

“Yeah, brother, you should give me half,” a young man said to another one, the two of them looking remarkably similar.

“Sure, not a problem. Here, let me cut you a piece…”

“Wait, the piece you cut for me isn’t as big as the one you have!”

Quickly, the squabbling became yelling, as all the humans tried to fairly split roasted meat among themselves.

“That’s not fair, you didn’t cut it in half exactly. Look, you have a bigger part.”

“Bone! That’s because a bone that runs through the center of the breast, I can’t cut it in such a way that splits this bone in half too!”

“You kept a bigger piece! And you ate the tail, that’s the best part!”

“I did all the cooking, I can do what I want!”

“It’s not my fault that one side of the goose is a little bigger than the other, does it really matter that much? It’s not even a bite’s worth!”

“It matters to me!”

Crawley wandered around the cookfires, pleased as the arguments over fairness continued to spread like a contagion.

“There’s no way I can cut this meat evenly to match. What kind of knife do you think I have, no one could cut this goose perfectly into two pieces, much less seven.”

“But the piece you gave me is mostly bones! The back and sides hardly have any meat!”

“How am I supposed to draw a line down the center of the goose, what am I supposed to draw this with? You know you’re going to eat it, and you can’t eat ochre or charcoal!”

“I want an equal amount with no bones, don’t try to trick me with bones. You can’t eat those!”

Crawley stood back to watch the conflicts as the human sense of fairness tangled with their innate greediness over an extra nibble of roasted goose meat.

“See, I told you I could do it.” Crawley smiled, hugging the children and the demon’s own self in the process, but the children were quiet.

The demon looked down; both were asleep in their slings, little mouths slack and with a smile Crawley stepped away from the flickering light of many cookfires into the deepening twilight filled with the sleepy twittering of birds calling each other to rest. As shadows overtook the land, Crawley paused for a moment before stepping into the forest. Bending down, the demon kissed rounded cheeks one after another, face tickled by curly dark hair.

“Sleep well. We’ll go to work again soon.”

The demon disappeared into the darkness with the dying light of day.

Chapter Text

As the seasons passed the demon watched the children grow, and it was strange how Crawley felt such tender sympathies for their little sorrows and joys, felt the heat and weight of their small bodies as they clung to Crawley, felt odd sensations as they depended upon Crawley for sustenance. It seemed almost forbidden, the intensity of the feelings the demon had for these little ones, and Crawley did not know what that meant.

“Cwaaee” The slightly smaller one toddled forward through dead crackling leaves toward Crawley, and Crawley caught it before it could tumble to the ground, little hands clutching tight onto the demon’s fingers.

The demon crouched down beside the children.

“Crawley,” the demon said, very patiently, as the little one tried again. The other made a noise of frustration, unable to get the word out.

“Crawley.” A familiar voice intoned, and Crawley nearly tipped over from surprise, only to be guided up into the arms of a Prince of Hell.

“My lord Asmodeus,” Crawley gasped, clinging tight to Asmodeus’ shoulders for a long breathless moment before realizing that it was a breach of etiquette and stepping back to prostrate upon the ground before the Prince of Hell.

“Get up, darling. Are these thy sons?” Asmodeus looked down at the children, black wings casting a deep shadow over them as the sun crept up along the sky behind Asmodeus’ back.

“Yes, my lord. Thought that one would come out but it turned out to be two, isn’t that strange? And technically that one’s a daughter and not a son.”

“Certainly.” With both hands, Asmodeus picked up the nearest child, scrutinizing it. Crawley’s breath tightened painfully in an anxious throat but the demon dared not say a word and stood so very perfectly still, eyes fixed upon the child.

The child trembled, frozen in a moment of fear as Asmodeus stared at every detail, the black coiling hair that had lightened with the barest hint of red from the sun, the golden eyes, the long lashes that curled over rounded cheeks, the small body still in the soft contours of childhood.

“Beautiful, as to be expected. But they seem rather...unformed. Mine are all fully formed and have been so for many years.” The Prince of Hell set the child down gently, stepping away from it with deliberation.

“Got to the project a bit on the late side,” Crawley shrugged, appearing casual even as the demon tried to calm the pounding of a nervous but relieved heart. “Hard to find the right human. You know how it is, humans with their pointy sticks-”

“What are they called?”

“Never named them, not even a pet name. Naming, that’s not something for ordinary demons, is it? And if the project called them anything, I wouldn’t know. But erm, I know with naming, that’s something only a Prince of Hell is allowed to do. There are rules and all that, and you know me, I didn’t want to overstep, didn’t want to cause trouble Downstairs by doing what is forbidden. But, Lord Asmodeus, now that you’re here...erm, maybe if you want to. That is, if you don’t mind doing me a favor, if could you help me, just a bit, I’d be ever so grateful if you could name them so they’d properly have something to be called, it’s hard that they don’t have names and they’re growing very fast and should be called something, properly-”

Asmodeus gestured, and Crawley fell silent.

“Such a thing won’t be necessary, my darling one. Thou art required by my side, to cast lots for me in the Dark Council.”

“Now?” Crawley paused, brow furrowing. “Really? Now?”

“Now. The meeting begins soon. We must arrive early.”

“I can’t leave them, my lord Asmodeus,” Crawley began. “Humans this little will get eaten by wild animals, Nephilim or not, and I know I can’t take them with us. It’s forbidden for humans to enter Hell. But they’re not really fully human, are they? Since they’re at least, uh at most, erm I mean, half demon, maybe we could, uh that is to say, maybe I could-”

“It does not matter anymore. The Mandate has been decided, and all projects are to be terminated. The only business that remains is to cast the lots that finalize the decision, for propriety sake.”

“Wait, what does that mean? What mandate?” Crawley said, as Asmodeus pulled the demon away, an unyielding hand closing tight around a thin and bony wrist.

Behind the demons, the children began to wail.

“Cwaee! Cwaee!”

“Crawley, darling, I know thou hast been having ever so much fun playing at human, but my dear one, thou knowest that the Great Plan has roles for us all, and now thine is to leave the Nephilim to their fates. The experiments are to be terminated. It has been written, and it will be so.”

“No!” Crawley reached out for the children just as they reached out to the demon, but it was too late; the endless night of Hell closed around Crawley and the crying children disappeared from sight.

By the time Crawley returned to Earth, they were already dead.

The children had crawled back to the shelter and into the bed before it happened. There was no sign of injury, no sign of wild animals or human malice. The two unnamed lay together, hand in hand, as if merely asleep, but they were cold and stiff and there was no sign of breath, no sign of life, no asynchronous flutter of two heartbeats.

They were gone.

Crawley dug a grave. That was what humans did, to protect the corpses from the depredations of wild animals. Crawley had no tools but dug with bare hands, clawing at the wet earth as if a wild beast burrowing. The demon struggled through the tangled roots that hid beneath the surface of the ground, forming a tough labyrinthine mass that even demonic strength had to be miraculously enhanced against, and Crawley nearly gave up when an old crumbling skull was uncovered, fine hairs of roots twisting through its eyesockets.

What creature it was was unknown, and Crawley stared at it for what felt like a long time, at the colorless worms that writhed in the black soil, the same black soil that packed the hollows of the skull, before tossing it aside to continue digging.

Perhaps if the hole was deep enough, it would open to Hell and Crawley could bring those two corpses along in accusation.

But those were foolish thoughts. There was nothing that Crawley could have done. Not even Asmodeus could have changed the course of the decision; the Prince of Hell was bound to do the bidding of others, just as Crawley was bound to him in obedience.

The children were wrapped in the blanket they had been covered in when they were born. Crawley kissed their cold round cheeks one last time, before tucking the blanket over their blank, expressionless faces. Once they were buried, the ground obscured everything and the heavy rain that fell erased the traces of disturbed earth as if it were the tide that scoured away the traces of footprints on a sandy beach.

Crawley stared at the muddy ground, at the dirt that clung to long pale fingers, staining hands black. There was no meaning anymore to this. There were just orders and the Mandate that terminated all the experiments with the Nephilim, and Crawley hadn’t even been there for the instant that the decision had been finalized. They had died alone, without a guardian, without a parent, without the demon by their sides.

But what Crawley didn’t know was that all over the world, Nephilim had fallen unconscious at the same time, dying before they hit the ground. It was if a switch had been activated, and their deaths written off.

And so went the mighty heroes of old, men and women, warriors of renown.

Crawley stared at the empty shelter and at the still-burning fire that did not dare to smoke for fear of the demon. It was meaningless now, not needed by anyone anymore and in time would collapse into itself, becoming part of the forest again, a forgotten place in the lonely woods where perhaps an animal might pause to snuff at the ground curiously before moving away.

The fire reflected yellow in the demon’s eyes, and with a sharp, negating gesture, Crawley sent it away. All of it, the shelter, and the fire. Made it go away, made it disappear. And if Crawley could disappear as well, that would have been welcome too.

But that was not permitted.

Stumbling dazed, breaths coming in irregular gasps, the demon walked out of the forest, putting one heavy foot before the other.

Don’t look back, Crawley thought. Best not to think about it. Best to just forget it. There was nothing that could have been done. No one had a choice in this matter. Even pretending to have choices didn’t help. Greater wills were at work than even those of a Prince of Hell, and not for the first time, Crawley stared up at the blank, unyielding heavens to an Almighty that the demon longed to castigate but dared not.

“There was nothing that could have been done,” Crawley muttered, shouted, raged, whispered, over and over again until the words lost their meaning and the demon fell silent once more.

Once the storm of rage passed, Crawley began walking south, trailing along the same path that they had tread together, through mountains and valleys and deserts and further still. Only this time, Crawley followed a memory and not a human being.

Overcome with a strange empty melancholy, the demon paused here and there to look at a muddy spring, a hollow that was barely a cave, or a bare fruit tree, leaves stripped by time and season.

Black robes torn by a wind that scoured the barren earth, golden eyes narrowed against the gale, Crawley walked without stopping, without sleep nor the cessation of sorrow.

One foot in front of the other, and if there was as place to stop and rest, Crawley did not know of its existence.

Odd that the journey felt like it happened a long time ago. To a demon for whom eternity stretched out before and after it like a ceaseless wasteland, it was not very long, not much longer than a bee’s buzzing dance was to a bee.

Chapter Text

351 B.C.

A summer storm blew in from the sea as if guided by a giant unseen hand. Black clouds gathered quickly, blotting out the blue sky into a darkness almost as deep as night. Lightning crackled, tendrils of blue-white fire fracturing through heavy rain-laden clouds.

Below, the parched ground cracked, fire erupting from it and out stepped Asmodeus, resplendent in black Hellish raiment embroidered lavishly with gold and crimson. Blond hair ruffling in the wind, the Prince of Hell wandered around the ruined city, looking at the bones of the building as well as those of the dead, padding about on bare feet untouched by dust nor by the fitful, intermittent rain.

“Finally,” Michael said, stepping out from behind a broken and crumbling wall. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever show up.”

“What do you mean?” Asmodeus frowned. “I’ve come to all our agreed-upon meetings.”

“Yes but last time, when I needed to let you know that we were sending our agent and...didn’t you get my message?”

“What did you say?” Asmodeus hissed, the veneer of gentility cracking. “What do you mean, that you sent me a message?”

“I sent a message the usual way. Through your Duke.”

Lightning crackled through the sky, in a fractal sheet of electricity that seemed for a moment to tear the deep dark fabric of the sky asunder.

“My Duke?” Asmodeus snarled. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s what I did when you were...indisposed,” Michael frowned. “What’s the problem?”

“The accounting is one thing. That is through the official backchannel. But I thought we had agreed that you would send messages regarding our project to me directly.” Asmodeus looked away briefly before turning back, his face smoothed into a pleasant, agreeable expression. “I suppose it is ultimately of no matter.”

“Is it Hellish politics?”

“It’s not for Heavenly ears, darling. An angel like you wouldn’t understand.”

Michael flinched, taken aback by the unwarranted overfamiliarity, the shocking impropriety of the demon. “W-well, what is it that you wanted to know?”

“What did you tell Ligur?”

“Just what I told you. That we were sending our man Aziraphale, as we agreed.”

“Yes. I suppose I did get the message. See? Nothing to be concerned about. I must have misheard something you said. Forgotten something trivial. A simple mistake.”

“Hmm, well. If you get to ask a question, I should too,” Michael grumbled.

“Fine. Ask away.”

Michael’s lips pursed. “Tell me, why are you still involved? I thought your part of the project was done. All you had to do was interfere with the Heavenly plan, and you did. The child was born according to our plan and is exactly what we wanted, not one of yours nor one of ours. A chimera of a Nephilim, belonging to neither side.”

“Call it paternal interest.”

“Tell me something I can believe,” Michael scoffed.

“Then, personal interest,” Asmodeus said smoothly. “This isn’t about anything official. This is personal.”

Michael was taken aback. “Is that allowed?”

“How does that matter for those of us who are in upper management? We make our own rules. I’m merely interested in seeing a personal matter through to the end.”

“Well, I suppose. But you didn’t answer my question. I should be allowed another,” Michael’s brow furrowed.

“Fine.” Asmodeus made a gracious gesture with his hand, inviting Michael to continue.

Michael’s lips tightened. “A Duke of Hell was spotted outside of the Temple of Artemis in Ephesus just before it was burnt to the ground. What was your side trying to accomplish?”

“Oh, and here I thought a human had done the deed,” Asmodeus said dryly.

“A human might have taken credit, but everyone knows Hell is behind it.”

“Everyone doesn’t. Certainly, I don’t. I wouldn’t know. Perhaps it was a distraction?”

“A distraction.” Michael echoed the words. “From what?”

“Nothing I know about. He’s not my Duke, I wouldn’t send my Duke to do such menial work. Anything an ordinary demon could easily accomplish does not require a Duke of Hell.”

“What if it was meant to be a distraction from the birth of the project?”

“Perhaps? But who is this distraction for? Heaven? Hell? Humans?” Asmodeus shrugged. “Without inquiring into the reasons, all of this is just idle speculation.”

Disappointed, the Archangel looked away momentarily before changing the subject. “You look better.”

“Earth will do that to an angel. Just like that extended stay in Heaven has left you with a sheen of gold shining upon your fair visage, long stays in Hell leave us looking rather...worse for the wear.”

“You’re not an angel-”

“A fallen angel is still an angel,” Asmodeus said, in a tone that dared Michael to disagree with him.

“Semantics,” Michael said, refusing the bait.

“Semantics,” Asmodeus agreed. “I have the numbers.” Asmodeus offered Michael the wax tablet with the accounting, and accordingly, Michael offered Asmodeus the equivalent.

But before the Archangel could open the tablet to look at the current numbers, Asmodeus’ hand closed over a slender wrist.

Michael gasped, and whether it was in outrage or surprise or something else, not even the Archangel could tell.

Asmodeus did not grip onto the Archangel so much as carefully hold Michael’s arm, with a light, delicate touch that made the Archangel tremble. Shocked, Michael realized there was no memory of the last time that touch had happened, much less had been offered by another angel other than Asmodeus, and that sent a tumult of conflicting feelings through that slim and tidy form.

“W-what are...what are you doing?” Michael asked, breathlessly, wanting to tear Asmodeus’ hand off but also wanting it to stay touching, trapped in a moment of wavering uncertainty.

“Beautiful Archangel, before you look at the accounting and leave as you are accustomed to doing...pray, tell me something, if you please?”

“Y-yes?” Michael’s gold-flecked brow furrowed. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you or your side ever request for another agent of Hell to be sent to observe the project? Perhaps, the demon Crowley?”

“No! Why would we do that? You’re already on the scene, why would we want another demon there?”

“Ah.” Asmodeus frowned a little, to himself.

And Michael felt that light grip falter, before disappearing altogether as Asmodeus let go.

“What is it?” Michael asked, feeling strangely disappointed, rubbing that wrist that still felt as though it had momentarily been engulfed by cool wind or cold water, but without leaving any traces.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” Asmodeus’ eyes grew thoughtful as he opened the wax tablet. With a furtive glance below lowered eyelashes, he checked to see that Michael was doing the same, and he was pleased to see that the prospect of slaking curiosity about that odd question had given way to the prospect of seeing the updated accounting values.

It had all been worth the risk; at least this answered for certain who had sent Crowley. If he was lucky, the Archangel would recall the touch and not the question. If not, it didn’t matter much; even if Michael dared mention to someone Upstairs that touch had happened with another being, much less with a Prince of Hell, the question would be merely an oddity, some further quirk of Hellish infighting that the Archangels in the Assembly of Heaven could argue over until the sun died and all the stars fell from the sky. And by the time Heaven moved to send another agent to back up their existing agent, he would already be long gone.

No, what mattered is that Michael didn’t pull away, and didn’t try to fight him off. Asmodeus flexed his hand, still feeling the lingering warmth of the Archangel’s skin, as if he had touched the nimbus of flame that surrounded a fiery star but all the more inviting. A little step forward in a plan that would probably never see fruition the way things were going, but all the more pleasing to Asmodeus, knowing how far he had been able to get in so short of a span of time. Soon, these meetings would end, and Michael would go back to meeting with Ligur for the numbers, but Asmodeus would always know that the Archangel did not push him off. He would take his victories where he could get them, in this limited time that he had.

Asmodeus stared at the tablet, pretending to read. The numbers swam before his eyes; he did not try to comprehend them. This was a trivial matter, the regular and officially sanctioned meeting with his Heavenly counterpart. Some Downstairs bureaucrat that was far less important would look at the numbers and see to it that the ledgers were balanced; he was merely acting as the official representative for these meetings, an equal to balance off Heaven’s representative.

But there were far more important concerns to consider. After all, he had never requested Crowley for this project. Only one being had the interest and authority to send Crowley to his side.

Asmodeus smiled to himself, amused, knowing how little Beelzebub knew. It made him chuckle, thinking that despite everything, despite even gifting him a Duke of Hell that watched over his every move and reported everything to the First Prince, Beelzebub had long since lost the initiative. After all, if they were desperate enough to send Crowley to try to get information to piece it all together, it was already too late; the moment that Crowley had been sent, Beelzebub was already far too many steps behind and unable to catch up.

He had known it would only be a matter of time before Beelzebub’s need to control the situation would push events forward; sooner or later Crowley would have been sent to spy on him. And that was what Asmodeus had been gambling on, waiting at the human court, surrounding himself with dull mortals as he waited for his lovely Crowley be sent to serve him.

And how little Beelzebub knew that Crowley would always be loyal to him, no matter what, proving unwavering loyalty in a thousand thousand different ways over the eons since the Fall. Even if his Companion could not resist the orders of the First Prince of Hell, Asmodeus knew that Crowley would never turn on him; that was impossible.

No matter what happened, no matter who interfered – even an angel, fallen or otherwise – Crowley would always be by his side, even to the end of the world.

Asmodeus took his time with the accounting tablet, pretending to be interested, but instead watching the Archangel Michael who was reading numbers out loud in a low mutter, flushed and flustered, as if having a hard time focusing on the work at hand.

Chapter Text

Certainly he looked like an Egyptian, Aziraphale thought. But what had been troubling the angel for some time now was that the man called Nectanebo didn’t seem to have the manners of an Egyptian. Where was the offer of pouring water for her hands? And furthermore, why was a fire not lit? In fact, there was no fire that day at all in Nectanebo’s quarters, Aziraphale remembered. It was cold in those quarters, as empty and as cold as the stone chamber of a tomb. That was very odd indeed. Especially since the Egyptian had been in nothing more than sandals and a shendyt kilt.

Perhaps it wasn’t that strange; a person could get accustomed to temperatures well beyond the ones they were born and raised in by becoming accustomed to new climates, but the lack of manners made her wonder. Perhaps it was just that he was as he said he was, a king. She hadn’t spent all that much time with pharaohs or priests in their courts, and so wouldn’t know if they would offer handwashing as other Egyptians might. But then again, as she recalled a king would have servants about him that would have made sure those things were done for him. And it was rather odd seeing an Egyptian noble who was not surrounded by servants and slaves waiting upon him hand and foot.

Aziraphale turned the folded and creased letter over in her hands. It had taken some time for her friend to write her back and for months she had despaired of receiving a reply, but one had come eventually; her friend had been ill over the winter and had a hard time recovering.

Aziraphale sighed, hoping that he was all right. Things were hard for humans as they grew old, and so far from Egypt it would be impossible to help him out with a miracle.

Carefully she opened the letter, breaking the wax seal and string that held the packet together before unfolding the stained and worn papyrus. She read the letter slowly, savoring each word as if each were a delicious morsel, smiling at the bits of gossip and news. But then she paused with a frown, setting the letter down.

She read it again.

...and it’s interesting that you ask for such old news. I suppose it can’t be helped, in our old age we grow forgetful and the memories of childhood are clearer than the memories of the present. Just the other day I misplaced my reed knife – the fine one used for shaping new pens, not the coarse one for cutting – and spent hours looking for it only to find that I had thoughtlessly brought it with me to courtyard while I went to stretch my legs in the morning and left it there! Old age is hard, but not as hard as ignorant youth. Perhaps you have forgotten that I wrote to you with this news before; the majesty of the king of upper and lower Egypt Nectanebo, justified, died eleven years ago this spring after a long illness. Fortunately for the two lands he saw his own end coming and took his son as co-regent. Unfortunately his son was unpopular and was not king for long, meeting an untimely end after seizing the temple lands in an affront to all the good gods of the two lands…

Aziraphale frowned and read it again, committing the words to memory. But the Nectanebo in the Pella court had been here for at least six years, maybe seven. That seemed to be the consensus of the humans that the angel had asked.

...and while we in Egypt are known for astrology, I had never heard of the majesty of the king of upper and lower Egypt Nectanebo, justified, ever having personal interest in such things. For that he had specialists and concerned himself not with the work of astrologers. He was first and foremost a warrior, a cunning general descended from an old and prestigious lineage of military prowess. I know you are not an Egyptian yourself but not all of us are astrologers! Your question while polite reads almost as if it is what a foreigner thinks of all Egyptians. I think it has been too long since you have written, and far too long since you have visited. If you come I will light the fire and pour water for your hands and feet myself even though these days my waist is not as supple as it used to be, remember when we were young and we would dine together at the great feasts of...”

“Odd.” Aziraphale finished the rest of the letter and put it away carefully in a hidden pocket, making a mental note to herself to write back soon. It was suspicious behavior from a human but in Aziraphale’s experience, humans often behaved in a suspect manner. This Nectanebo must have been some kind of pretender, a charlatan, the kind of swindler that made their fortunes convincing others of their abilities in the supernatural all while profiting off the fame and fortune that came with it.

Aziraphale wondered if Nectanebo’s mother or father was Egyptian, or if he was perhaps the son of expatriate merchants or exiled nobles, or even an adopted child perhaps, who finding it hard to make an honest living, took up the kind of clothing and attitudes that characterized the coarsest beliefs in what an Egyptian was supposed to be like to profit from the naive and unwary.

Only, for a supposed king in exile who was also a supposedly prominent magician and astrologer, Nectanebo did not seem to be known outside Pella, even though he was well-established and in good standing at the court here. Even the queen herself relied on his interpretations of her dreams, and thus the quarters in the palace and a place of relative prominence in the king’s banquet hall. And this to Aziraphale was strange, humans were always interested in connections and after finding a good resource – whether it was fruit or skills – often shared it with their friends and family, and even strangers. After all, since the other nannies and servants found out she could write, she had been writing love spells for the humans two or three times a week now, and if she had accepted gifts or money for every bit of work, she would have had trouble giving it all away. Even if she had gave it away to the poor, it would have started its own cascading chain of gifts, favors, and reciprocity and these days she just didn’t have the time to spare to see to such complexities.

Humans were just like that.

But if Nectanebo was such a magician and astrologer of renown, why was he holed up like a prisoner instead of having desperate and curious humans beating down his doors? It didn’t make sense. Or perhaps she had been fortunate to meet him on his afternoon off?

Aziraphale decided that she would look into Nectanebo’s schedule but also that she would write to her friend in the Achaemenid court to make certain; everyone who was anyone passed through there and gossip the world over centered on the court in Persepolis.

With a sigh, Aziraphale stood up, hearing a familiar voice. In the meantime, a certain very boisterous child had woken up and she had a long day of caring for the children ahead of her.

But she would ask to meet with Crowley soon; this was something Crowley needed to know.

Chapter Text

Twisted roots and knots and gnarls of wood, and Crowley ran long fingers over the rough bark of the olive tree, half-turned where he was lying upon the thick trunk. This tree had been overturned in its youth, perhaps by a storm or an inconsiderate human, or maybe a cow, and part of it grew horizontally in a gentle curve so that Crowley could recline upon it, long legs stretched out over the broad, thick trunk as if were a carefully shaped bench made just for him. But it was big, so thick and broad that it had probably been growing since the moment of Creation.

Crowley wondered if the Almighty had planted it Herself or if it had always been here, being fruitful and multiplying, obedient to Her will. And he wondered if he had been here before too, back then when this was no more than a sprout. A wide-eyed demon wandering a new creation, impressed by all the beauties and horrors this world had to offer.

He yawned and closed his eyes, pulling his chlamys tight about his shoulders as if it were a blanket. It was too pleasant of a day to think about the past, and far too pleasant to be concerned about the future. But the present, oh! and the quiet was so lovely and if only it could last, nothing but the soft sounds of leaves quivering in the gentle breeze that came off the bay, the chirps of birds and sound of small creatures as they scurried about through dry grasses and fallen leaves.

Summer was dying all around him; he could feel the restlessness of autumn filling the air and yet the unripe fruit of the olive hung heavy, green and hard and sullen, and it would be still some time before the humans would come in to harvest. Not a long time – hints of a black-purplish blush were already creeping over the fruits like a contagion – but not too soon.

It was a good time to meet. Crowley wondered what had changed; they had recently spent an afternoon together as nurses, watching the children and chatting just outside of human perception, but now it seemed that Aziraphale had asked for a meeting suddenly, out of the blue, not following their usual schedule.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sounded pleased but also oddly relieved and that made Crowley look to him curiously; the angel seemed to be nearly vibrating with nerves, as if holding onto some urgent news. “Thanks for agreeing to this meeting. I need to show you something.”

“Show me what?” Crowley wondered. “Is something wrong?” With a subtle gesture as he hopped down off the tree trunk, he froze time around them. Just a small area, perhaps no larger than a modest room. When he looked up, the leaves of the tree were frozen, and he wondered; would he be giving this tree a few extra minutes in the near eternity of its life?

“He’s not who he says he is,” Aziraphale said suddenly, and Crowley was taken aback.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, he’s not who he says he is.”

“I heard you just fine,” Crowley snapped. “But I have no idea what you’re talking about. Who you’re talking about.”

“Your master.”

Crowley flinched. “W-what do you mean?”

Aziraphale continued. “Your human master. The one you’re supposed to be serving…” Aziraphale said. “Nectanebo. He’s not who he says he is, he’s a fraud.”

“...oh?” Crowley paused, choosing his words carefully. So carefully that no words came out at all.

“He’s not a king of Egypt at all! The real Nectanebo died years ago. It’s all in this letter,” Aziraphale said, handing Crowley the unfolded letter. “I have a contact in Egypt that finally wrote back.”

Nearly trembling with relief, Crowley glanced at the letter, pretending to be interested in it before looking away. “I can’t read hieratic.”

“You can read any language,” Aziraphale glared, frustrated with the demon. “Just...look at its meaning, you can do that.”

“Okay, fine. I can read hieratic, I just don’t want to read hieratic. Who the hell wants to read hieratic, it’s so much harder than the hie...heiro...picture signs.” Crowley folded the letter back up and returned it to Aziraphale without reading its contents. “So what if he’s a fraud? It’s a sin; he’s supposed to sin. This is all part of, you know, sinning. Sinfully. The business of Downstairs. We’re trying to get him on our ledgers, that’s the whole point.”

“But isn’t it troublesome that he’s a fraud?”

“Well, yes, I suppose it could be troublesome but who does it trouble? Just the humans, and maybe himself. Not us. I mean, he could be anyone, couldn’t he? Anyone he wants to be. Why be troubled if he wants to be a fake Egyptian king? Let him be a fake Egyptian king if he wants to suffer from cold all winter wearing skimpy kilts and collar necklaces.” Crowley scowled, wishing that Aziraphale would just leave this well enough alone.

“I just don’t like the idea of him pretending and lying to you.” Azraphale’s lips tightened. “Just promise me you don’t trust him.”

“You know I can’t promise you anything when it comes to work,” Crowley said. “But I can tell you that I don’t trust him any more than I trust any human. Does that help?’

“Maybe,” Aziraphale pouted.

“I don’t trust humans,” Crowley hissed. “You know that. They’re all...inclined to using sharp pointy things and occasionally doing something so surprising and shocking that it can’t even be said out loud. That’s as much as I trust Nectanebo, all right?”

“All right. I...I suppose that’s fine.”

“Look, I don’t know what you think you can do about this situation,” Crowley said, “but I have an assignment, and I’m supposed to serve him. And even if I were to wish for a different situation, I can’t. No free will, remember? I have no choice. I do as I’m told, just like you do as you’re told. You think I would choose this if I had a choice? Serving a...a- a human? I...this is ridiculous, I don’t even know why we’re even discussing this.”

“At least tell me he’s not mistreating you.”

“He’s not. He’s never mistreated me,” Crowley said, drooping.

“Oh. I’m...glad.” Aziraphale said, confused and concerned at Crowley’s reaction.

“You know what it’s like Upstairs with your lot, the way they treat lower-ranked angels. Now imagine what it’s like Downstairs with my lot. Do the wrong thing and it’s torture or destruction. And that’s just with your own supervising Prince. If you walk into some other Prince’s court uninvited, it’s pretty much instant destruction, unless they like doing some torture first. And they really like doing some torture first. That might buy you some time for your Prince to get you back, though probably not in one piece. Definitely not in one piece. Compared to all that, Nectanebo has been kind beyond anything I could hope for. He even protects me from other humans, all those lusty and perverse ones. Sure, it’s strange to serve a human, but there’s no reason to walk away from this, even if I could. In fact, he’s loaded me with presents and treated me with honor. So don’t worry about me.” Crowley paused, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel’s usually clear eyes were troubled and the color was unsettled, like the stormy wine-dark sea obscured by clouds. “And stay out of it, all right? I’m warning you, don’t get involved in Hell’s affairs. Just leave it alone.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale sighed. “I see.”

“Besides,” Crowley continued, “How much harm could I get into, serving a human? You worry too much, Aziraphale. Nectanebo could never hurt me...”

Chapter Text

“Guys, guys! Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, you know my boss wouldn’t like it if he found out that you want me to stay here all night. I’ve got to...to go...you know, measure the stars and moon and planets and stuff, track what they’re doing in the sky. Can’t just sit around all night drinking, I’ve got...astro- astronogy. Astrolomy. -ology. Ology... Star stuff to do. Sky stuff.” Crowley set down the wine cup, staring at the dark, sediment-filled dregs of the lightly watered wine.

Crowley turned to the handsome noble he was sharing a couch with, an amusing young man with short-cropped curly dark auburn hair like the petals of a hyacinth, warm gray eyes, and a neat short-trimmed beard shot through with reddish hairs. “Sorry Nikanor, that’s it for me.”

“Are you done? Why not toss the lees?” Nikanor pointed to the cup.

“I’m done,” Crowley yawned. “Done, done, done. Done with kottabos too.”

“Then let me,” Straightening up, Nikanor reached over, taking the cup painted with hunting scenes from the little table where it sat. He swirled the lees about but instead of trying to knock down the target in the center of the room, Nikanor tossed them onto the ground with a snap of his wrist, forming a jagged alpha of crimson wine. “There. Alpha for Akakios.”

Crowley stared at the splashed wine, and a pang of longing passed through him. He closed his eyes briefly against the pain; if only it were Aziraphale by his side…

“Are you all right, Akakios?”

Crowley glanced over and the human’s eyes were full of concern.

“Sure, I’m fine. I’m always fine. Just a little tired and I still have lots of stuff to do for my master. Sorry, Nikanor,” Crowley sighed. “Thanks for inviting me, but I really can’t stay any longer.”

“We’ll let you go if you do one thing for us,” Nikanor said with a smirk.

“What’s that?” Crowley arched an eyebrow. He knew without asking that Nikanor wanted more than just an amusing dinner companion and the demon normally would have done his best to avoid this situation, especially with Asmodeus around. Only, he also had explicit orders from the Prince of Hell to cultivate the younger nobles of the court. So it seemed reasonable to be friendly; Nikanor was influential, from a rich and powerful family, and besides, he was fun to talk to and as long as Crowley kept his distance, it would never amount to much. This was about as close as they had physically been together, sharing a broad supper couch, and Crowley was already wondering if this hadn’t been a mistake.

“Because you know,” Crowley continued, “My boss is the overprotective type and wouldn’t like it if-”

“Come hunting with us!”

A raucous uproar went up, and all the young nobles began to chatter amongst themselves, boasting of past and future hunting feats.

“Oh, hunting. Right.” Crowley nodded, relieved, if not for himself but for the human. Best that the human stay at a distance; even if Crowley had permission to be here, that didn’t mean that Asmodeus wouldn’t maim or kill a human for trespassing on his possessions. “Right now? But it’s night…”

“Not now, of course,” Nikanor laughed, leaning up to pat Crowley’s shoulder, but only where the cloth of the chiton covered Crowley’s skin. Crowley smiled a little to himself. That this human knew that Crowley hated casual touch upon bare skin and did his best to respect his preferences was rather charming. “Night hunting can be fun – if you’re just looking to catch small prey – but take a night off sometime, get to bed early like a decent person, and let’s all go hunting together at dawn. We’ll make a day of it.”

“I don’t think-” Crowley began.

“Come on, Akakios, you’ve been here what, four years?”

“Five,” Crowley corrected. “I think. Whatever, it’s just time, and not really that much of it.”

“Years, Akakios. You’ve been at the court for years, and you still haven’t won the right to recline at supper. We need to fix that so you can recline like the rest of us. Look around you, an entire nine couch party and you’re the only one sitting. Come hunting with me, we can change that,” Nikanor smiled. “Wouldn’t it be better to recline like this at dinner and at drinking, with me? After all, it’s not like you have other friends at court.” Nikanor’s voice lowered, so that only Crowley could hear him. “You know I’d like it if we were better friends-”

“Yeah, Akakios, let’s go boar hunting!” Someone nearby shouted, interrupting them, but Nikanor merely looked amused.

“I like sitting up,” Crowley shrugged. “It’s good for the digestion.”

“So’s reclining, once that boar meat warms your belly!” A joker shouted, causing an uproar of laughter.

“Akakios, when are you going be a man and get your boar?” A young noble who reclined on the couch across from Crowley and Nikanor asked.

“When are you going to get your boar?” Crowley contested, awkwardly.

“Oh please, Tyrimmas here got his boar before he grew a beard. Why do you think he’s a bodyguard for the king?”

Oh, Tyrimmas, Crowley thought. A good friend of Nikanor and the host of this party, and Crowley closed his eyes briefly; he had walked into an ambush without even realizing it.

“It’s not that hard to get a boar on your spear, Akakios, we can get it to slip the nets,” Tyrimmas explained. “In fact if you do it right, you don’t even need nets. Just a few friends to throw rocks and yell to scare it into the right place, and then all you have to do is hold on tight and not die.”

“Maybe his arms and legs aren’t strong enough, look at these scrawny things. I’ve never seen him heft a spear, have you?”

Crowley frowned; recognizing the speaker as Demetrios, a bear of a man from a family of oversized Macedonian lords who was also one of the many bodyguards of the king.

“Yeah, Akakios, did you ever learn to do any of the manly things that make a man a real man? I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you ride a horse, much less pick up a spear or shield-”

“And when are you going to grow a beard? First time I saw you, I thought you were an ephebe, not old enough to grow a beard. Or maybe you know one of those uh, with the, you know…”

“Oh gods, don’t say that, that’s not something you can say to a man!”

“I thought he was an ephebe too, with that long hair. And you wouldn’t say a Spartan, they have long hair but also have beards-”

“Hey, lay off,” Nikanor scowled, glaring at the others. “You’re all being rude to my friend here. After all, isn’t this just the Alcibiades look, with a smooth chin and long aristocratic hair?”

“Guys, come on, I obviously know how to do human man things, but really I think my boss wouldn’t like it if I were running about in the woods doing who knows what-” Crowley began.

“Wouldn’t like what?” And all around the human voices hushed, as Asmodeus, in the guise of Nectanebo walked in, disturbing the drinking party. “What wouldn’t I like?

“Aah!” Crowley said, sounding particularly pleased, warmed through with wine and song and laughter. “If it isn’t my lord, As- erm uh, N-Nectanebo. Lord Nectanebo, did you come to join us? Plenty of room on the couch for one more.” Crowley patted the couch invitingly. Somehow his cup had been refilled without him noticing it, and so Crowley lifted it to toast the disguised Prince of Hell, before taking a drink.

“Not exactly.” Asmodeus’ voice was amused but not upset, so Crowley drank again while he could.

“Oh, come on!” A drunk human shouted, barely able to prop himself up in a reclining position. “Join the party! Have a flute girl! Have two!”

“Everyone could use some warmth from wine, now that summer is over!”

"’When a man is weary with toil, wine greatly increases his strength.’"

“Wait, my lord,” Crowley piped up. “Did you want to join us for a cup? It’s very good.”

“If the wine is neat, perhaps.” Nectanebo’s mouth moved into a cold smirk. “And there is plenty of it.”

“Then again, maybe not…” Crowley swallowed, feeling the pleasant warmth of the wine turn cold.

“I think that it should be time for us to go, Akakios. Or have you forgotten our arrangement?”

“C-certainly not, my lord.” Crowley stood up from the supper couch where he had been sitting, taking a moment to steady himself as the ground itself seemed to misbehave. He glared at it, annoyed that it had betrayed him, and it repaid his scowl by shrinking away. “Right, guys. I’ll be off then. Got stars to watch, the phases of the moon to follow. You know how it is. Busy night ahead of me, yes that’s true-”

“Hey, why don’t we invite Lord Nectanebo? Then Akakios has to come!” A clever wag suggested, to the cheering of the youths.

“Hmm? Invite me to what?”

“Hunting, of course! We’re going to finally make your servant here a man!”

“Boar hunting, boar hunting, boar hunting!” The chant went up loudly.

Asmodeus’ mouth pursed into the tiniest of smiles. “I am certain he is already a man, but I suppose it won’t do any harm should he want to indulge in some manly exercise and fresh air.” His eyes met Crowley’s, and there was an amusement to Asmodeus’ expression that Crowley hadn’t seen in a long time. “Of course, it would do to have someone more skilled show you the way and protect you from all harm, am I right?”

“Yay! Hurrah!”

“Remember when Nectanebo took down that boar? Didn’t think a foreigner could do it, but that beast was like a demon, coming out of the bushes in the gulch. Huge, black all over, and foaming at the mouth with rage-”

“Oh, I hope you get a boar half as good, Akakios! Not just some scrawny little thing.”

“This time of year? They wouldn’t be scrawny this time of year, idiot. This time of year they’re all fattening up for winter.”

“Let’s start planning!”

“Right, you guys do the planning, I’ll be off then,” Crowley waved, as he slung his arm over Asmodeus’ shoulder, letting the Prince of Hell guide him out. “Surprise me, all right?”

“See you later,” Nikanor watched as the two left, frowning a little to himself.

“Sure thing, later...”

“You’re rather inebriated, my darling. I’m not sure I’ve seen you like this very often,” Asmodeus murmured, nose buried in Crowley’s hair. “But I do find it quite charming.”

Crowley laughed, and it was nice to pretend that nothing was wrong, that she was not ultimately afraid of Asmodeus, that they could be as humans were, lovers, and there were not eons and eons of time between them but only the moment that existed now, alone in Asmodeus’ quarters, where the warm lamplight glimmered and wavered meltingly and everything was lovely as Asmodeus’ arms tightened around her and his lips met hers.

She giggled, pulling away. “It’s fun to drink with them sometimes. The humans have thought up all sorts of games and jokes.”

“Tell me about the human that you were sitting with. He seemed quite enamored with you.”

“O-oh, him?” Crowley felt the smile slipping from her lips. “He’s no one important. Not to me that is. Erm, his uh, father’s a friend of the king, a good friend. An advisor, I think. Rich too. Their family owns silver mines in Thrace. They do some trade in Ionia, and I don’t know what they buy there yet but I can find out if you like-”

“He sounds like someone important in the court. Why don’t you humor him and go hunting with him? And...if it should be more, I would like it if you cultivated his friendship. What’s his name?”

“Nikanor, my lord.”

“Well, we might have use for a connection like young Nikanor. Let him get as close as he likes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll make sure-” And Crowley paused, wondering if she should ask if Asmodeus would hurt the human, or to ask if he would promise that he wouldn’t harm the young man. But then, asking might put Nikanor in more danger, and-

“You like their company, don’t you?”

Crowley smiled, but wondered if her lips didn’t mean it. “It’s better than being lonely.”

“My poor lonely darling. I won’t let you be alone. You know you always have me. And can always reach out to me when you need me. That’s why you have use of my powers darling.” Asmodeus stroked the side of Crowley’s face, touching the black and crimson mark of ownership that showed to all who Crowley belonged to. “So you can always protect yourself, even when I’m not around.”

“Mmm-hmm” Crowley tightened her arms around him, liking the feel of his hands on her bare skin, familiar and comforting, and the old longing for him passed over her with a wave of yearning that was suddenly overwhelming.

“Please, my lord.” Crowley sighed.

“Please? What is it?”

“Please don’t leave me again.” And as Crowley clung to him, it seemed that for a moment she didn’t know where she was, or when she was, and maybe this was now and maybe this now was a thousand years ago or so long ago that time meant nothing because it hadn’t been invented yet. “I don’t want to be alone anymore.”

Something about Asmodeus’ embrace seemed to change, and Crowley felt a strange hesitation she had never felt before. She drew back a little so she could see his face, but he turned away from her.

“Listen, my darling...my beloved Crowley. I can’t promise that.” He paused, before turning to meet her concerned eyes. “You know that I have certain obligations.”

And Crowley felt a weird shock go through her because if she did not know any better, it seemed that a tremor had passed through Asmodeus’ body. But he had never faltered like this before; what could it be that was troubling him?

“In fact…” Asmodeus said thoughtfully. “What if I had to give you up? What would you do then?”

It took a moment for the words to seep into Crowley, and a rush of conflicting emotions washed over Crowley, as if an incoming tide of many waves erasing marks upon the sand, leaving only blank confusion in its wake.

“I...I don’t know, my lord.” And Crowley wish she were able to lie better, to hide that little spark of hope that flickered in her heart that this was true and not another manipulation of his. “What would change? Would...I be left to fend for myself in Hell?”

“Certainly management would change, at least in name. But you would of course still have my patronage and protection, as well as access to my powers. That would never change, no matter what else changes.”

“I thought we didn’t change, lord,” Crowley ventured.

“No. We’re not supposed to change. But we are forced to because the world does, this Creation that was foisted upon us.” Asmodeus sat down on the bed, drawing Crowley with him so that she sat in his lap. “Though we like to pretend, because eternal stability is preferable to this...rabble of reality that shifts with every passing second. No, sometimes things may be moved around. Power may be rebalanced.”

“Oh?”

“You know I can’t tell you more, darling.” Asmodeus smiled. “Where did that laughter and those smiles go, Crowley? You know I like to see you happy.”

“Of course I’m happy, my lord. Happy to be in your presence.” Crowley put her arms around his broad shoulders and kissed him in the way that he liked. “Always happy to be by your side. Makes the loneliness go away…”

“There are other ways to chase away that feeling of loneliness,” Asmodeus said, pulling Crowley down beside him on the bed. “Let me show you.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale sat down after he decided that he would eat his breakfast here by the little stream in the forest, settling his chiton and himation around him. He watched dried leaves float upon a clear trickle of water, like little brown and gold boats sailing swiftly upon the current as the gray predawn light slowly began to turn pink, the sky warming with color as the sun rose. The autumn morning was brisk, cold droplets of dew clinging to every surface, and Aziraphale recognized that it was cool enough to leave both humans and Crowley shivering, without being affected by the cold himself.

He wondered what he wanted, and then decided that he would have honey cakes and wine mixed with hot water. Miraculously, those things appeared at hand, and Aziraphale took a sip of the wine from the double-handled kantharos, savoring the heat. Certainly not as good as humans could make it; divinely created food was never quite as wonderful as the delicious imperfection of human cooking with its tantalizing irregularities but it would have to do for now.

Crowley would have probably complained that this was too sweet of a breakfast; the demon preferred something more savory at most hours except perhaps an occasional afternoon sweet, or perhaps some fruit after a meal, but never something sugary as a meal in itself. And while it would have been nice to have Crowley here to eat with, there really was something very lovely about being able to do as he pleased, and Aziraphale kicked his feet up as he nibbled at the sticky honeycake, letting honey run down his fingers. It was pleasant being alone like this, having a messy meal without worrying who saw what or how undignified this was and Aziraphale smiled to himself, licking honey off the inside of his wrist and the palm of his hand, sucking his fingers clean, feeling naughty and rebellious all at once. After all, he never could do this even in front of Crowley, it was just too embarrassing. Normally he would gently remind the cake not to drip on him but without prying eyes, he could enjoy being decadently messy.

And besides, today was not a day about noble dignity but one for plain and humble humility. Aziraphale was dressed as a shepherd today, in a rough tunic of undyed wool where the wool had not been meticulously sorted by color and quality but had all sorts of minor imperfections running throughout, and a wrinkled himation of the same type of material, though worn and weathered as if he slept wrapped up in it on the regular. For a change of pace, Aziraphale had miracled himself a patchy rustic beard to cover the sunburnt and freckled skin of his plain and honest human face. His ring of office he wore around his neck on a leather cord, hidden in the folds of his clothes, and he carried nothing on his person but a syrinx made of reeds that hung from his belt.

Since he had heard rumors that the young nobles were meaning to take Crowley out hunting, the angel had been planning as well. Once he heard the date had been set, he spent all night wandering over the hills, scouting out dens and such places that boars might hide, looking for a suitable beast; one that was not pregnant or nursing, one that was young enough to not be too dangerous but old enough to be large enough to be considered a challenge. He had found almost a half dozen that fit this criteria, and was ready to guide the humans toward one, depending on what direction the humans came from. It was easy work and he had his lines all planned out in advance for the humans. Now it was just a matter of waiting for them to pass by.

Thankfully, or perhaps more accurately, miraculously, Aziraphale did not have to wait long. With a gesture, the drinking vessel disappeared, and Aziraphale stood up, brushing off leaves and adjusting his clothes.

Soon enough a trio of three tall humans came tromping along with a reluctant Crowley in tow. Each one carried a long boar spear and a light javelin as well as some small traveling bags slung over their shoulders.

Curious, Aziraphale wondered where the rest of the hunting party was, before stepping out to meet them on the trail.

“Hail, strangers!” Aziraphale said, in his best attempt at a rustic backcountry accent. “Why, if it isn’t the king’s men, come to fight the Illyrians?”

“Ha, this backcountry bumpkin thinks we’re an army!” giggled the largest of the three, a young man built like a bear, and nearly as broad and hairy.

“Oh, I hardly see anyone out here, just lots and lots of sheep! Sheep and more sheep. But there are so many of you, I thought this was an army!” Aziraphale said, playing up the part of the naive rustic.

“Don’t be rude, this is a fellow countryman. Come on, it’s not like he’s an Athenian or something,” one of the young nobles elbowed the other. This one was tall too, though not as tall as the big one, and had short, wavy black hair. Aziraphale thought he seemed a bit familiar but could not place him.

“Doesn’t your brother look kind of like this guy?” The biggest one snickered.

“Say, if you’re from around here, have you seen any boars recently? We would appreciate some good information.” The third, who seemed like the leader of the group asked. This third one seemed just above ordinary height, with short-cropped curling dark auburn hair.

“Actually, by an excellent coincidence, I have,” Aziraphale replied.

“Hail, herding human,” Crowley said politely, as if backing up this leader. “Good guess; we actually are the king’s men, but we’re not out to hunt men today, just boar.”

“Oh, so you’re hunters! What a wonderful coincidence, I’m in need of some strong, strapping young men.” Aziraphale exclaimed, pleased and smiling to himself; it seemed that Crowley did not recognize him. “Say, if you’ll help me, I can help you?”

“Young? You’re hardly older than we are-”

“Yeah, weird shepherd must have been out in the countryside too long and forgot his manners...”

"My apologies, I didn't mean to be rude-"

Crowley blinked, and it was as if the demon was having a moment of realization. His eyes paused on Aziraphale knowingly. “Sorry ahem, herding human, we can’t help you find any sheep, we’re hunting boar today-”

“Certainly.” A familiar voice spoke up and Aziraphale was pleasantly surprised to see that it was Nectanebo, who stood in incongruous Egyptian hunting clothes. For a second, Aziraphale wondered why he hadn’t noticed Nectanebo among the hunters, but the thought slipped out of his mind as the man spoke.

“If it’s hunting related,” Nectanebo continued, “we should consider this man’s request.”

“Oh, what fine gentlemen you all are!” Aziraphale beamed. “Well. So it seems that one of my little sheep has been stolen, probably by a boar! I’ll need help getting it back, if you don’t mind, but in the meantime, I know where the boar lives. Helping me will help you too, my lords. Ah, it’s as if the gods look down upon us all with favor!”

“Well, if that’s the case, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” the leader of the group said, the shortest of the three. “I’m Nikanor, and this is Tyrimmas. And the big one here is Demetrios. The one with the long hair and the black himation over there is Akakios, and of course, this is Lord Nectanebo, a visitor from Egypt.”

“Ah, the pleasure is mine. I’m Koinos, a shepherd. In fact you might say, I’m a common shepherd.”

Aziraphale snuck a glance at Crowley, who had a particularly still and tense look in his face that suggested that the demon was either trying not to laugh or not to yell. Possibly both at once.

“Do boars steal sheep?” Tyrimmas wondered.

“I dunno, they’ll eat all sorts of stuff. I saw one eat a dead hare once, just like that. Chomped it right up,” Demetrios said.

“I heard they’ll eat children too, if you’re not careful.”

“Nikanor, everything eats kids. My gran used to tell me that I’d get eaten by a fish if I went in the water.”

“Oh you’re right, Tyrimmas. That reminds me that my granny said a horse would eat me if I got too close to it. Who ever heard of a man-eating horse?”

“But the sea’s full of big fish,” Crowley added. “Makes sense that there are man eaters in the sea. Big sharp pointy teeth, don’t want to mess with them. I know, I’ve...erm, traveled on ships before. The sailors have a lot to say about big fish.”

“So hey, who cares about a sheep anyway?” Demetrios ventured. “Aren’t we going after boar today?”

“Come on, let’s go with this guy,” Nikanor said. “He knows these hills so he probably knows where the boars are. If we find a lost sheep, we find it. If we don’t, at least we can go home with a boar.”

“And more importantly, a manly reclining Akakios!”

“Yeah good point, let’s go. Hey, Master Shepherd, come on,” Demetrios waved. “Show us where the mean boar took your sheep. We’ll get it back for you, dead or alive.”

“I do prefer alive, if you please,” Aziraphale replied.

“You might not have a choice in the matter,” Nectanebo said lightly. “Come, let’s go find this boar of yours.”

Chapter Text

Crowley was in Hell. Not literally of course but metaphorically, standing between Aziraphale in his ridiculous shepherd’s costume complete with a fawn skin tied and draped over his shoulder as if he had just walked out of a Homeric epic, and Asmodeus, in his ridiculous Egyptian hunting costume of a linen kilt and sickle-bladed khopesh that hung from a belt at his waist.

He glanced at Aziraphale. As far as Crowley could tell, the angel didn’t know that the man standing to Crowley’s left was not a man at all, but a Prince of Hell. So that was good. Or bad. No wait, advantageous, because the less Aziraphale knew about this entire sordid mess, the better.

He glanced at Asmodeus. As far as Crowley could tell, the Prince of Hell didn’t know that the man standing to Crowley’s right was not a man at all either, but an angel. That was a relief and hopefully, if he was careful and if Aziraphale managed not to get carried away with any miracles, it would stay that way.

So far it seemed that the presence of each was canceling out the other, with neither noticing that a member of the Opposition was nearly within touching distance. So far so good, Crowley thought. If he could just keep up the deception. Or better yet, if he could just get Aziraphale to leave, that would solve everything.

His eyes slid toward Aziraphale, who was cheerfully chatting with the actual humans about livestock management, as smoothly and as expertly as if the angel had actually been born in these hills. So getting Aziraphale to leave might not be as easy as he hoped it would be.

Either way, Crowley knew that he had to come up with some kind of plan to get them apart without either one realizing the identity of the other. All he needed was a few minutes alone with Aziraphale to convince the angel to leave but that was looking less and less likely as Aziraphale cheerfully ingratiated himself with the humans.

“What did I ever do to deserve this,” Crowley moaned to himself.

“Oh my, are you not feeling well?” Aziraphale asked, solicitous.

“Y-yes, I think...I think it must have been something I ate!” Crowley said, suddenly. “We really ought to go back to the palace, cancel this hunting trip-”

“Oh come on Akakios, you’re not that soft, are you?” Demetrios snickered. “If your stomach feels bad, the entire forest is here as your latrine. Look, there’s a bush, if you need a bush, and we’ll wait over there to give you some privacy. If you like I can find you some fresh leaves or-”

“Maybe I’m feeling a bit better,” Crowley said, making a face. “Look, I’ll live, all right?”

Nikanor came up beside Crowley, and Nectanebo stepped aside politely to let the young man walk closer to the demon. “Fear can disturb the bowels, but you know that I’m here for you,” Nikanor said softly, close to Crowley where only the demon could hear. Or so the human thought, as Aziraphale listened in. “You don’t need to be afraid, not with all of us protecting you.”

“Yeah, thanks…” Crowley muttered. “Thanks for the concern. I’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“Ahem. So you said you were hunting boar?” Aziraphale interrupted politely. “Why don’t you have nets and dogs?”

“Tyrimmas said it’s best to go with just boar spears and javelins. Demetrios is here as backup, in case something goes wrong. He’s big, but he’s faster than he looks.”

“Runs in the family,” Demetrios said. “My little brother Antigonos is even bigger than me. But it’s better to train to be fast, agile, and strong; sheer strength doesn’t do much good if you can’t dodge a spear or a boar.”

“Good point.”

“Both Tyrimmas and Demetrios are bodyguards for the king,” Nikanor explained. “Somatophylakes. They only take big guys from good families. Even though I’m tall, I didn’t grow tall enough to qualify, and my growing days are behind me. But there are a number of guards so they were able to get some time off to come hunting.”

“This time of year, there’d probably be a rebellion if guys weren’t allowed out hunting with their friends once in a while,” Demetrios joked.

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” Tyrimmas frowned. “What if someone overheard and got the wrong idea?”

“Ah, we’re among friends here. Besides, there’s no fun hunting with the king either. We’re just there to get the king placed right so he can take the first hit. Anyone who want to get between the king and his boar, you’re bound to end up whipped or worse.”

“Oh, shameful!” Tyrimmas shook his head. “What kind of an idiot would get between the king and his prey?”

“But Demetrios has a point,” Nikanor said. “You said it yourself, Tyrimmas, that that kind of hunting is just...walking around and making sure nothing happens to the king. It’s different, going out with your own spears.”

“Rather...speary spears,” Crowley said, changing the subject. He pointed up toward the sharp blade of the spear that he carried against his shoulder. “Didn’t realize the spearheads were so long.”

“Five palms long of solid iron for the blade, cornel wood shaft,” Nikanor explained. “But nothing as heavy as a sarissa.”

“Boar spears are hardly heavy,” Demetrios spun the long spear over his head easily, as if it weighed nothing. “It’s like a toy compared to a sarissa.”

“Iron and not bronze?” Aziraphale wondered. “Didn’t Xenophon say wrought bronze?”

“Well sure, but who follows a book anyhow when you just...go out and hunt?” Tyrimmas shrugged. “Besides, that was a long time ago. Maybe back then iron was more expensive or it wasn’t as good as bronze. And sure, it does take more maintenance than bronze to keep it from rusting but iron is more durable. I wouldn’t want the spear to slip and hit bone on accident and have the blade bend, it’s better if it’s iron.”

“And we have real boars here that need a good sharp iron blade to take down,” Demetrios added. “Not like soft Athenian boars.”

The young men laughed.

“Do they even have real boars out there?” Tyrimmas wondered. “I heard Attica was pretty built up with not as much wilderness left, not like Macedon.”

“I never knew that a shepherd would be such a scholar,” Asmodeus said suddenly, in that thoughtful and kind voice of the human Nectanebo. “Macedon is full of mysteries, isn’t it, that even their shepherds are learnéd and wise.”

“W-well, it’s not that I’ve actually read anything, just someone told me-” Aziraphale stuttered. “Erm, that is, I’ve never been hunting before, I just see to the sheep and you know, I hear stories-”

“I guess that makes old Koinos here an uncommon common shepherd! Not a lot of people retelling Cynegeticus for fun. Anabasis, sure, that one’s exciting. Tyrimmas read that one to me. But Cynegeticus?” Demetrios laughed. “Not unless it’s for bedtime.”

“I tried to read it once and fell asleep when he went off on all the different types of nets,” Nikanor said with amusement. “It wasn’t even good advice for hunting without nets.”

“Too bad old Xenophon couldn’t come up here and get some real sport. We could show him a thing or two.”

“Say, herding human, where’s that boar’s den you were telling us about anyway?” Crowley interjected, changing the subject.

“J-just over the hill, past that big stand of trees.”

Chapter Text

And when they made it to the den, it was empty.

Aziraphale frowned to himself; he knew there should have been a small boar here, and had made doubly certain of it, both when heading out into the hills to look for other boars and on the return back, but there was nothing, not even the trace of footprints in the ground.

“Huh, doesn’t seem like anything’s here. Are you sure this is a den?”

Kneeling, Tyrimmas peered into the hollow in the brush. “Well, it has the look of a den, but maybe it’s just a hollow. If it was a den, it wasn’t one this season.”

“...I could have sworn,” Aziraphale said, muttering to himself. “After all, I saw it clearly with my own eyes...”

“It’s all right, shepherd human, I’m sure that we can find another,” Crowley said lightly. “And if we can’t, we can just go back-”

“Don’t fret, Akakios,” Nikanor smiled, patting Crowley’s back. To Aziraphale’s surprise, Crowley seemed to put up with it, neither appearing displeased nor pleased. That was odd; Aziraphale remembered that Crowley certainly hated being touched casually by people he didn’t know, and here he was, being casually touched and not flinching away or silently upset about it. Perhaps that suggested some familiarity with this human...

“I’m certain we’ll find a boar. It’ll be worth the effort,” Nikanor continued, eyes fixed on Crowley. “After all, hunting isn’t only about killing things. There’s fun in the hunt: spending time outdoors with your friends, the chase, the capture of shy, wary prey…”

An awkward silence, and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, Crowley was using some kind of demonic miracle to avoid appearing like he was blushing.

“Uh, anything else, shepherd?” Tyrimmas broke the silence with a strategic change of topic. “Perhaps another place where your sheep might have wandered off to?”

“Haven’t seen so much as a deer this whole ti-”

“Well, speak of the devil,” Nectanebo said quietly, pointing to a deer that stepped cautiously out of a copse. “Does someone have a javelin handy?”

The three young humans froze, and looked at one another.

“It’s just a fawn, not even out of its spots yet,” Nikanor whispered.

“But I really would like to make this hunting trip worth it. Since we’re nowhere near close to seeing a boar,” Tyrimmas spoke in a low voice, his hand tightening upon his spear.

“It’d be good eating?” Demetrios ventured, his deep voice a quiet rumble.

“Demetrios,” Nikanor said softly. “You should do the honors; you’re doing us a favor today.”

“Thanks. Back me up.”

Nikanor and Tyrimmas exchanged glances and nodded.

Cautiously and quietly setting down their boar spears, the young men raised their javelins, ready to throw, eyes fixed on the deer, waiting for it to wander closer. Aziraphale watched with curiosity; he rarely was this close to a hunt, and wondered what the humans would do. The last time he had seen a hunt, the hunters had set up nets and traps and had big packs of dogs, but here these young humans seemed to only rely on weapons that were much more like weapons of war than those used for hunting.

The wind shifted but the deer wandered closer, and Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, wondering if the demon had something to do with it. It would make sense; perhaps this would be enough to count, and Crowley could then walk away, letting the humans slake their bloodthirst.

Demetrios threw, and for a man so big to throw so gently, it was surprising. At least, it seemed gentle at first, but a moment later the javelin landed, going right through the deer, the tip of the spear coming out the other side of its body.

With a jerking twist, the deer ran off into the woods.

“Oh, it’s not a killing shot,” Crowley scowled.

“Must have been the wind,” Demetrios grabbed his boar spear as the other young men grabbed their gear as well, taking off after the deer, their footsteps pounding through the fall and scatter of dead leaves.

“Well,” Aziraphale turned to Crowley. “I suppose we should go after them.”

“I suppose,” Crowley said, with a shrug.

“Oh yes, we wouldn’t want to be left behind,” Nectanebo smiled, placid and polite.

It didn’t take long for the three angels, fallen and otherwise, to catch up to the humans. After an initial sprint, the human hunters had slowed down to a walk; now it was just a matter of following the trail of blood that the deer left behind, until it was found.

Droplets and smears, splatters and splashes, crimson stains upon leaves and dead grass, rocks and dirt, and Aziraphale’s lips tightened; did a deer really have this much blood in its body? He caught Crowley’s eye; Crowley was scowling even more than usual.

“Odd, seemed like a good hit. Wonder how the deer’s still alive...” Crowley muttered to himself, doing his best not to look at Asmodeus.

“Was there really much of a wind?” Nikanor wondered. “I don’t seem to remember a breeze.”

“I checked before I threw, and there was nothing,” Demetrios shrugged. “But maybe a gust came up out of nowhere, all these twisty little canyons hide all sorts of stuff.”

“Wind, deer, foxes, hares, boars, bears, nymphs, naiads…” Tyrimmas agreed. “I haven’t seen one myself, but I’ve heard tales. There are some big waterfalls in the mountains that have naiads. Oh, and a hot spring that definitely has one. Stay long enough, and she’ll drown you.”

“Maenads too, in the right season. Thankfully, not now,” Crowley added. “Wouldn’t want to be dodging maenads. Drunk ladies wielding thyrsi just ready to tear anything alive apart. Music’s good though, I like the music.”

“Best to hear it from afar,” Aziraphale agreed. “It’s not worth it getting close up.”

“Oh, but I find them charming,” Nectanebo smiled. “Ordinary women, inspired by the god’s madness into extraordinary actions. All that boundless potential and power…”

“Just imagine, all those tits bouncing around. Those charms would certainly be hard not to be inspiring,” Demetrios grinned, gesturing evocatively with his hands, the outline of bountiful curves.

“Sacred madness shouldn’t be joked about,” Nikanor said in gentle reproach. “You’re liable to bring the wrath of Dionysos upon you.”

“Definitely don’t want that,” Tyrimmas agreed. “Bound to get torn apart yourself.”

“Speaking of things being torn apart, it looks like we have found our deer,” Nectanebo pointed to the thrashing deer, caught in a thicket of thorny brambles, blood gushing from its wound and from the many pinpricks of scratches upon its body.

“Poor thing,” Demetrios said, stepping forward to pull out the javelin with a twist. The deer spasmed once, twice, and collapsed entirely, its blood soaking the earth beneath its feet. The big man carefully lifted it out of the brambles, untangling its lax limbs from the thorns with a surprising gentleness before bringing it over, setting it on a large flat boulder. The uneven surface of the rock was stained all over in patches, and whether it was from being used in the past as a place to butcher animals or it was just the growth of strange lichens, it was impossible to tell.

“I suppose we should skin it and dress it, and give up the god’s portion,” Nikanor frowned to himself, looking over the scratched and bleeding deer. “Tyrimmas, are you up to it?”

“Sure, not a problem.” Tyrimmas patted a long knife that he brought for hunting instead of his sword. “It’s a little small for a fawn of this age but still tender; it’ll make for good eating. Easy to carry what’s left too, it won’t be too heavy. A good size for our little hunting party; anything bigger and we would need some servants to carry it back.”

“Need some help?” Nikanor offered.

“Nah, it’s a little thing, not worth the trouble of both of us getting our hands dirty, I can do this pretty fast.”

“All right, then I’ll get the fire started. Let’s put our spears down for now, want to help me find some wood, Akakios? Oh, Koinos the shepherd, no please, don’t trouble yourself. You can rest if you like; you’re our guest. That goes for you too, Lord Nectanebo-”

“Why don’t I help you, Tyrimmas?” Nectanebo offered. “I am curious to learn the customs of your people; it will be an educational experience.”

“Of course, if you’re interested I’d be willing to show you our customs. Come closer, please. Look, as with any animal you want to start here first…”

Chapter Text

Crowley waited for Aziraphale to approach him, and when the angel was close enough, he gestured, obscuring them from human eyes and then just to be safe, freezing time all about them.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Crowley said with impunity, knowing no one could hear him but for Aziraphale. He picked up a long dried branch that he cracked in half, catching a glimpse of Nikanor off in the distance, frozen in a crouched position where he had been picking up bits of small twigs and handfuls of dead grasses for kindling. “Didn’t think you’d come hunting with us.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to miss out on the fun,” Aziraphale smiled. “It’s quite exciting so far, isn’t it?”

“Yes, rather,” Crowley frowned, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with an sharp, intense expression. “But you really ought to leave.”

Aziraphale was taken aback. “Leave?”

“I’m serious, Aziraphale. Please, just go. You shouldn’t be here.”

“W-why, do you not want me here?”

“Yes. No, it’s not that, I don’t- I... Look, I can’t tell you! Just...just trust me on this, all right? You don’t want to be here for this. Go. Make up some excuse and get out of here.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale paused. “What’s wrong, Crowley? Don’t think I haven’t noticed that every time we meet, you freeze time. Why are you doing that? And...and why have you been avoiding me? I haven’t been able to get a word with you in private since our last meeting. Are you trying to hide something from me? Or is it something else?”

“No, o-of course not. I just don’t think you’d like to be around right now because I’m working, all right? I’m on assignment, Aziraphale. Try to understand-”

“So? So am I. Whatever evil wiles you’re up to, I’m supposed to thwart you, aren’t I? And if we also get a chance to spend some time together while that’s happening...hasn’t that been our arrangement for some time now?”

“Point, but...I’m warning you, you should leave. It’s not- that is, you shouldn’t stay here, please. Let me just do my job without your interference-”

“No. You know I can’t do that. Besides, I’ve grown rather fond of these humans. I’d rather if they weren’t on Hell’s ledgers,” Aziraphale said, stubborn and unyielding. “Crowley, you’re hiding something aren’t you-”

“...no, why would I be hiding anything from you?” And with a subtle gesture, Crowley released time, and the sounds of reality came flooding back.

“Akakios? Koinos?” Nikanor’s voice called out. “Where are you two? Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m here Nikanor. I’m fine,” Crowley scowled, dropping the obfuscation about them. He glared at Aziraphale, and made a little gesture, pantomiming that Aziraphale should go.

“I’m warning you, you’ll want to stay out of this. You don’t want to be involved,” the demon said, in a hiss of a whisper. “You’re making a terrible mistake, you need to leave. Please, Aziraphale.”

“Why?”

“You know I can’t tell you why. My orders-”

“Also, Crowley, there is something that’s been bothering me about our conversation last time regarding Nectanebo-” Aziraphale began, but Crowley had already gotten ahead of him, walking back to the makeshift camp.

Nikanor knelt by the old sacrificial hearth that he had uncovered near the flat boulder, striking the flint, working on getting a spark to light some wispy tendrils of dried grass. As Crowley approached the human looked up, bright sparks falling from his hands.

“Careful, don’t wander off too far Akakios.” Relieved, Nikanor smiled, setting the flint down. “You wouldn’t want to get lost in the woods. Tyrimmas and I are more familiar with this area but even we get lost sometimes, and I know you don’t come out here as often as we do.”

“Thanks,” Crowley managed something that looked like a smile. “Thanks for worrying about me. But I’ll be fine. Good old Koinos knows these hills well, doesn’t he?” Crowley gave Aziraphale a pointed look.

“Of course, I have lived here all my life. I can assure you that your friend will be in good care by my side.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Akakios is very important to me,” Nikanor said.

“Oh?” A twinge of irritation went through Aziraphale. “How very fortunate for you, Nikanor. Akakios here seems like a very lovely and charming person indeed. How long have you known him, if I may ask?”

“Quite some time actually,” Nikanor glanced at Crowley. “We’ve been in court for years together, and I’ve known him distantly but I suppose that recently I have gotten to know him better.”

“What changed?”

Nikanor paused, and looked a bit puzzled. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. Maybe it’s because we’ve gone hunting together before a few times now? The big hunts, with lots our mutual friends and servants and dogs and such. Oh, and of course we’ve talked at parties and shared couches on more than one occasion. He’s a noble gentleman and a lot of fun to talk to, very educated and knowledgeable. Well-traveled too. He’s been all over, even to Egypt! I suppose...to be honest, for the last few years there was a different friend I was very close to, but that didn’t work out so well. I’m not sure what I did wrong, but we don’t talk anymore. Not since last winter.” Nikanor sighed, but then he straightened up, as if setting his problems aside. “But that’s in the past, nothing that can be done about it.”

“You’re being rather open about this, Nikanor. I didn’t know...” Crowley began.

“Yes, you’re right. Koinos seems like… Perhaps the term is a kindred spirit? Someone honest and open to talk.” Demure, Nikanor began to stack wood for the fire. “I’m sorry Akakios, I hope I didn’t upset you by speaking so candidly.”

“No, it’s fine. I suppose I had been wondering why me of all people,” Crowley looked away, uncomfortable. “So! Let’s get that fire going, they’ll be ready to burn the offerings soon.”

Damp and dripping with blood, the fawn skin hung from a low branch, and on the flat rock, Tyrimmas paused in his work, setting the crimson-stained knife down.

“Weird. I guess there wasn’t wind at all but something else,” Tyrimmas said. “Look, Demetrios. Your spear went through the heart and the liver, as neat of a kill as I’ve ever seen. It should have felled this deer in one blow. And yet it still could move after that. I wonder what happened.”

“Strange,” Demetrios muttered. “Could be a bad omen. Maybe the gods aren’t happy with us today. Perhaps we’ve done something to offend them.”

“What’s going on?” Nikanor asked, leaving the fire to come have a look. “Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, I think we need a priest who can read the liver,” Tyrimmas replied. “This deer should have dropped dead once Demetrios’ javelin went through it, and it didn’t. I’m not even sure if we should offer the god’s portion. Something seems off.”

“Maybe it was just really strong? Unusually strong for a deer?”

“I’ve heard Lord Nectanebo is an astrologer,” Aziraphale said as if suddenly remembering the detail. “I mean, he’s famous around here. I heard he interprets dreams for the queen.”

“The uncommon common shepherd is right,” Demetrios agreed. “He is an astrologer.”

“And a priest,” Nectanebo added, coming over. “Did you want me to read the entrails?”

“Please. Something strange is going on.”

With practiced delicacy, Nectanebo put his blood-stained hands into the carcass of the deer, examining the still-steaming lungs and entrails in curious silence as the humans watched with bated breath. Slippery organs passed through his fingers, slicking his skin over with blood and bile. Pale ropey intestines fell to the ground with a soft splatter, and finally he drew out its heart and liver, which seemed to pulse dark purple in his hands.

“This deer had a strong will to live, but yet it came willingly to the hunter’s spear. The liver is damaged, but it still says much.” Nectanebo gestured, and Tyrimmas handed him his knife. The supposed seer cut the organs free with one quick stroke, and the humans instinctively backed up, uneasy.

“What does it say?”

“Hopefully nothing bad…”

Nectanebo took his time, turning the liver over again and gently fingering the hole that had been torn through the delicate organ with the thrust of the spear.

“The omens are good.” His mouth curving into a smile, Nectanebo looked up from the carcass and looked about him as if addressing the humans, but his green eyes were fixed upon Crowley. “To obtain what is desired, a sacrifice must be offered up. The sacrifice of someone dear to the heart.”

Crowley froze, feeling a shiver go through his entire body. Was that a message to him? Or was that just nonsense? He looked at the humans and did his best to not look at Aziraphale.

The angel was staring at the disguised Prince of Hell as if puzzling over a problem.

“That’s a good omen?” Demetrios wondered out loud. “Seems kind of dark to me. You can’t get what you want unless you give up someone you love? Sounds more like betrayal to me…”

“It’s confusing,” Tyrimmas added. “All twisted up. What do you think, Nikanor-”

“Wait, did you really end with the liver?” Aziraphale asked, feigning an expression of consternation as if he were truly a confused human. “I thought priests started by taking out the heart and putting it on the altar, and then examining the liver…”

“The tradition is different in Egypt, where I am from,” Nectanebo said smoothly.

And just as Aziraphale was about to argue otherwise, he realized that it wouldn’t do for an ordinary shepherd to know what the custom was in Egypt. Aziraphale closed his mouth with a frown.

“Well, that makes sense,” Nikanor nodded. “I was just wondering the same thing.”

“Yeah, everyone’s seen enough sacrifices to know the order,” Demetrios said. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve seen nearly enough to be able to read those livers myself. Probably more interesting reading than Xenophon. Well, let’s get cooking then. Should start with the heart and liver, so everyone can have a bite. Is there enough fat on this fawn for a proper sacrificial portion?

“Yes, I made sure to trim off a good layer to wrap the thigh bones in, without leaving the meat too lean,” Tyrimmas said. “Who should we make the offering to today? Who should we thank for this bounty?”

“What about Artemis?” Aziraphale suggested. “She’s good to hunters, perhaps she’ll help us find the boar too.”

“What, and not Pan?” Demetrios grinned. “Come on, you’re a shepherd, he’s a shepherd, it all checks out.”

“Pan is an excellent idea, a lusty god of the deep forest who hunts the nymphs. But...” And Nectanebo looked up, leaving the other humans to look up as well. Above, a single bird hovered in the clear blue sky, a carrion bird drawn by the hunt.

“Let us sacrifice to Apollo today,” Nectanebo said, “as he is both protector and hunter, of animals and of lovers.”

“Good idea,” Nikanor glanced at Crowley.

Chapter Text

The heart and liver were not large and cooked up quickly; between the six of them they each had a small portion, no more than a slice. Then, the god’s portion of the fat-wrapped thighbones, pelvic bone, and the tail of the deer were also added to the flames. The young men had been carrying bags that contained skins of wine, cakes, and various other food stuff; Nikanor carefully poured libations on the fire as well as setting some offering cakes in the flames. Tyrimmas prepared the meat, cutting it into thin pieces threaded through sharpened green sticks that were set to cooking.

“All right, we’ll leave you to the cooking, Nikanor. The rest of us are going to go find a stream and wash off all this blood,” Tyrimmas said. “Mind helping us find a stream, Koinos?”

“Certainly, I know of a good stream nearby.”

Crowley began to stand up. “Maybe I should come too-”

“And leave me alone with all this cooking meat?” Nikanor smiled in gentle reproach. “What if a bear or a wolf smells the savor and tries to attack us? I’ll be on my own then.”

“Right, right. You’re right. Best if I stayed. Wolves and bears and such. Should be okay. Right. They’ll be fine, they’re just cleaning up” Crowley’s voice dropped to a whisper as he muttered to himself. “It’s not like I can do anything about it.”

Crowley swallowed, staring at Aziraphale’s back as the angel walked away. Two humans and Asmodeus was one thing, but Aziraphale tagging along like a trustworthy angel, thinking himself safe amongst the humans when Asmodeus was right there...

Crowley shivered. He would just have to hope that neither of them knew that the other was from the Opposition. There was no reasonable way to get away from Nikanor, and as much as he was tempted to freeze Nikanor and chase after the others, that would be unsafe too because one of them could break off and come back early and find an inexplicable scene. No, it would be better to trust that Aziraphale could manage on his own for a few minutes without Crowley’s intervention.

“Of course it’ll be okay. You don’t need to worry. Koinos is a local and he knows these hills well. So tell me, Akakios, what was it like growing up in Ionia...”

“So that was on purpose, right Tyrimmas? Leaving Nikanor alone with the Ionian,” Demetrios snickered, nudging Tyrimmas with his elbow. “You totally did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Just doing a favor for a friend,” Tyrimmas replied, with a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “Anyone would help out a friend in need, wouldn’t they?”

“A bit thin for my taste, but I suppose Nikanor’s got a soft spot for a handsome face and good cheekbones. Or is it that long red hair?”

“I don’t know, Nikanor doesn’t tell me everything. He’s a gentleman.”

“And I’m not? Seriously, comparing him with Alcibiades? Alcibiades could raise a spear-”

“Well, Akakios might not be as heroic of stature, but you can’t say he can’t fight with a spear if you haven’t seen him do it. Besides, he’s a gentleman too, from a family as good as ours. He’s not even fully Ionian but Macedonian on his father’s side, which makes him Macedonian. He’s only Ionian because of his mother. Grew up in Ephesus with his mother’s people after his father and his uncles died, but came back to try to reclaim some of the family land and honor. Just...fallen on hard times, or so I hear.”

“Yes, poor Akakios, who has fallen on hard times…” Nectanebo said, and there was a hint of something sharp in the shape of his mouth but the expression changed, disappearing into a mild and inoffensive expression before he turned to Aziraphale. “Tell me, shepherd, have you too fallen upon hard times?”

“Well, I suppose yes, what with this lost sheep business,” Aziraphale replied. “But did you say something about your servant being in distress? That sounds...distressing?”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested. After all, what are the machinations of a human court compared to the splendors of the wilderness?” Nectanebo gestured. “All the natural beauty and harmony, unspoiled by human hands…”

“Oh, in that case you’d be wrong,” Aziraphale corrected the supposed Egyptian gently. “After all, we’re on these well-trod trails that were made by many passing feet, most of them human. And much of this landscape is shaped by human activity. All the farms that press against the forest and the forest presses back, the grazing of the meadows, the fires that sometimes go through here, whether of human or natural origin... And! let us not forget the animals that are hunted or herded by the humans...truly there are few places without the influence of human hands. Those human hands aren’t always spoiling nature either, often those hands are put to good use, encouraging beneficial plants to grow and maintaining trails that humans and animals can both use. Humans are creatures of this world too.”

“A wise shepherd indeed,” Nectanebo smiled. “Why don’t you come visit us in court? With the help of my scrolls I could read the stars for you, and tell you your fortune. Interpret your dreams.”

“I-I don’t dream.”

“No?”

“It’s not allow- erm, that is to say, it’s normal for some humans to not have any dreams at all when they sleep. Just darkness and rest and nothing else.”

“A shame,” Nectanebo smiled, a pleasant and sweet expression. “It would be interesting to know what you dream about.”

“Absolutely nothing, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale replied with a polite smile.

“You know, the other night I had a dream about this really big maza dumpling,” Demetrios said. “Like the size of a bed!”

“Did you try to sleep on it or eat it?” Tyrimmas wondered.

“It was too hot to eat. I kept trying to take a bite and burning my mouth.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you could burn your mouth in dreams. Do you think that means something, Lord Nectanebo?” Tyrimmas asked.

“Perhaps it means there is some matter of business in which you are trying to bite off more than you can chew. Or more simply, trying to have something before it’s ready.”

Demetrios paused to think for a moment before laughing uproariously. “I think I got Nikanor’s dream! That proud Ionian isn’t going to bend that easily, not even for our handsome Nikanor. Poor Nikanor, so good looking and popular that even sculptors bother him in the palaestra but he’s bent on chasing the one Ionian who won’t have him. Say, Tyrimmas, did Nikanor at least get him a hare?”

“Half a dozen, some live, some not, and maybe like a dozen cockerels, and even a deer. A live one. I know, I went hunting with him for that myself.”

“And still nothing? Been courting him all summer and still hasn’t even gotten under his himation?”

“Akakios is polite.” Tyrimmas gave Demetrios a nudge with his shoulder, catching his eye with a wink.

“Oh, I see, you’ll tell me later. And that I should shut up,” Demetrios grinned. “Well, I guess it wouldn’t to do gossip about a gentleman in front of his boss.”

“And a random shepherd,” Aziraphale added. “After all, gossip is a sin. I think. Well, gentlemen, there it is; the Axio- er, Vardar River.”

“Huh, I didn’t realize we were this far east,” Demetrios wondered. “Did we really go this far east?”

“I-I suppose we could be but perhaps this isn’t the river proper so much as a tributary?” Aziraphale stammered. “But it’ll do for what we need, some fresh running water.”

“With the waters of the black river? The water that does not shine…” Nectanebo said, his eyes looking over the dark waters of the river curiously. “I had been interested in seeing this river and now I finally have. What a peculiar sight, a river that shines not in the sunlight.”

“I believe it is some effect of the sediment that flows downstream,” Aziraphale explained. “Turbulence and so forth.”

“Is the water deep?” Nectanebo asked.

“Not very deep, I should say.”

“Pity,” Nectanebo shrugged. “A shame. Nothing like the Nile. No crocodiles either, I gather.”

“No. But it’s deep enough to kill a man,” Tyrimmas corrected. “Not as deep as the ocean, but it’s deep enough to drown in. Wouldn’t go too far into it if I were you, the current is strong. Pretty unremarkable looking until you get dragged in by nymphs.”

“You mean those little water insects?” Aziraphale blinked.

“No, I mean nymphs. Water nymphs.”

“Those pretty naked ladies who will drag you under, you know. Apollo chased one once.” Demetrios frowned. “Wait, or maybe it was more than one? A bunch?”

“More than one, less than a bunch. Only one at a time,” Tyrimmas replied. “And it depends on how you define chasing a nymph. He wasn’t always successful.”

“No, sometimes they got away,” Nectanebo said. “A shame.”

“Too bad, right? When water nymphs are supposed to be so pretty,” Demetrios chuckled. “Well, Lord Apollo still does his best, and they can’t all get away. He does catch some of them. Maybe they want to be caught. After all, he’s handsome and a god.”

“Hunting can be difficult for man or god,” Tyrimmas began. “For example, you would think that catching a hare would be simple business because they’re small but they are quite tricky and can slip out of snares.”

“Makes me wonder what kind of snares our poor Nikanor has set for the Ionian-”

“So! I’m quite certain we have safety in numbers. Nymphs probably can’t get all of us at once,” Aziraphale beamed. “Let’s get washed up and hurry back to the others, shall we? Safety in numbers, after all!”

“Oh, you want to know about growing up in Ionia?”

Crowley paused, glancing at the hopeful eyes of Nikanor and wondered how much he should say, how close he should allow the human to get to him. On the one hand, there was a jealous Prince of Hell to contend with, one who might readily kill this poor human even if neither he nor Crowley had done anything to deserve it, but on the other hand, that same Prince of Hell had also ordered Crowley to let the human do as he liked with Crowley.

Well, Crowley thought, perhaps it would be kinder to allow poor Nikanor to at least have some fun before dying. Horribly.

“Eh, Ionia’s a nice place. Lots of pleasant walks along the harbor, weather’s really nice, much nicer than here. Warmer winters, doesn’t freeze over at all and never snows. Not as much rain as there is here either, so it’s not as green. Food’s good. Music’s even better. Lots of music in Ionia, seems like there isn’t as much here for some reason.”

“I’ve never been to Ionia but it sounds like a wonderful place. If you like, I can always make sure that my friends and I hire the best musicians for our parties. Even Ionian musicians.”

“Oh? The best?” Crowley met Nikanor’s eyes with a sly smile. “I suppose I should come to your parties more often then.”

“Did you enjoy sharing...er, that is, did you have a good time at the last one?” Nikanor wondered.

“Of course, it’s always a good time with you and your friends. Thank you for the honor of sharing your couch with me. I’m sure there are lots of people who’d fight over your friendship.”

“Yes, there are some. Not nearly as many as people like to say, those are gross exaggerations. But, they’re not like you. And I’d do it again, you know. At every party from now on.”

“Hmm?”

“Ask you to share a couch with me.” Nikanor glanced at Crowley. “I’d share more than that with you too, if you were only interested.”

“Who said I wasn’t?” Crowley’s mouth twitched.

“Really?” Nikanor brightened up.

“Really.” Crowley’s mouth tightened, but he managed a smile. “But I think my master wouldn’t like it if he thought I was easily bought with presents or-”

Nikanor blushed, red all the way up to his hairline. “I’m...I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. Please forgive me, I know you’re a gentleman who’s not to be bought-”

“No, no. It’s all right, I liked the presents. Especially the hares,” Crowley said, remembering with fondness that he had eaten the live ones whole once no one was looking just because they looked so delicious. The dead ones, he had brought to the kitchens to be cooked. “Sometimes wish I didn’t have this...arrangement right now. As a servant to a king in exile, I’m not exactly free to make my own choices. You understand, right? That if it were possible for me, things would be different and we could be better friends, and everyone could know it. But as it stands, we would have to keep things extremely discreet. It would be best if my master didn’t know too much. He’s very- Erm, protective.”

“Yes, I understand. Reputation is everything, after all. But. Since we’re alone right now, is it all right if I...that is, would you grant me the favor...erm-” Despite otherwise keeping his composure, Nikanor blushed, and Crowley was astonished; he had never seen this young man so flustered. It was genuinely charming, and Crowley was touched by the young man’s sudden shyness.

“Ahem. So Akakios, what I’m trying to ask is...may I have a kiss?”

“Sure, why not?” Crowley smiled indulgently, leaning in to meet the human’s lips with his own.

Chapter Text

After a quick lunch, the three humans put out the fire and packed up the hollowed out and butchered deer.

“There, that’s dinner if we’re still out here tonight,” Tyrimmas said, tying up the ends of the skin with a sturdy piece of leather cord.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be back home by this evening, no need to stay out here in the wilderness, away from warm beds and a roof over your head,” Aziraphale said. “There’s still plenty of daylight left to find and kill that boar.”

“Sometimes it takes a bit more work and patience than originally planned,” Tyrimmas shrugged. “The boars don’t go by our schedule, we go by theirs. Anyway, shall we get going?”

“Of course, but oh! Please allow me. I may be your guest, but the rest of you have spears and javelins to carry; I can take the deer. After all you are doing a favor for me too.”

“Sure, if you like. Thanks!”

“So where should we go next?”

Aziraphale led the way to the next closest boar’s den ahead of the others, listening to the humans chat. In his hand, he carried the remnants of the deer, wrapped up in its own skin. A few drips of blood still dripped from the hide onto the ground, and Aziraphale wondered why; the carcass should have been bled out long since, and the hide had few major blood vessels near it. Perhaps there was a cut in the skin somewhere, caused by the thorns or from the butchering.

The angel sighed. There was nothing that could be done; the deer was already dead and besides, the hunt was almost over. They’d have their boar before nightfall and the butchered carcass would then no longer be his problem.

He glanced back over his left shoulder. Nectanebo was exchanging hunting stories with Tyrimmas and Demetrios. It seemed very convenient that they would distract Crowley’s human boss on behalf of their friend, allowing Nikanor to freely converse with Crowley.

Aziraphale glanced back over his right shoulder but discreetly; he didn’t want Crowley to notice that he was looking. Crowley and Nikanor were having a rather animated conversation that both parties seemed to be enjoying, but about what, it was hard to tell. The angel considered eavesdropping, perhaps sharpening his sense of hearing with a little miracle. If he didn’t know better, it seemed as if Crowley was trying to avoid him, intentionally leaving him out.

Probably Crowley still wanted him to leave. What an unusual conversation earlier, Aziraphale thought. Did Crowley often have other side projects in addition to observation duties? The angel couldn't think of an example, but perhaps things had changed Downstairs. After all, there was talk about Crowley moving to a different supervisor, maybe this was the outcome. And yet, it was not like Crowley to-

But then he paused, feeling a sharp jolt of something familiar...

And then Aziraphale finally noticed what that particular sensation he had been feeling was. It was love, and it was burning right off of the young human Nikanor, as if a flame. This poor human was in love with Crowley.

Aziraphale wondered if he should be amused or envious or merely a little sad.

Love. That was the sensation of love, and it was strong; if it were a scent, Nikanor would be reeking of it. Aziraphale had been sensing love for some time since he had met up with Crowley and the humans; it was not a surprise, often humans radiated love when they were together in groups, and it was hard picking out one thread of it from another in the interconnected relationships between people. This group was no different but as time passed and he became more familiar with the individuals, he was starting to feel out the intertwining threads.

Xenia. All the young humans overflowed with it; they were polite and welcoming to him as their guest, and had offered him the first drink of wine from their wineskins and the best servings of sizzling meat from the fire. Philias. Brotherly love, a warm camaraderie, and Nikanor and Tyrimmas nearly glowed with it. Perhaps they had been friends for years, even since childhood; they knew and respected each other well. Threads such of philias tangled both with Demetrios, but not nearly as tightly; this was someone who was more of an acquaintance, a trustworthy ally but perhaps not a very close friend yet.

It was obvious why Crowley wanted him to leave; the demon must have been on some kind of assignment to seduce a human over to the darkness. But that was a shame, Nikanor seemed like a nice enough human and so Aziraphale had decided that this was a good time to thwart the powers of evil. Crowley couldn’t be mad at him; after all, just like the demon, Aziraphale was just doing his job. It would be disappointing for such a pleasant fellow to be in Hell’s books.

Now that that matter was settled, Aziraphale turned his attention to Nectanebo, curious as to what emotion tied him to Crowley.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened in surprise, but just at that moment something shifted in the bushes, a slight but distinct crack of a branch, and the angel stopped, frozen midstep.

The humans behind him kept talking; it would take a few more seconds before they noticed something was wrong, and by then perhaps it would already be too late.

A low, rumbling growl.

The hair stood up on the back of Aziraphale’s neck and he could feel the prickle of gooseflesh come over all of his body as if even his skin wanted to escape and when his eyes slid over to the brush along the narrow trail, he caught a glimpse of the slinking movements of a great beast in the leaves, velvety black like the darkest night skies, mottled here and there with faint rosettes of gold that glinted in the sunlight like distant galaxies.

A panther.

Cautious and careful, Aziraphale began to back up. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his breathing as he slowly moved away, and as he did so he gestured, applying the gentlest of miracles to shoo the panther away.

“Go on your way, please,” Aziraphale murmured. “There’s nothing here for you. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt, the humans have spears and are out for blood. Go find easier prey somewhere else; this isn’t worth your time.”

But piercing emerald eyes followed him nonetheless, pupils dilating, and just as Aziraphale was wondering if he should have used something stronger, the panther suddenly leapt at him.

“Look out!”

Someone shouted, and Aziraphale found himself miraculously a few feet to the left from where he was before, as if he had moved so fast that the world around him had shifted. Claws and fangs bared, the panther landed in the spot where the angel had been in, tearing furiously at the dusty ground and immediately Aziraphale knew he had to run.

Instinct took over, the innate animalistic programming of a corporeal body, and the angel stumbled through patches of dry grasses and scrub, cutting downhill back toward the river in a desperate and ungainly run. Branches and thorns rudely snagged and tore at his hair, his clothes, the skin of his arms and legs. The humans began to shout, and for a moment Aziraphale could not understand the words but then Crowley’s voice rang out.

“Drop it! For the love of... you idiot, drop the carcass!”

With a gasp Aziraphale stared at his right hand. Horrified, he realized that he was still gripping onto the tied up deer skin, blood dripping in a crimson trail behind him. With a choked cry he tossed the ersatz bag aside, glancing back to see if the panther had taken the bait.

It didn’t work. Even the motion of the thrown deer carcass did nothing to distract the beast. Inexorable, the panther lunged after Aziraphale, cold emerald eyes fixed upon the angel’s form, slavering fangs snapping.

With a gasp Aziraphale darted to the right, just barely keeping on his feet as he ran faster than he had ever run before.

Discorporation. The word ran over and over in his head, and he was going to be pulled off this assignment, and it would be so much documentation and meetings and training and retraining that he might be trapped in Heaven until the end of time itself but if he could just get to the river, perhaps he could jump in and avoid the panther’s claws. After all, it was not as if he could drown and he was pretty sure that panthers couldn’t swim.

The river was a growing black line in the distance, and Aziraphale dodged tearing claws that reached for him, scrambling up a rise. A javelin thudded into the ground near the panther, just missing it, followed by two more in quick succession that also missed. Another whistled past, knocked off course by a gust of wind and clattering harmlessly away.

One more javelin, and oh if only it would be guided true. Aziraphale gasped, panting for breath as he got his bearings again, sandals slapping against bare dirt that was rough and rocky with patches of scattered grasses clinging tenuous between stones embedded in the hard ground. One more javelin was all that stood between him and discorporation.

The javelin came, flying straight and sure, only to land just short of the panther’s paws, missing it by a handwidth.

“Oh Lord,” Aziraphale groaned as he dodged tearing claws, barely keeping upright as he desperately tried not to fall as he ran. With a final burst of strength, he clambered up the embankment toward the river, ready to jump in and as he did so the strap of his sandal tore out of the leather bed of the sole. Stumbling forward, trying not to trip and fall onto his face, Aziraphale skidded to a halt.

A flash of gold. His ring of office flew forward from the sudden change of momentum and instead of falling back safely against his chest, the leather cord it hung from snapped.

Time seemed almost to slow as Aziraphale’s fumbling hands reached for the ring, but it remained frustratingly just out of grasp.

“My ring!” Aziraphale gasped, as the golden signet flew past desperate grasping hands and into the water, disappearing with a tiny plop of a splash.

And then he remembered the panther, and the angel turned to shield his face and head with his arms, but just as the panther caught up to him, leaping for him, it suddenly disappeared, blinking out of existence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, grateful for the rescue. Trembling all over and weak at the knees, he sat down heavily to catch his breath, clutching his chest as if it would still the frantic pounding of his heart, hearing the shouts and thudding feet of the humans and Crowley as they caught up to him.

“Koinos! Are you all right?” Fleet-footed Nikanor was the first to arrive, boar spear at the ready and he found Aziraphale dusting himself off and straightening his clothes.

“Oh yes, I’m quite all right. Must have tripped on a tree root at the last minute, but I’m perfectly fine.” Aziraphale managed a smile, glancing at the miraculously mended sandal.

“I’m impressed that’s all you have to say about that,” Nikanor said, astonished. “I was expecting to have to fight a panther for your corpse.”

“A few rips in my himation and chiton, a couple scratches, but nothing serious. The panther came nowhere near me.”

“Where did it go?” Nikanor looked around, seeing no traces of the predator.

“I don’t know. I think the javelins and all that shouting must have scared it off,” Aziraphale suggested. “Thank you, I don’t know how I would have made it without your help.”

“Ah...erm, shepherd human!” Crowley ran up, panting. “Oh. You’re still alive.”

“What, did you think I wouldn’t make it?” Aziraphale scowled.

“Well, you were never much for running, were you? Er, that is. Ah, I’m glad you’re not hurt.” Crowley looked at the ground. “Did...you lose something?” He pointed to the broken leather cord that lay coiled upon the ground, discarded.

“Oh.” Memory overcame Aziraphale, and he went weak at the knees, nearly falling over and if it wasn’t for Nikanor who was standing closest to him, he likely would have ended up on the ground. The human propped him up, strong hands clasped gently about Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“It’s all right, Koinos. After a burst of running like that, you’re bound to lose all the strength in your legs. Happens to even Olympic athletes. Come on, you can sit down over here, let’s get you some wine, you need a strong drink to fortify you-”

“No, no. It’s not that. I’m fine, really. It’s...erm. Well, as I ran I lost my ring. An old family heirloom.” Tears filled Aziraphale’s eyes; it was his heavenly crown and irreplaceable; there was no way he could ever even begin to imagine a new one. Nothing could replace his crown that had been granted to him by the Almighty herself. It would be one thing if the humans weren’t here, he’d just walk into the water and find it, but he couldn’t even reach out through space to pick it up. With no idea where it was exactly, and a current that would jostle it and move it around in the time that it would take for the humans to leave and for him to return, the chances of him finding it again seemed to grow smaller and smaller.

Aziraphale felt a sinking pain inside of himself; perhaps it was gone for good.

“Where did it go?” Crowley asked.

“Into the water. Over there,” Aziraphale gestured at the river, blinking back tears. “I suppose it’s gone.”

“Nonsense, you can just go into the water to get it,” Crowley said.

“But I can’t swim,” Aziraphale sniffled.

“Can’t you just-”

“I said I can’t swim.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a pointed look.

Crowley glanced around. Asmodeus and the other two humans were nowhere in sight.

“All right,” Crowley smiled, a glint of mischievousness in his golden eyes. “If you can’t swim, I can.”

Kicking off his boots and tossing off his himation, Crowley dove into the water.

Chapter Text

Beneath the placid surface, turbulent dark water swirled around Crowley. As he struggled to swim down to the bottom of the river, the demon fought the current as if it were a twisting twining incorporeal serpent bent on pinning him down. At least he didn’t need to worry about breathing; it was a nice luxury to know that he couldn’t be discorporated that way.

Probably should have asked for some more details about where the ring ended up, Crowley thought to himself as he looked around. Fish and frogs darted out of his way, and he licked his lips; human food was good but it was nothing like swallowing a living, struggling creature whole.

But now was not the time to be distracted.

A sudden burst of explosive movement, and he looked up, only to find himself briefly face to face with a diving bird, who gave him as puzzled of a look as an expressionless aquatic bird could manage before darting away into the darkness of the river.

Darkness, chaos, struggling...Crowley grinned to himself, amused at the irony. In some ways it was so much like Hell that he almost felt a fond moment of nostalgia, but he realized that as time passed, they were going to worry that he had drowned.

All right, if I were a ring...if I were Aziraphale’s ring, where would I be hiding? Crowley thought to himself. He tumbled about underwater as he made it to the bottom, trying to find it, feeling the cold water sap his strength.

With a shiver, Crowley ducked behind a massive boulder that protected him from the current, pausing for a moment to rest. Long trailing mosses stroked his face, his bare arms and shoulders even as his curling hair floated about him in a soft dark cloud, his black chiton fluttering about his legs. Not much time left, and they certainly would not let him go diving again; he was sure that even Aziraphale would be against it, even knowing how resilient the demon was. But he had to find the ring; he couldn’t come back empty-handed.

Crowley looked up at the dappled light that came in from the world above, and for an instant it felt almost as if he had stopped time himself. As if he was not at the bottom of a river, but merely somewhere on Earth, looking up at a peaceful, placid Heaven that would forever be out of reach. And while the cold was numbing his entire body, and he could hardly feel his fingers anymore, that little patch of peaceful water in the shelter of this boulder seemed like a delicious respite from the unforgiving current. Crowley briefly closed his eyes, enjoying the gentle swaying calm, cupped in the protective hand of the river. This still silence amidst the roaring chaos somehow reminded him of Aziraphale, though not nearly as warm, but then suddenly it seemed that the icy water of the river was not nearly as cold as it should have been and Crowley nearly gasped at that instant of inner clarity, of understanding, and when the demon turned to his right, there it was: a tiny crown of gleaming gold half-buried in the sand.

He slipped the ring onto a finger for safekeeping. It didn’t fit on the smallest finger of his hand; Aziraphale’s fingers were rather stouter, so he moved it one up and then he swam to the surface, his head coming out of the water with a gasp.

Did the air always taste so sweet, so pure? Panting, Crowley paddled back to the shore, an awkward but competent swimmer, glad that he had not forgotten how to swim.

“Akakios!” Nikanor shouted. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine!” Crowley swam the rest of the way, tiring against the current but managing to strut out of the dark waters of the Vardar with more than a decent amount of style, his long dark hair and wet black chiton plastered to his pale skin as Nikanor and Aziraphale rushed to his side to help him clamber out over the boulders piled up on the shore.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” Aziraphale began, as he brushed a wet lock of hair from Crowley’s dripping cheek. “Really, it wasn’t necessary, that was too dangerous and-”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just went for a little swim, that’s all. Look!” Crowley held up his hand triumphantly, the golden crown of Heaven shining upon his fourth finger. “Ring! Ring!! I found it!”

“At least you took your boots off before diving in and playing Theseus. You really ought to have stripped down all the way first before jumping in the river,” Nikanor fussed, as he wrung out Crowley’s sopped chiton.

“Oh, I didn’t think about it,” Crowley said as he wrung water from his sodden hair. Damp and shivering, the demon was slow to warm up beneath his himation. “I just...you know, jumped in without thinking.”

“The clothes could have caught on something and dragged you down. The current could have dragged you away – I’m surprised it didn’t! You should have thought it through, Akakios! Please be more careful. This isn’t the city and this isn’t Ionia. Getting cold and wet – especially this time of year – can be the death of you. If you catch a chill, it could be fatal.” Nikanor set up some branches that he had stuck into the ground and worked into a frame so the clothes could be hung up to dry.

“It’s all right, Nikanor, I’ll be fine. You needn’t trouble yourself over me.”

“Nonsense,” Nikanor said, unclasping the silver fibula that held his himation together. He swung the garment off of himself before draping it over Crowley’s shoulders and head. “There, hopefully you’ll dry off faster this way.”

“No, really, I have mine already-” But Crowley nearly moaned from the heat of the heavy woolen cloth draped over his chilled body, and it almost felt like he could move properly again and not just be a shivering wreck.

“Yes, I know, but mine’s warmer,” Nikanor said, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze through the cloth and walking away before Crowley could protest.

“Well, I suppose we’ll be here for the night,” Tyrimmas sighed. “It’s not safe to be walking around in damp clothes like that. Akakios, please, don’t be so polite – sit closer to the fire so you can dry off completely. Ah, if only we had some olive oil to rub you down with, that would warm you up.”

“N-no, really, I’m fine, not much of a fan of the olive oil rubdown...” Crowley winced.

“Hey, Demetrios, did you bring any olive oil and a strigil? No? What about you, Nikanor?”

Crowley gestured subtly as Nikanor rummaged in his bag, and Aziraphale turned to give Crowley a Look from his vast repertoire of specific expressions that he saved for Crowley’s edification. Crowley pointedly ignored Aziraphale’s look with a self-satisfied grin.

“Hmm, that’s odd,” Nikanor said with a little frown. “I was pretty certain I had asked the servants to pack me some, but it looks like either they forgot or I did? Somehow I thought I saw it earlier when we were getting the offerings together but I must have mistaken it for something else.”

“Oh what a shame,” Crowley said, in a way that suggested that it was wholly not a shame. “I suppose I’ll have to do without. Tragic, really.”

Aziraphale stifled a sigh, deciding that there needed to be some sort of distraction and held up a bag of his own. “Oh look! I have some cheese and bread here in my bag,” Aziraphale said, smiling as he caught a glimpse of the golden ring upon his finger. He couldn’t risk wearing it around his neck again, not until he found himself a new cord. “And what’s this? Some olives and honey cakes. I suppose we won’t go hungry tonight.”

“I didn’t think he had a bag,” Demetrios frowned. “In fact, I’m sure he didn’t have a bag-”

“It was slung over my back. I suppose my himation was covering it. Please, help yourselves, I have plenty to share,” Aziraphale said, as he handed his miraculously created bag to the humans.

“Thanks, Koinos. You really are an uncommon common shepherd, aren’t you?” Tyrimmas joked, though his expression held a hint of confusion as he glanced inside Aziraphale’s bag.

“Yes, thank you Koinos. After all, you even took upon yourself the risk of carrying something that made you a target of a predator,” Nectanebo said with a gentle smile. “Tell me, Koinos, about that magnificent ring upon your hand. It looks like a gift worthy of the gods.”

“W-well, it’s something that was in my family for a long time,” Aziraphale paused to think. “A-actually, it’s quite precious. A gift from the...erm, an extremely mighty king, many generations ago. I have it, as the oldest son and I hardly ever wear it, but I keep it close to me. But because the cord I normally keep it on is broken, I thought I’d just keep it where it’s safe, right here on my hand.”

“Oh, which king?” Tyrimmas wondered. “Was it Karanos-”

“Hey, so what do you think happened to the rest of that deer? Did someone go look for it?” Crowley said suddenly, interrupting the conversation. “Maybe we could have it for dinner.”

“You know, I did go look for it afterwards,” Demetrios said. “But it was gone, completely gone. I guess the panther must have taken it.”

“The god’s portion,” Tyrimmas agreed. “If we had known better, we should have sacrificed to Dionysos.”

“Good point,” Nikanor agreed. “Maybe he was jealous and sent a panther.”

“Jealous of who? Apollo?”

“Or maybe someone else,” Nectanebo suggested. “But I suppose we couldn’t have known who-”

“Hey, so uh, can someone pass me some bread and cheese? I’m feeling rather hungry here. Must be from getting cold,” Crowley asked, and Nikanor pulled out his knife, using the edge of it to spread some soft shepherd’s cheese from a small earthenware jar upon a piece of flatbread.

“Thanks, Nikanor.” Crowley smiled. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course, any time. Did you want some olives too? Or a honey cake? We also brought wine and our own food too. Let’s see what they packed for us…”

“Maybe later,” Crowley replied. “Oh, unless perhaps you put some cheese on the honey cake, to temper the sweetness?”

“Of course. Say, Koinos, would you like some dried figs or aged cheese? Oh, how nice, they packed us some dried fish. Boiled hen eggs too; if anyone would like me to peel some eggs, I can do that, they’re really good with the salty dried fish-”

Crowley glanced around, cautiously. The humans had wandered off and Asmodeus with them, to look for some suitable material to use for bedding. He didn’t dare to stop time again; Aziraphale would be suspicious. But he figured with Asmodeus busy with the humans, he could sneak in a little talk with Aziraphale.

“Angel?”

“Yes?” Aziraphale smiled, having waited for this exact moment as well.

“I’ve been wondering. You said you couldn’t swim?” Crowley managed something that was almost a wry smile at Aziraphale from beneath a fold of the himation that he had draped over his drying hair.

“Oh, I can’t.”

“But I’ve seen you in the water before. Underwater too!”

“Yes but I really can’t swim. Not with, you know, the moving arms and legs business,” and here Aziraphale gestured, waving his arms a bit as if to pantomime the movement of swimming. “I mean, obviously I can go into the water. I can walk right into it until I am submerged, but it wouldn’t be swimming. I thought that would have been a bit too suspicious. Humans would think it strange to see me walk in and walk back out.”

Crowley pressed his hands over his mouth to stifle the giggles, and glancing at Aziraphale, he saw the angel trying not to laugh himself. Crowley managed to get a hold of himself. “Ahem. I suppose it makes sense. Erm, shepherds aren’t exactly water-dwelling creatures.”

“Oh, but sometimes I believe they do have to get in the water, when they wash off their sheep’s fleece. Though do they wash off their sheep in Hellas? I know they do in some places…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Crowley stared at the golden crown of a ring upon Aziraphale hand, gleaming rose gold in the flickering light of the fire. “But maybe you should hide it? Just in case.” The demon gestured to the ring.

“It’s all right. I don’t think I can put it in a safer place, if you must know. For now, this will have to do,” Aziraphale beamed. “You know, I don’t believe I have properly thanked you for diving into the river for me.”

“Eh, it’s nothing-” Crowley began, but all the words dried up as Aziraphale clasped his hands about the demon’s own hands.

The sudden heat that went through Crowley was so intense that for a moment he felt as though he were burning up, but it was not the lakes of boiling sulphur so much as a warmth that filled every part of him with a deep calm, and for a moment the demon glanced up at the heavens, and wondered if he was underwater again.

Their eyes met and Crowley could feel the corners of his mouth twitching; beneath that rough peasant’s disguise, Aziraphale’s eyes were the exact blue-gray shade of the cloud-strewn sky and thank goodness his eyes weren’t that deep rich earthy brown right now because if they were the demon might just find himself discorporated out of the sheer beauty of it.

“Thank you, Crowley. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I was afraid I had lost my ring forever…” Aziraphale’s smile slipped momentarily into sadness before a flurry of subtle emotions ran across his face, almost too quickly to gauge. “And look, now you’re all cold on my account. Your fingers are like ice… Would you like me to warm you up?”

Crowley looked away, staring at his boots and blushing hard. “N-no, no, that’s quite all right, angel, I’m fine. Really.”

“At least let me dry you off…”

“Better not. It’d draw suspicion,” Crowley sighed. “I’ll dry off naturally. Even if it’s unpleasant. Besides, it won’t be unpleasant for long, I’ll warm up soon enough.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale smiled, but his expression changed as he looked at Crowley, his eyes turning thoughtful.

“Something on your mind?”

“The thought occurs to me...Crowley, why do you even experience cold? And hot?”

“Huh?”

“After all, I’m an angel too, and I don’t get cold or hot. I mean, I know when the temperature changes, but it doesn’t bother me. Does it have to do with differences in our respective ranks? Were you not equipped with protection against temperature extremes?”

“Oh, oh that.” Crowley ducked his head, looking a bit embarrassed. “No, it’s not a rank thing...”

“Oh no! Crowley! What did you do?”

“Ehhh, nothing really,” Crowley shrugged. “Er, okay, fine, something. Don’t look at me like that, angel, it wasn’t that bad. I mean, it wasn’t bad. Or good. It was just- Erm, well, uh, years ago. Ages ago, really. Erm, lemme start over. Okay. I didn’t used to get cold or hot either. But it’s...it’s a mechanism.” Crowley patted his chest. “And...I might have realized that I could shut off the mechanism?”

“You...shut off your protection against temperature extremes?”

“Erm, uh, ah, yeah, I suppose you could say that…though I mean, it can’t actually hurt me so I...I didn’t really turn off the protection so much as uh, turned off whatever that thing was that kept me from experiencing hot and cold in an acute way?”

“Why would you do that?” Aziraphale was stunned.

“Er, you know,” Crowley shrugged. “Curiosity?”

“Can’t you turn it back on?”

“Uh, not sure how, really. It’s been a while and I don’t remember how to change the mechanism…I have tried before, I swear. I just...can’t find it to turn it back on?”

Aziraphale stared. “Crowley. So what you’re saying is that there’s something like a switch deep down in you, that you can use for thermoregulation, and you just...forgot about it?”

“Well, it wasn’t easy to find in the first place and honestly I forgot how to find it again and anyway, it’s fine, it’s not like a little temperature difference is going to hurt me,” Crowley explained. “I just...you know, wanted to see what the world was like with hot and cold and such. Curiosity.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, exasperated. “You really ought to figure out how to fix that. It’s not nice experiencing temperature as the humans do. After all, they’re quite uncomfortable most of the time.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind it, even if I am uncomfortable sometimes. Makes me appreciate the comfortable times more. It’s fine, angel.”

“If that’s what you prefer.” Aziraphale sighed and gestured to the bag. “Are you still hungry? Shall I put something together for you?”

“Nah, I’m all right. Pleasantly full as it is,” Crowley smiled. “Thanks, I know you got that soft cheese I like. The bread too.”

“Of course. Sadly I couldn’t do much about the wine, but sometime when this is over, we’ll have to have ourselves a lovely little symposium, just the two of us.”

“Yes, I’d like that,” Crowley smiled, and it seemed that the world was a bit warmer, a bit brighter. “I’ll think up a new chiton for the occasion. Something pretty, in linen. I like linen.”

“With music and good food and wine…” Aziraphale sighed in anticipation. “I have some new songs I learned from the ladies that I want to try playing on the kithara. Work songs, lullabies…oh, it will be so lovely.”

“Say, speaking of music, a syrinx?” Crowley pointed to the reed instrument that hung from Aziraphale’s belt. “I didn’t know you played the syrinx. I thought you were more of a kithara man.”

“I am, but I picked it up over the years.” Aziraphale unfastened the syrinx from his belt, looking the instrument made of banded reeds over, impressed that it had survived quite a long and eventful day. “It’s a common, modest instrument that’s easy to easy to carry, and one doesn’t need as many accessories to go with it, no extra strings or worrying about cracked plectrums and such.”

“Will you play something for me?” Crowley asked hopefully.

“Of course.” And bringing the syrinx up to his lips, Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, giving him a little wink before continuing, hoping he’d see the demon blush again.

Chapter Text

As the shadows lengthened the temperature began to fall precipitously, and a cutting northern wind began to blow. At first it was no more than a fluttering breeze, but before long scattered dead leaves twisted through the air, crackling as the wind blew, and soon the decision was made to put out the fire.

“What an awful wind that blows,” Nectanebo said, rubbing his bare arms with his hands.

“It’s the Vardarac blowing in from Thrace, the northern wind that comes from over the mountains,” Tyrimmas explained.

Nikanor sighed. “I thought we had been careful choosing and praying for some good days with the right weather for hunting, but I suppose the gods are unhappy. There’s not much we can do about it now. Best to wrap up and get some rest. It’s a good thing we haven’t been feeding the fire, the Vardarac blows so hard and so dry that the forest could go up if a spark gets loose.”

The three humans quickly went about putting out the remnants of the fire with their tough-shod boots, sparks disappearing beneath stamping feet and kicked up soil. Even through the exertion, Crowley could see that Nikanor was shivering. Embarrassed, Crowley got up to return the young man’s himation. It wouldn’t do to be wearing two, particularly since as a demon the cold merely inconvenienced him and wouldn’t hurt him as it would hurt a human being.

“Oh look, Akakios. How convenient, your chiton is all dry. Warm from the fire too,” Aziraphale said, holding up the black cloth. “Isn’t that lovely?”

“Quite.” Crowley shrugged into the clothes underneath his own himation, fastening the chiton at the shoulders. The cloth was warm, so warm that it was almost hot and the woolen fabric smelled faintly of roses and myrrh, and Crowley stole a little knowing glance at Aziraphale, his lips pursed in the barest hint of a smile.

Aziraphale gave him a little wink.

Crowley took a moment to breathe and steady himself before he could comprehend the thread of conversation again.

“...right but we should do something about Lord Nectanebo. He’s not dressed for this weather,” Tyrimmas said. “Please take my himation, sir, to use as a blanket. I can double up with Demetrios. After all, we’re going to share anyway. It won’t be a hardship, he’s almost as good as sleeping next to the fire wrapped in a bear pelt.”

“Tyrimmas, did you just call me a bear-”

“And a fire. But mostly a bear pelt, you are pretty hairy-”

“Oh no, it’s all right. I wouldn’t think of taking your clothes, not when I came woefully unprepared,” Nectanebo protested politely.

Crowley sprang to his feet, unfastening his black himation. “Please, my lord. Take mine.” He leaned down to drape the heavy folds of cloth about Nectanebo’s shoulders. The man reached up to fasten the fibula, and for a moment their hands touched and if Aziraphale didn’t know any better, there was some tenderness to that touch. But it was fleeting, gone before he could ascertain it, and a voice interrupted before Aziraphale could consider it further.

“You could share with me, Akakios. Now that you don’t have something to cover yourself with,” Nikanor offered, before Aziraphale thought to say something.

“Thank you, Nikanor. I’d like that.”

And the two exchanged a knowing smile that left Aziraphale out cold. Of course that would make sense, Aziraphale thought, stifling a sigh. A young gentleman of any stature was not going to be bedding down with a shabby flea-ridden shepherd.

Aziraphale sighed, realizing the limitations of his disguise. “All right, it’s almost dark. I suppose it’s time to rest. Thank you for preparing the beds, young masters. Pine boughs will be quite nice to sleep on.”

“Of course,” Tyrimmas beamed. “You’re welcome. You are our guest after all-”

But Aziraphale didn’t hear any of it, as he was focused on Crowley.

“We’ll have to move some of this around,” Crowley was saying to Nikanor. “This one’s a bit narrow. We’ll need to combine two beds, I think.”

“Why don’t we move it over here,” the human agreed, and the two dragged some of the pine boughs away from the others, into a dark hollow nearby.

Aziraphale watched them disappear into the dusk, the setting sun erasing the forest around them into dark smudges that blotted out the sky. The angel sat down upon a humble bed of pine boughs. He stared at where the fire had been; the embers were gone, crushed beneath sturdy-soled boots and kicked up soil, and in its place the night slowly grew cold and dark.

Aziraphale wrapped up in his himation tightly, feeling some small comfort in the rough wool and stared out sleepless into the deepening night.

“Akakios, I’m impressed. You can see really well in the dark, can’t you?”

“Must be all the hares I eat, thanks to you. Good vision, hares.” Crowley said, and caught Nikanor’s arm before the human could stumble. “Careful, there’s a dip in the ground here, you wouldn’t want to fall.”

“Thank you.” Nikanor let Crowley guide him down to sit upon the boughs. “Lucky thing we found some pine trees, I didn’t think they grew this low off the mountains.”

“Yeah, guess it’s good we didn’t have to try to sleep on dead leaves or sticks or something. It’s nice not to have to sleep on the ground,” Crowley yawned, sitting down on the springy boughs. A resinous scent filled his nose, and with a sigh of longing, he looked toward where the others were, wondering what Asmodeus was thinking, if he was watching. “Perhaps things have turned around for us.”

“Oh, I hope so. Perhaps it’s that the gods are much more satisfied now.”

“Perhaps.” And as the cold wind blew, it seemed that the air suddenly became noticeably colder, the howling wind cutting through his chiton and Crowley hugged himself, trembling. “That wind is quite serious.”

“Oh, I’m sorry Akakios, here.” And Nikanor put his arm and the edge of his himation around Crowley’s shoulders, and Crowley gasped.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh no, not at all. You’re just so warm it’s...it doesn’t feel safe. I mean, not that I think you’re dangerous, I know you’re not. It’s not so much as...erm.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?” Crowley muttered, embarrassed.

“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want. And, of course, you don’t erm. Have to do anything just because of me. There’s nothing I want from you- no wait, that’s not true, I do want something from you, but-” Nikanor closed his mouth for a moment, taking a deep breath as if realizing he had said too much or spoken too awkwardly. “Y-you’re free to refuse, of course.”

“What makes you think I would refuse?” Crowley murmured, his voice inviting the human to boldness.

“So uh, you might find this interesting! I-I’ve been told my body runs hot, hotter than most ordinary people. It’s very unpleasant in the summer. If you must know, no one likes being close to me at all then, but in the winter...”

“Oh. Oh yes, yes of course, you’re right. Right now, it’s...nice. Really pleasant. Being by your side.” Crowley shifted, moving closer to the human. “Maybe we should lie down and get wrapped up. For...erm, warmth, you know. I’m pretty cold.”

“Yeah, let’s do that. For warmth.” Nikanor unfastened his himation, drawing Crowley close within its folds.

Aziraphale stared at the night sky. Alone, wrapped up in his himation, and all about him the scent of pine filled his nose. From here, he couldn’t hear Crowley, or even the breathing of the humans nearby. Just the sound of the wind raking through the trees, the ebb and flow of the gusts that sounded like the tidal movement of waves upon the shore.

Dead leaves blew by his ear and the sound was a burst of dry tumbling crackles, disappearing as quickly as it came.

There was nothing he could have done about it, but he would have very much liked sharing a blanket with Crowley. It would have been nice to lie together and talk quietly all night while the humans slept, or to feel Crowley’s body grow lax with sleep in his arms, and wouldn’t it be nice to have that head of curling dark hair pressed against his shoulder, where his chin could rest upon the crown and his nose would be filled with the scent of roses and myrrh…

Aziraphale hugged himself and when he did, his hand closed about the ball of his shoulder and the feeling of the bone beneath the skin reminded him of those angular limbs in his own arms. And why was Crowley all knees and elbows and sharp points and why was that so alluring? For a moment a strange longing overwhelmed him, sharper than hunger or thirst.

The angel sighed. Foolish thoughts. So much had happened today that to relax, it would be better to think of something else for the rest of the evening. He settled into imagining that he was reading, a trick he had picked up over many long nights this year pretending to be a sleeping human. First, he had to decide what he’d like to reread. It only worked with something he had read before.

Something comedic, he thought. And immediately Aristophanes came to mind. Oh, The Acharnians, that was a fun little story, one that he had never seen staged. It had premiered in the sixth year of the Peloponnesian War during the Lenaia, and by then he had already been reassigned to Ephesus. They both had; Aziraphale had waited a long time to receive a properly written copy of the play.

How did it start again? Dicaeopolis on the hill of the Pnyx, waiting for the other Athenians of the Assembly to begin the day’s business. He closed his eyes, and in his mind’s eye he could see the crackling scroll of papyrus unfurling before him, the slightly faded text written in a tidy scribe’s handwriting:

What cares have not gnawed at my heart and how few have been the
pleasures in my life! Four, to be exact, while my troubles have been
as countless as the grains of sand on the shore! Let me see! of what
value to me have been these few pleasures…

“Are you comfortable, Akakios?” Nikanor whispered. “Would you like more of the himation? I don’t want you to be cold…”

“It’s quite pleasant actually. Not cold in the slightest. A bit warm, to be honest, but in a nice cosy way,” Crowley murmured into the folds of the wool chiton that covered the human’s shoulder, feeling Nikanor’s arm tighten around his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re comfortable. To be honest, I’m a little uncomfortable myself.”

“Sorry, should I move? I know heads are heavy and uncomfortable and I’ve gotten complaints before from Azir- er, people...that is, my ahem, siblings that I’m all knees and elbows…”

“No, it’s not that. It’s…” Nikanor gave Crowley a squeeze. “To be honest, Akakios, I’m a little overwhelmed having you so close to me here. It’s all that I’ve wanted for so long, and now that it’s real I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Well, what do you want to do?” Crowley ventured to ask.

“Hold you. Sleep with you. And do it again tomorrow night and the one after that…and for many nights. All of them, if that’s possible.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I could do that for...f-for all nights. I mean, I don’t know if I’d be allowed to do something like that. I don’t think I would be allowed. In fact, I’m pretty sure it’d be forbidden. But...I could possibly oblige with some nights? Definitely tonight.”

“Even some nights with you under my himation sounds wondrous. I...I would like that so very much, Akakios.” Nikanor buried his face in Crowley’s hair, pressing kisses to his head. “You’re so wonderful – clever, funny, well-read and well-traveled – I’m surprised you don’t have a friend at court already.”

“Well, it’s complicated,” Crowley muttered.

“Hmm?”

“I guess...I got lucky, now that we’re friends. To be honest, I was pretty surprised when you started courting me over the summer.” Crowley’s arms tightened around the young man, feeling the firm lean-muscled body beneath his grip. There were so many things that could not be said: that he was only here because a demon lord of Hell had sent him here, was allowing him to be here; that there was someone else whose arms he would rather be in; and that even if he wanted to – and in some ways he really wanted to – he couldn’t be with Nikanor, not seriously. Not ever.

For a moment, it made him wish he really was Akakios. It would be a simpler life, not trapped between conflicting loyalties and piled under conflicting secrets and lies. To be courted by this pleasing human being, to be with someone who didn’t know the burden of the past that weighed on his thin shoulders but only saw him for what he was in this moment…

No, not what he was. What he appeared to be.

Crowley’s eyes closed briefly. If only he could pretend it were real, even for a minute...

“You’re wonderful, Akakios. I wish I had noticed you earlier.”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s mouth twitched, his head pressed against Nikanor’s shoulder. But it could never have been early enough.

The demon sighed, relaxing into the arms of this pleasant young man, but in his heart he yearned for those lazy hot summer days in Ephesus in his garden, sprawled out on the grass in the shade of the big sycamore trees, his head resting in Aziraphale’s lap, feeling that soft round tummy against his cheek as Aziraphale’s warm, sturdy hand stroked his hair until it didn’t and then merely rested against the side of Crowley’s face. Even though the angel could lift great burdens as if they weighed nothing at all, that hand was never heavy upon his cheek, nor was it anything but gentle, as immaculately manicured fingers played with his long hair.

And there in Ephesus they would be talking. About the theater maybe, or about the gossip in town with the human elite or maybe how the war was going. But more often than not the words would run out, and then it was just the sound of the wind, of their breaths as they slowly synchronized, of the strong tidal rush of Aziraphale’s heart beneath his ear, and Crowley tightened his arms around the angel with a sigh.

But that couldn’t be either. Nikanor was nothing like Aziraphale. This human was all muscle, as classically proportioned as a statue of a kouros. Even if Nikanor wasn’t in the king’s guard it didn’t mean he didn’t spend his free time hunting or riding or training, whether for war or in the palaestra. This human was notorious for leaving a string of heartbroken court sculptors because he would never agree to posing for their statues, besides the humans of all sexes who battled for the young man’s attention.

And here he was, with Crowley. Such a desirable human in his arms and Crowley seriously wondered if Asmodeus had something to do with it, sparking and then fanning some desire in a human until they could do nothing but be pointed in Crowley’s way. Perhaps Asmodeus had even interfered with the human’s previous relationships. Anything was possible, with a Prince of Hell pulling the strings.

At least Nikanor wasn’t anything like Aziraphale and Crowley decided that it was probably better this way, even if it was so utterly disappointing.

“Are you all right?” Nikanor murmured, concerned.

“Yeah, fine. Fine, absolutely fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re sighing a lot.”

“It’s nothing.” And Crowley kissed the human, a gentle distraction that hurt no one, and one that the human responded to enthusiastically.

Silence. Aziraphale sat up, mid-Aristophanes, and felt the cold air prick at his skin even though it hurt him not. Despite the fact that cold did not harm him, he could tell that it was even colder than it had been some hours ago when they went to bed. The wind had stopped, and that was odd. The Vardarac usually blew for days, not hours.

He looked around, and it seemed that everything around him was strange, different. The world around him seemed alien, unrecognizable, and a little moment of panic went through him before he realized that it was just that a fog had sprung up and bright moonlight had blotted the world out around him.

It was quiet, so quiet that he wondered if the entire forest itself was holding its breath, afraid of some prowling predator, and as he tried to listen for the squeak of a bat or the chirp of some nocturnal creature, Aziraphale heard a familiar voice.

“Mmm, Akakios! That was amazing. You’re full of surprises.”

“Yeah?” Crowley’s voice sounded lazy, almost drowsy. It seemed to Aziraphale that the voices he heard were coming from somewhere close by. That was odd, the angel thought; he had remembered that the two had intentionally moved further away from everyone else.

“Yeah. And you smell really nice. Do you use scented oil? You smell almost...mysterious. Like flowers and something else. Roses and…?”

“Myrrh. It’s a perfume blend, something I picked up a while ago.” Crowley took a deep breath. “You smell nice too.”

“Mostly sweat, I’m afraid. Got pretty worked up running around today. And well, you know, just now. I hope it doesn’t bother you.”

“Not at all. Much better than smelling of olive oil.”

“That’s why it’s best to get scented oil. Makes your clothes smell nicer too. You said you got this perfume in Ionia. What was it like growing up there?”

Aziraphale frowned. He decided that given the opportunity, he would give Crowley a serious talk about leading humans on. Especially humans that were in love, that was just rude and dishonest. But the thought dropped from importance as he listened in on the kind of things that Crowley was telling this poor human.

“Eh, not much to say, really. Just an ordinary life, I suppose. Things...were pretty quiet growing up. Nothing remarkable. But then things changed when I came of age.”

“What happened?” Nikanor murmured, his voice muffled as if pressed against some folds of cloth.

“Well, my...my mother and I. We disagreed. So I was...made to know I was not welcome. Cast out, if you must know.”

Aziraphale gasped, and he pressed his hands over his mouth to stifle the sound. This had to be about the Fall, it must have been. That Crowley would be so candid with humans...

Aziraphale felt himself tense all over. It was rare for Crowley to mention the Fall, even with him. It never occurred to him that Crowley would tell this story to someone else.

“You were disinherited?”

“You could say that.”

“Why were you disinherited? You didn’t give cause for offense, did you?”

“No, nothing like that. I didn’t...I wasn’t involved in anything bad, really. And certainly nothing rebellious. Not directly. It’s just…” Crowley sighed. “Asked too many questions, I guess. No, don’t look at me like that, it was a long time ago. It doesn’t hurt anymore, really.”

“Do you still talk to her?”

“Oh, no.” But Crowley paused, before continuing, “Well, actually I do. I talk to her, every now and then. She just...never replies to me. Not a word, not to me. Or anyone else. No one knows why.”

“It sounds like a strange illness,” Nikanor replied. “Maybe she’s afflicted by a god.”

“Eh, maybe. It’s nothing to worry about, Nikanor. After all, it was a long time ago. Nothing can be done about it.”

“You can always tell me about your burdens, Akakios. I’ll help you shoulder them. You don’t have to be alone anymore.”

Aziraphale smiled a little to himself. It was wonderful how open to love humans were, and how easily they opened their hearts, but somehow the feeling was bittersweet.

He wondered if Crowley talked about the Fall with everyone he was close to, everyone whose bed he warmed.

But, Aziraphale realized, if the demon told everyone, that meant that anything that had happened between them was not special, just an ordinary friendship of the sort he had with all kinds of other people, humans included.

Aziraphale found himself tense and trembling, even though it had nothing to do with the cold.

“Oh, I don’t feel alone right now, not at all,” and Crowley’s tone of voice changed as the demon changed topics, and there was something sly and inviting and seductive all at once in those words.

“Are you saying we can do it again?” The soft crack of pine boughs shifting under moving bodies, and the soft sound of eager, hungry kisses.

“Oh yes. I’ve been waiting for a long time to be under your himation like this...”

Aziraphale laid down, pulling his rough woolly himation over himself. He squeezed his eyes tight, pressing his hands over his ears. Was this what Crowley wanted, that he could not give the demon? Not that it hadn’t occurred to him but it wasn’t something Aziraphale was particularly interested in. It wasn’t as if he was without experience, of course, that Nephilim project many years ago made certain that most if not all of them had some experience in this regard. But he had never thought Crowley would have wanted this from him. After all, they had known each other for thousands of years and Crowley had never so much as asked or intimated interest.

“Of course,” Aziraphale whispered to himself. “Why would I be so foolish as to think…” And unbidden tears prickled at his eyes; of course Crowley would have wanted someone else, he had his choice of humans and besides, wasn’t he used to better? Like that Prince of Hell who was as beautiful – no, more beautiful – than idealized human statues, who was powerful enough to give Crowley protection and islands and pretty clothes and Aziraphale was suddenly overcome with the memory of the fading warmth of the empty bed, the scent of juniper that clung to the bedding...

Aziraphale shook his head, violently, wiping at the tears.

They were just friends, and that was fine, Aziraphale thought to himself. And of course, Crowley was on some kind of assignment, and what the demon had with other people was none of the angel’s business; Crowley had always been like this, and it wasn’t as if they spent all their time together. It wouldn’t be fair to demand loyalty from Crowley when Aziraphale himself couldn’t promise that to Crowley, not when his loyalties lay elsewhere.

And yet, as the sound of rustling continued, shot through with panted breaths and moans and sighs, Aziraphale still felt a strange pang of pain within him, an aching loneliness that he could not quite understand.

Aziraphale bit his lip.

Silence. The fog lingered hazy in the still air and Aziraphale sat up cautiously, looking around at the familiar contours of their camp. Here, Nectanebo, in a miserable huddle by himself beneath the black shroud of Crowley’s himation. There, Demetrios and Tyrimmas in a much larger one, both humans twined in a cozy tangle.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed. That was odd. He glanced at the sky and wished he could see the stars and moon; they would have given him some guidance as to how much time had passed but the sky was obscured by clouds.

But then, perhaps there was another, more reasonable explanation.

“I think it must be...I must have fallen asleep and had a dream?” Aziraphale brightened up. Even though the content was distressing, the thought that he could have perhaps slept and experienced that human phenomenon of dreaming was exciting. He beamed, thinking that he should tell Crowley sometime, though of course that would be awkward because the demon would want to know what he had dreamt about. He would have to give some kind of an excuse not to talk about the content of the dream.

With a cheerful wiggle, Aziraphale lay back down, settling down with his himation. Back to Aristophanes, he thought, and took up where he had left off:

Ah! I recall me a Megarian trick; I am going to disguise
you as little porkers, that I am offering for sale. Fit your hands
with these hoofs and take care to appear the issue of a sow of good
breed, for, if I am forced to take you back to the house, by Hermes!
you will suffer cruelly of hunger! Then fix on these snouts and cram
yourselves into this sack. Forget not to grunt and to say wee-wee like
the little pigs that are sacrificed in the Mysteries. I must summon
Dicaeopolis. Where is be? Dicaeopolis, do you want to buy
some nice little porkers?

Chapter Text

Dawn. The morning sky was pearlescent with wispy clouds and the sun was no more than an opalescent streak of glowing silver veiled in mist. Crowley yawned, but not nearly as much as Nikanor, who was unsteady on his feet upon first getting up.

“At least it’s warmed up. It’s like the entire world is wearing a gray himation of clouds,” Nikanor said, drawing his himation about Crowley’s shoulders and then leaning close with his arm around Crowley’s waist to share warmth. “You’re so tall, Akakios! How you managed not to get drafted into the king’s guard, I wouldn’t know.”

“Got lucky, I guess. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it.”

“Though in another way, you’re like a king’s guard, working for Nectanebo. Is he really an Egyptian king?”

“As far as I know,” Crowley replied glibly. “Say, we should go and see if the others are awake yet.”

“Yes, of course. Wait.” Nikanor leaned over, plucking a pine needle from Crowley’s hair. “You’ve got pine needles all stuck in your hair.”

“And your himation’s covered with them,” Crowley chuckled, and began to dust off Nikanor, arranging the himation so that it draped beautifully around his shoulders.

“Oh, you don’t need to be so fancy with me. I’m just going to run a round and muss this all up, it’s all right if it doesn’t hang perfectly. After all, these are my cold weather hunting clothes and not my court clothes-” Nikanor suddenly laughed. “I suppose that’s another reason I couldn’t be in the guard besides height. I don’t pay enough attention to how clothes are styled to be properly by the king’s side.”

Crowley paused, realizing that this was just something he would have done for Aziraphale who was so particular with the drape and fold of every finger of cloth. “I- I just thought you looked handsome like this…”

“Thank you. And you look handsome any way. Though I do like seeing you with your hair all mussed up like this, it’s very fetching. Reminds me of last night,” Nikanor murmured, very carefully stroking his fingers through the curls of Crowley’s hair, arranging them neatly. “There, now you look presentable.”

“We both do.”

“One last kiss for now.” Nikanor drew Crowley down, his mouth gentle upon Crowley’s lips.

“For now,” Crowley whispered, leaning into the kiss.

Demetrios spotted Nikanor first, noticing that the young man was leaning in close to the tall Ionian, talking in a low voice.

“Hey Tyrimmas, looks like someone didn’t get much sleep last night,” Demetrios grinned, gesturing with a slab of barley bread in hand that he had been carefully dampening with drops of crimson wine from a wineskin. “Shall I say congratulations to our victorious Nikanor?”

“Demetrios!” Tyrimmas elbowed the burly man. “Not in front of...you-know-who.”

“Fine, fine,” Demetrios giggled, shoving a mouthful of wine-soaked barley bread into Tyrimmas’ mouth, before taking a bite from the same piece himself. “Needs more wine.”

“If you didn’t give me the best soaked part, you would have enough-”

“Good morning. I suppose it’s hard to sleep on the open ground when one is not used to it,” Nectanebo said, as if naive and unaware.

“Morning,” Nikanor said, the word nearly swallowed by a massive yawn. “I suppose it’s time to breakfast. Did you get all the food bags down already, Tyrimmas?”

“Yeah, no bears or wolves. And it’s the hungry time of year for bears too, I’m surprised we haven’t seen one yet.”

“I hope it stays that way. A panther is already enough,” Aziraphale added, remembering that he had to make sure to be more careful; with the application of the correct amount of miracles, further mishaps like that should not occur. He joined the others in dampening barley bread with wine. Despite it being a far finer loaf than that which would have been served in the countryside, it was still a fairly rough meal and even soaked with wine, it was certainly not one of Aziraphale’s more favored foods. But he chewed it down nonetheless, pretending to savor it; after all, it was not often that a shepherd would eat from a noble’s table.

At least the wine was good.

“So today you’ll continue to lead the way, good shepherd, and hopefully we’ll get your sheep back from the boar,” Tyrimmas began.

“Actually, don’t you need to get back to your poor flock?” Crowley asked. “Aren’t those sheep sad and scared without you to protect them?”

“Well, I’m certainly glad you’re concerned, Akakios, but it’s all right; after all, I do have brothers and they are tending to the flock while I’m gone.”

“Aren’t they worried for you? I would be if I were your brother,” Crowley gave Aziraphale a pointed look.

“As they are my brothers, they know me well and know that I can handle myself,” Aziraphale said tartly. “I am after all a grown man and capable of caring for myself.”

“That panther yesterday says otherwise…” Crowley pointed out.

“Was that y-?!” And Aziraphale quickly shut his mouth. “Erm, that is, was that a sign from the gods perhaps?”

“Yeah, saying that you should be on your way,” Crowley muttered bitterly.

“M-maybe we should pour some libations for Dionysos,” Tyrimmas suggested quickly, trying to keep the peace. “Since we didn’t properly give him a portion.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Nikanor agreed. “Pour some libations, leave him some cakes, and then we’ll find a spring to refill our waterskins and continue on with the hunt. But first, let’s finish eating.”

Every step crackled with dead leaves, and Crowley wondered if any animal would be foolish enough to hang around, hearing a bunch of humans tromping about like this.

He glanced over at Aziraphale, who was busy avoiding him. At least he was chatting it up with the other two humans, Crowley thought; it was best that the angel avoided the disguised Asmodeus as much as possible.

“You seem to have taken against the shepherd,” Nikanor ventured. “Is something wrong, Akakios? Has he done something to offend you?”

“N-no, nothing’s wrong. Of course not. Koinos is perfectly fine. It’s just...well, we’re putting him out dragging him around the forest to show us where boar dens are, it didn’t seem fair for us to keep him-”

“The shepherd can make his own choices,” Nectanebo said suddenly, and that surprised Crowley, who had grown used to the disguised Asmodeus following silently by his side. “After all, humans have free will and can choose their own destinies.”

“Y-yes, that. That’s true. Free will. Right.” Crowley swallowed, but felt a wave of relief going through him; the Prince of Hell had not caught on that there was an angel in their midst, even with the miraculously summoned food and the Heavenly crown upon Aziraphale’s hand. So Aziraphale’s disguise was still somehow holding up.

Or maybe, was it a feint…?

“Hmm, I see something.” And without warning, Nectanebo moved off the trail, climbing a steep hillside along a meandering trail that was more of a narrow erosion-cut gully than a proper path.

“My lord?” Crowley paused, before following him through dry and crackling brush, dead grasses and stiff shrubs waiting for the winter rains to reanimate. Nikanor doggedly followed Crowley’s footsteps, helping steady him where the trail crumbled uncertain beneath their feet. “Wait, my lord, where are you going?”

But the disguised Prince of Hell said nothing response, quickly making his way up the steep hill without looking back, disappearing into the brush.

Crowley followed until he couldn’t follow, and then Nikanor’s strong supportive arms and his sword helped him through the tangle of scrubby plants up the steep incline.

There was a grove of trees at the top of the hill like a wall, as if a fortification, and Crowley paused, making his way past the ring of trees to find at the center a clearing where an apple tree grew, boughs heavy with golden fruit.

“What is this…?” Nikanor gasped, eyes wide. “How did you find this?”

“I saw a glimpse of it from below. I wonder who planted this,” Nectanebo said, looking around curiously.

“I wonder,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale and the others caught up with them a few minutes later, following jumbled footprints and the rough path they had cut through the brush. “Ah, there you are! Oh, goodness, what a tree!”

Windfall scattered apples, some bruised and others boozy with ferment and still others rotten were scattered all over the bare ground beneath the apple tree where maggots and worms writhed, and there amongst the fallen fruit stood Nectanebo, handing Crowley a golden apple.

“Thank you, my lord.” Crowley said, taking a bite, eyes half-closed at the distinct pleasure of sweet, tart fruit, as crisp and fresh and as cool as the autumn morning.

“Of course, Akakios. And of course, you should have some fruit as well, Nikanor.”

“Yes, but,” Nikanor looked concerned, “we should make an offering first. Who knows what god owns this grove? Perhaps it’s sacred.”

“A single tree hardly constitutes a grove,” Nectanebo said. “An errant seed was probably lost here while someone ate a piece of fruit. Look, there is an old cistern here, all made of stone. Someone years ago must have dropped a seed while drinking here and it sprouted.”

“We could refill our waterskins here,” Nikanor said. “I’m pretty thirsty.”

“And look! We don’t need to go to the boars anymore, they’ll come to us,” Demetrios said, pointing excitedly at the ground. “Fresh tracks and droppings, they can’t be far off from here. I’m certain they’ll come back sooner or later for more fruit, and with so many gone to ferment, it might even slow down the boar a bit, make them drunk enough to be safer to handle. Unless they’re like certain people we know when they get drunk,” Demetrios gave Tyrimmas a knowing look. “You know, the ones that get real loud and rowdy.”

“Yeah, we know more than a few of those,” Tyrimmas replied, giving Demetrios a particular look of his own. “Hopefully it just makes them sleepy, after all fermented apples shouldn’t be too much stronger than the strongest wine?”

“They certainly smell strong,” Demetrios sniffed. "I wonder if you could make wine from apples.”

“Probably, but they’re better eaten fresh,” Tyrimmas replied. “Also, I’m sorry Demetrios, I’m going to have to veto this place as a spot to ambush boar.”

“Why?”

“It’s a terrible place to ambush a boar, unless we’re the ones being ambushed. Look, this hilltop is very small and there’s not a lot of room to maneuver, especially with javelins and spears. We’d be nearly spearing each other or knocking into the trees, if not falling down the hill. About the only way that we could get this to work would be to get in the trees and leave poor Akakios on the ground as if he were bait for a beast. But I don’t think anyone would like that.”

“Oh, I certainly would not like that…” Crowley muttered.

“An intriguing idea,” Nectanebo said. “But I will agree that I won’t allow my dear Akakios to be bait. We’ll have to find a better place.”

“But Demetrios does have a good idea,” Nikanor said. “Given that boars have been here recently, we can track one back to its lair from here. It won’t be hard, especially with fresh tracks.”

“Why don’t you and Tyrimmas pick the boar? The rest of us can pick apples and refill water,” Demetrios suggested. “Come on, Akakios, let’s get to work.”

“Let’s make a sacrifice first,” Tyrimmas said. “After all, we don’t want to be thought of as stealing. Who knows, we wouldn’t want someone to send a dragon after us for our intrusion.”

“Who knows,” Nectanebo agreed.

“Lord Nectanebo, who do you think we should sacrifice to for this bounty?”

“What about...Aphrodite,” the disguised Prince of Hell said, after a thoughtful pause. “After all, she was the one who received the golden apple, wasn’t she?” His eyes lingered on Crowley for a moment. “And of course, we want love and beauty and desire to continue to triumph.”

“Yes, a very good idea,” Nikanor agreed.

Crowley scowled under the weight of several damp waterskins, wondering how the humans were fine carrying these around all day, and then he realized that he had forgotten to pay attention to where Aziraphale was, and much more importantly, where Asmodeus was in relation to where Aziraphale was.

With a stumbling run he ran toward the tree where he saw the distant figure of the two angels, fallen and otherwise, picking fruit.

“This certainly is a lot of apples. I’m amazed that such a tree is here,” Aziraphale smiled, and miraculously, every apple that he picked and gently put in the bag was perfectly ripe without a hint of a blemish or a worm.

“Yes, a rather tempting fruit,” Nectanebo said, and in his hand he held a perfectly golden apple. “Would you like this? This one looks exceptionally good.”

Aziraphale’s expression warmed at the human’s kindness and he reached out to take the fruit from Nectanebo, the smooth unblemished skin beaded with dew that clung to the surface like sparkling jewels.

There was something sharp and predatory just beneath the surface of the human’s smile, and Aziraphale paused. But it went away before Aziraphale could ascertain the expression and the angel decided that he must have imagined it; after all the shifting light beneath the boughs of the tree played tricks on the eye.

“Thank you sir, for the kind offer! Yes, I would very much like one, thank-”

“Why, thank you Lord Nectanebo!” Crowley swooped in, plucking the apple from Asmodeus’ outstretched hand. “I would absolutely like to eat another apple! As always, I’m touched by your generosity and kindness.” He bit into the apple spitefully, and found that to his relief and also disappointment, that it was just an ordinary apple, albeit sweeter and crisper than any ordinary apple had a right to be. “So! Ahem! Shall, I take your place, my lord, so that you can be spared this erm...menial nonsense?”

“I appreciate the concern, Akakios. But picking apples has been an amusing diversion.” Nectanebo rested his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze. “I see you’re not too tired today for the hunt.”

“No, nah, of course I had a good night’s rest, definitely didn’t stay up all night doing...badness knows what. Plenty of rest! Stayed nice and warm! And...hey, I think that’s probably enough apples for now! Got to leave some for the boars and the deer and uh, bears?” Crowley quickly plucked a few more off the tree, shoving them into the sack that Aziraphale was carrying. “I’m sure the boar will roast up quite nice with some apples. B-but first we need a boar-”

He glanced at Aziraphale, who was giving him a very specific sour look that Crowley recognized and without thinking, Crowley raised himself up on tiptoe to pick an apple from high above his head, hoping that it was a delicious one, before handing it to Aziraphale.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to take your apple,” Crowley muttered, but was rewarded with a particularly shy and demure look of pleasure from Aziraphale. The angel took a bite of the apple, sighing at the deliciousness of it and Crowley had to look away before he couldn’t, busying himself with the business of sorting out the water skins in advance of returning them to their respective humans.

“Hey! We think we’ve got one.” Tyrimmas waved as he and Nikanor stood, straightening up from where they had been crouching, studying the ground. Crowley wandered over, picking his way over the apple-strewn ground, handing them their waterskins and Nikanor thanked him before taking a long drink, meeting his eyes.

“Thank you, water-bearer…” Nikanor began.

“Hey, so look at the tracks,” Tyrimmas interrupted, pointing to the ground.

“Oh, interesting. Fascinating. Brilliant,” Crowley said, without meaning it at all. “Erm, what does it mean?”

“Nice and deep, with good sized hooves. I think this one will be perfect. The best of the tracks.”

“You mean, a big one?” Crowley frowned.

“Absolutely, nothing but the best for our friends,” Tyrimmas beamed.

“Oh, I wonder if that’s the one that ran off with my little sheep!” Aziraphale proclaimed.

“Sure ran off with something,” Crowley muttered. “All right, let’s follow these tracks and get it over with.”

As they walked, the humans somehow clustered around Aziraphale, and if Crowley didn’t know any better, this was because Asmodeus wanted to speak to him alone.

“M-my lord?” Crowley ventured, watching the humans walking ahead, chatting merrily with Aziraphale. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“How was your seduction of the human Nikanor? Successful, I gather,” Asmodeus smiled at him, touching a lock of his dark hair with impunity, knowing that the others were distracted.

“Oh yes, very successful. Not hard at all. I mean, there were hard uh, but you know...erm.” Crowley looked a way, embarrassed. “He’s a young human, it wasn’t difficult to know what he desired and...uh, do my part?”

“Excellent. But there is something else that you haven’t disclosed to me, isn’t there?”

“W-what would that be?” Crowley sputtered. “I don’t know of anything else you’d like to know, uh...well last night we did it like...three times? Two and a half? Depends on how you’re counting-”

“No, not that. You seem on rather good terms with the Opposition’s agent.”

“...the...Opposition’s? Agent?” Crowley feigned ignorance. “Wait, you don’t mean Nikanor is the Opposition’s-”

“No, of course not. I mean him. The shepherd.” Asmodeus pointed to Aziraphale.

“Wow, that’s the Opposition’s agent? Really?” Crowley’s jaw dropped, and there was genuinely some some sincerity to that astonishment; frantically, he tried to think back to when Asmodeus might have figured it all out.

“Oh yes. And he seems rather enamored with you.”

“With the lord’s servant Akakios, I am certain, not with, you know. Me. After all, what am I but just an ordinary demon and he’s an angel and it would be utterly ridiculous…”

“Yes, and yet-” Asmodeus paused thoughtfully.

“Wait, when did you know?”

Asmodeus smiled faintly to himself, and Crowley realized that it was foolish to ask; Asmodeus would never have revealed his methods or intentions to him. “Does it matter?

“Nah, it doesn’t matter. That’s dull and stupid is what, any business with Upstairs and their rule enforcers. Come on, my lord, why don’t we ditch these miserable yokels and have some fun for ourselves? This whole business of looking for wild animals is boring me to tears. I can be a nymph to your Apollo. I’ll run but you’ll chase me down, and we can have some fun on our own. Much better fun, the kind you like the best-”

“Nonsense, we’re having so much fun now, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know if I would have called any of this fun,” Crowley muttered.

“Shall I make it so that the humans think he’s the prey? Like Aktaion, torn apart by loyal hounds?”

“T-that seems a bit overkill! I mean, wouldn’t that cause trouble with Upstairs if we discorporated their Representative?”

“Then what if I make him so beguiling to the humans that they can’t resist him? He’ll be their prey, but in a different way.”

“Please, my lord, that would be too...wouldn’t that reveal us to him? After all, he doesn’t know and for the humans to suddenly act strange-”

“No? Then what should we do?”

“Continue to observe and report back regularly as required,” Crowley said a little too quickly, parroting the orders that he had been given. “You know, follow orders.”

“Those don’t sound like any orders I’ve given to you.”

“Ngk! T-they’re not, my lord Asmodeus. A-after all, that was what Lord Beelzebub sent me to do. I mean, besides serve you…”

“You know, I’ve never really asked you in detail about what your relation to the First Prince of Hell is,” Asmodeus murmured, his breath brushing delicately along Crowley’s ear. “Perhaps you should tell me.”

“I just follow orders,” Crowley whispered, trembling, forcing his feet to continue moving even as his knees went weak. “I don’t...I wouldn’t think to plot against you with another Lord of Hell, my lord Asmodeus. Not even with the First Prince.”

“Why should I believe you?” Asmodeus murmured lazily. “When all this time, you’ve been courting the Opposition’s agent before my very eyes.”

“That...that’s part of a preexisting project, my lord. One that you gave me permission to pursue, if you recall. After all, seduction is required before the fall.”

“Then why don’t you properly seduce him?”

“I...it’s not as easy as with a human,” Crowley confessed. “Humans are simpler, their needs are obvious, but angels-”

“Angels don’t experience desire or lust,” Asmodeus’s voice purred and despite the proximity of the humans, of Aziraphale, a part of Crowley just wanted to throw himself into those familiar arms, and feel the rumbling of Asmodeus’ voice through his own body, but the larger part of Crowley hated himself for that fractional part. “At least, they’re not supposed to. I suppose I should commend you for trying though. That business with the apple was the closest I’ve seen an angel exhibit desire, it was very clever.”

“Please, we ought to be more discreet. We shouldn’t talk like this when they’re so close to us,” Crowley said softly. “They can’t know what we know.”

“Certainly not,” Asmodeus agreed. “After all, that knowledge is dangerous.”

“Yeah. Dangerous,” Crowley shivered, his eyes on Aziraphale’s familiar back, and hoped that the hunt would end soon.

Chapter Text

“See, the signs of boar are everywhere here,” Tyrimmas whispered. “Scarred tree trunks from where the boar sharpens its tusks, broken twigs in the undergrowth…this has to be the place.”

Nikanor nodded in agreement. “All right, let’s get set up in this clearing, it’s the most suitable one. Make sure that the ground is cleared of fallen leaves, we don’t want anyone slipping and falling. We’ll need to gather some stones too so don’t just kick those away Akakios. Here pile some up over here and over there. Tyrimmas, you take the left flank and set up over there with some stones. He’ll need more than that, Akakios, and make sure they’re small enough to throw easily but not so small that they wouldn’t even annoy a boar.

“Demetrios, take the right flank. Akakios will take the center- wait, you don’t need stones Akakios, just the boar spear please. Give Tyrimmas your javelin, he’s got a sharp eye. We’ll flank you so that you’ll have backup in case you need it. Lord Nectanebo will stay behind you to your left, close enough so that if the boar breaks the line he can come up and protect you. Wait, further back if you please, Lord Nectanebo, over by that boulder. Yes, right there, thank you.

“I’ll act as scout and tease the boar out of its den. Once it’s out, Demetrios and Tyrimmas will throw stones to distract it and get it into position. Once I get back from the boar’s den, I’ll take your position Demetrios and you’ll retreat behind Akakios to protect his right rear flank. Lord Nectanebo will protect Akakios’ left rear flank.”

“That’s a hell of a plan,” Demetrios made a soft noise of surprise and of appreciation. “What do you think, Tyrimmas?”

“Oh, I think our Nikanor has been putting some serious thought into this plan,” Tyrimmas said, impressed. “Sounds like you’ve been studying war and seriously.”

“Thanks, Tyrimmas, that means a lot coming from you.”

“What about me?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Just try to stay out of the way,” Tyrimmas said politely. “You don’t want to get speared on accident, so stay back. Far back. Climb up on one of those boulders to stay out of the way. Also, I’d like to make an objection to your plan, Nikanor.”

“Yes?”

“Are you sure you want to be the scout? I could do it, or maybe Demetrios. I mean you’ve been yawning all morning…”

“I’ll be fine, I swear,” Nikanor smiled. “After all, I wouldn’t want to let Akakios down.”

“Well, after a night of handling his spear-” Demetrios shut his mouth, seeing Tyrimmas’ glare. “Uh, that is, er... well, if nothing the boar will wake you up, right?”

“Ha, very funny Demetrios. All right, let’s get started. Rocks, come on let’s get some more rocks.”

Crowley stood around, denting the ground with the butt of his spear at various points, working little hollows into the damp ground. Where he found some unyielding stone or root underground, he left the hollow; if not, he covered it with muddy soil with a scrape of his boot.

There, he had a choice of where to plant the spear once the boar came for him.

“Lunge at a point within the shoulderblade, that’ll go for the throat…” Crowley muttered to himself. Was it worth it miracling himself a little bit more speed or strength? The demon glanced at Asmodeus; perhaps it would be better to borrow some power from the Prince of Hell. The demon then glanced at Demetrios, the hulking bear of a human. Then again, even an ordinary demon should be stronger than the average human and plenty of humans hunted boar.

Of course, Crowley didn’t think about how low average might be, especially as the mean is sensitive to outliers like helpless infants and the enfeebled old, which skewed average toward something not near as strong as Crowley imagined. After all, it wasn’t as if even a Principality could safely and easily defeat an exceptionally strong human in wrestling. Just ask whichever angel wrestled Jacob all night. What Crowley should have considered was the median, not the mean.

And besides measures of center, Crowley certainly didn’t think about the kind of men who normally hunted boar, a very tiny subset of the population solely made out of trained warriors and armed gentlemen who exercised strenuously in the palaestra, carried armour into battle, and found killing dangerous wild animals to be a pleasant diversion from the business of killing other human beings. These hunting men were certainly not the average human from any given population of humans.

“Himations!” came the whispered order from Nikanor. Crowley and the other humans unfastened their himations, wrapping the cloth around their left forearms as if a makeshift shield. It didn’t work quite as well as a chlamys would, being rather bulky, but then again, a chlamys was not quite warm enough for this season.

Unlike the others, Nikanor did not do the same. After leaving his boar spear by Demetrios, he walked away, unbelting his sword and setting it down. Nikanor then threw off his himation so that he was stripped down to his chiton, bare limbs not shivering in the least in the chill autumn air. And then to Crowley’s surprise, the human tossed that off too so that he stood bare but for his boots. Built heavier than a runner but not as heavy as a pankratiast, Nikanor’s lean muscular body was as beautifully proportioned as that of a statue of a god with thick muscular legs and firmly rounded buttocks, a trim waist and strong arms and back. Nikanor paused to modestly tie up his foreskin with a soft piece of leather cord before picking up his javelin.

“Ready?” Nikanor asked, and looked about, meeting the eyes of every person to ascertain their readiness. It didn’t take very long but it felt like a lifetime before bright gray eyes full of excitement rested on Crowley.

Crowley nodded his assent and shifted his grip on his boar spear and Nikanor was off, his boots thudding softly on the forest floor as he ran.

Hands tightening on the spear, Crowley grit his teeth as Nikanor disappeared from view.

Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale, who had positioned himself on a boulder behind Demetrios. A good place to be, the demon thought, and if there was any justice in the world, he’d be there too, watching all this nonsense from afar.

But no, here he was, in Hell – figuratively – and at least there would be too much chaos in a few moments for any Hellish or Heavenly agents to bother each other or recognize each other’s signs, and if only Aziraphale would just leave, none of this would-

A rustle. Then another one. And then came a violent crash. Leaves and broken branches burst into the air as the boar came into view, Nikanor a breath ahead of it, running as fast as his feet could carry him.

Massive with impressive tusks upon a hairy body, a bristling black mane standing up all along its back like a jagged mountain ridge, the boar galloped forward in a charge, breath steaming hot in the cold air. The boar tossed its head, trying to gore Nikanor and the young man dodged, dashing toward Crowley in a bone-rattling run. Nikanor glanced back to make sure the boar was following him and when it seemed to hesitate, Nikanor shouted. Twisting as he ran, his javelin thudded into the ground just behind the boar, making it startle and lunge forward again.

“Hold! He’s not close enough yet!” Nikanor shouted as he ran, and Crowley’s eyes darted between the boar and the young man; one slip-up and the young man would be gored to death.

Darting down the trail, Nikanor sprinted toward Demetrios who had two fistfuls of stones ready to throw, but then as Nikanor came rushing into the clearing, suddenly a white form darted forward and the human tripped.

“Baa!” The sheep bawled in protest, getting back on its feet as Nikanor went flying in a crashing tumble.

“Nikanor!” Crowley ran forward with his boar spear to Nikanor’s side.

The boar caught up with Nikanor a breath later, but the plan was all in a disarray; Tyrimmas and Demetrios did their best to try to wing the boar with a stone or two, but it was just too close to Nikanor and neither wanted to risk hurting his friend.

“You bastard, it’s me you want!” Crowley shouted, trying to get the boar’s attention, but in a fury it rushed at the fallen Nikanor, who coming to his senses flatted himself on the ground to keep the boar’s upward-curving tusks from goring him.

“Come on you...stupid mangy boar!” Unable to properly gore the poor human, the boar reared up to trample Nikanor with its hooves.

“Excuse me!” A familiar voice shouted from somewhere to Crowley’s right. “Leave that poor human alone!”

“Oh no…” Crowley muttered, and as if on cue, the boar switched direction and began to charge the unarmed angel who had left the safety of the boulder. “No, no, no, no! Come at me! I’m the one with the spear!” In desperation Crowley chased after the boar, breath panting as he did so, boots sinking into the places where the soil was soft and the ground was crisscrossed by the marks of the boar’s hooves.

“Don’t make me…” Crowley hissed, and with a sharp gesture and the application of some infernal will, the boar suddenly turned the full brunt of its fury upon Crowley.

“Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit...” Crowley gasped, remembering at the last minute to tighten his grip and set his spear to the ground, but this was not where they had planned to meet the boar and the ground here was almost no better than muck. “Shoulderblade…” the demon muttered.

A heartbeat later, the boar was on him, and even as the spear sank deeper into the boar’s body, its hot rank breath snarling before his face, Crowley could feel the butt of the spear sliding, twisting against the soft earth beneath his feet. Desperately he held onto the spear, hoping that it would brace somewhere and he pushed the spear forward as the boar forced itself further onto the spear as if it would gore Crowley as its one last dying desire.

Teeth gritted, breath panting, Crowley squeezed his eyes shut and thrust forward with the spear and a moment later, a juddering motion passed through his entire body, some motion transferred from the boar through to his spear through to his entire being, and Crowley glanced up and it was Asmodeus.

Still in the disguise of the Egyptian king, the Prince of Hell thrust into the boar’s back savagely with his long boar spear, the blade sinking deep into the boar’s body. With a horrible squeal, the boar sank down to its knees, taking both demons down with it.

Collapsed panting against each other, arms slung over the beast to touch one another like two exhausted wrestlers or lovers, the two fallen angels clung to each other in that long moment of spent silence that followed the last shuddering breath of the boar.

Asmodeus leaned forward and murmured into Crowley’s ear.

“That was lovely now wasn’t it darling? Killing together. It’s quite exhilarating. We should do it more often. I’m surprised we hadn’t done this before.”

Crowley gasped, flinching away, stumbling on the blood-slick ground.

“Akakios!” The humans rushed over and helped him up before he could fall into the mud.

“Impressive,” Demetrios slapped Crowley on the back, helping him out of the tangle of his himation around his left forearm that had somehow slipped. “Great job, Ionian! Didn’t think you had it in you, but you did it!”

“Yes, you certainly did. Look, this is a heart-piercing blow,” Tyrimmas pointed to Crowley’s spear. “Your master’s spear helped some, but it only went through the right lung from the back here. See? Missed the heart entirely.”

“Yay,” Crowley said blankly, stumbling away from the corpse and sitting down heavily on a flat boulder.

“It takes some time to recover but you did splendidly,” Nikanor beamed. Scratched and bleeding from many little wounds and limping just a bit, Nikanor draped Crowley’s himation back over his thin form, pinning the cloth in place with the fibula and adjusting the drape of the fabric around Crowley’s shoulders so that it hung beautifully, though along his back and not over bare arms that felt like they were cold and getting colder. Nikanor pressed a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “I’m proud of you, that was beautiful work there. You did everything right.”

“Sure. Right. Everything is. Beautiful,” Crowley muttered, wondering why his hands were so sticky and then realizing that they were covered in blood. His right forearm was splattered and slicked crimson. Droplets clung to his clothes, his hair, and if he could do anything about it, he would have miracled it all away with a gesture.

But that would give him away to the humans, so instead Crowley sighed heavily, wiping a bead of blood from his hair where a lock had fallen over his face, plastered to his skin with sweat.

“Well, that was a thing,” Crowley stood up shakily. “Thanks guys, for the hunting trip. For the help. For protecting me.” His eyes lingered upon Asmodeus before turning to Aziraphale. “Hey, shepherd human, look. There’s your little sheep, that almost got Nikanor killed. But it’s safe and in one piece. And hey, even Nikanor is walking and alive. You can go home now too shepherd. We can all go home. Fantastic adventure. Lots of good times. I’ll remember it for ages, a happy ending for us all, eh? Mission accomplished.”

The boar glared at him with dead black eyes.

“Don’t worry about it so much, Nikanor. He’s just a little shaken up, he’ll get over it,” Tyrimmas said, patting Nikanor’s back. “There, nothing broken, though you’ve got some epic bruises coming in. Are you okay?”

“I don’t think he’s killed so much as a bird or a hare, now that I think of it. I’ve been hunting with him before, he seems to be more interested in conversations and walking around the forest than participating,” Nikanor said ruefully, glancing over at Crowley, his expression full of concern. “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea. I don’t even know why boar hunting came up – my original idea was to have him over for supper at my house, just the two of us and I’d hire a musician, someone to play the kithara and sing...”

“I don’t remember, we were drinking and it seemed like a good idea?” Demetrios shrugged.

“And I don’t know what the custom is in Ionia,” Nikanor continued, “but perhaps they’re not accustomed to-”

“Oh, they’re definitely softer than us here. I don’t think that the boys even have to kill a boar to be called men,” Demetrios agreed. “But you wouldn’t have known, it’s fine. He’ll be fine. After all, he did come back here to try to be more like a Macedonian like his father before him. What’s more Macedonian than hunting and hunting boar?”

“Well, let’s give him some space and some strong wine, he’ll feel better soon enough. At least you got him cleaned off,” Tyrimmas put his arm around Nikanor, giving him a squeeze – albeit very carefully. “How are you feeling?”

“Yeah, Nikanor. That was a hell of a fall. I’m surprised you’re still walking, I thought you would have broken your neck.”

“Just bruised and scratched, but hardly that at all. The shepherd gave me some ointment that made most of the worst of it go away. I’ll have to ask him what the recipe is, it works really well-”

Somewhere, a bird was singing, and Crowley wondered why it was that a nightingale was singing so loudly.

“Nothing to sing about, is there?” Crowley muttered to himself.

Crowley glanced over at the humans as they worked on butchering the boar, readying it for sacrifice. Damp and shivering from washing up, he stared at the soggy dark stains upon his black chiton and upon his himation where the blood had splattered him. He had tried washing it off, but that just seemed to leave the fabric even blacker.

He put his head in his hands with a sigh. If only it were so easy that it could all be over.

“Are you all right, Crowley?” Aziraphale came to his side with the wineskin. “You seemed a little...shaken up there.”

“Yeah, well. You’d be too if you had to stab the entire life out of some poor animal. It’s easier to just eat them whole,” Crowley muttered.

“My dear, I doubt even you could eat a boar whole. Here, have a drink.”

“No, that’s not the point. Guess it doesn’t make any difference…” Crowley muttered to himself and took the wineskin, drinking deeply. He made a face; it was unmixed and as sweet and strong as a wine could get; this must have been the good stuff they had saved to make libations with. He took another swig before sealing and setting the wineskin aside. “Wine’s wine right? Even if it’s neat.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. And why would I eat a boar whole? It’s too big. Give me a fish or a frog or even a hare, that’s a better meal. An entire boar, who would ever do that…”

“No one, I suppose.” Aziraphale’s expression softened, some of the worry falling away.

“Say,” Crowley said, looking up at Aziraphale from where he had been hunched over his knees. “Why are you still here? Aren’t you...concerned?”

“About what?” Aziraphale asked, and the naivete in that voice, the innocence in that expression was such that Crowley wanted to throttle the poor angel or at least shake him until common sense returned to that delectable celestial body.

“About...all the strangeness. Doesn’t that want to make you leave?”

“Ah ha! So you are admitting to...to demonic mischief?!”

“No. It wasn’t me, I swear. I’m just trying to...it’s not…and, and besides, what have you been doing? With the sheep-”

“The sheep?” Aziraphale looked genuinely dumbstruck, confused.

“Yes, the sheep! You almost killed Nikanor with your stupid sheep business. He could have broken his neck falling like that. It’s a miracle he didn’t.”

“Crowley, that wasn’t me, the sheep just walked out of the woods on its own and besides, he only cracked a few bones that I healed- Wait, about Nikanor: you really shouldn’t lead him on like that, the poor human genuinely loves you. And you know you can’t get involved with a human like that.”

“Or with anyone,” Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

Aziraphale paused, startled, his eyes meeting Crowley’s and there he saw something strange in the demon’s expression, golden eyes showing a hint of pain that Crowley seemed desperate to hide and there was some familiarity to it that stirred a memory in Aziraphale but without jostling it loose, some flash of remembered emotion that filled Aziraphale with an unsettling sense of unease.

Taking a moment to breathe, Aziraphale continued. “T-that’s beside the question. Why won’t you leave that poor human alone, he doesn’t deserve to be manipulated like this, Crowley. It’s absolutely unfair to him.”

“I know.” Crowley made a sound of frustration. “It’s not fair to anyone.”

“Then why didn’t you back off when you could have? Let him have his relationships with other humans, as they’re meant to be. Now you’ve got to deal with him-”

“Aziraphale, just...just leave it be! Don’t get involved.”

“Why? What are you hiding? You’ve been acting so strange-”

“I wish you could understand, I really-”

And at those words, it seemed that the atmosphere around them suddenly grew colder and colder, until it seemed that the air itself froze. The light of the midday sun seemed to subtly darken as if a sheer black veil had been drawn over it and Crowley gasped and stood up, stumbling away from Aziraphale, trying to get away from him as fast as possible but at the same time staying as close as he safely could beside the angel.

Their eyes met briefly and Aziraphale saw a flash of fear in those brilliant golden eyes. Crowley whispered something, but the demon spoke so quickly and quietly that Aziraphale did not hear it clearly.

But he had caught a glimpse of the movement of Crowley’s lips as they formed the words before the demon turned away from him.

I’m sorry.

Chapter Text

A ringing silence engulfed the world in a shroud of unreality. It seemed that whatever the three humans were doing nearby gradually faded until it was no more than the background radiation of the universe, existing but unremarkable and unimportant.

“W-what’s going on, Crowley? What are you doing?”

“Nothing! I’m not doing anything, it’s not me-”

“Let me grant you your wish, my darling,” Asmodeus said as he appeared, striding slowly to Crowley’s side, the disguise of the Egyptian melting off in pieces as if a wavering mirage. “You wanted the angel to understand, didn’t you?”

“I...Crowley?!” Aziraphale gasped. “What-”

“Who, rather. Allow me to introduce myself. After all, we’ve never been formally introduced, have we? We have only met like this once before, briefly, at a party in Athens.”

With a choked cry Aziraphale took an unintentional step backwards, trembling so hard that he could feel his teeth clicking together.

“Asmodeus, Second Prince of Hell, Lord of Serpents, the Demon of Lust…” Asmodeus paused, reaching out to Aziraphale to offer the angel his hand as the humans did. “I’m sure there are more titles but let’s not stand on formality here. After all, we’ve broken bread more than once and we are all friends now, aren’t we?”

Eyes darting between Crowley and Asmodeus, Aziraphale backed away, hands clutched against his chest. “Crowley? Did you...did you know-”

Asmodeus smiled at Crowley, beckoning him and resigned, Crowley moved into the Prince of Hell’s outstretched arm with the ease of familiarity.

“Good job, darling. You fooled the pathetic angel.” Asmodeus leaned down, kissing Crowley deeply.

“It wasn’t hard, my lord,” Crowley said, drawing back. He hated every word that came out of his mouth, but managed a weak smile for the Prince of Hell all the same. “He’s very gullible.”

Hot, stinging tears sprang up in Aziraphale’s eyes, blurring his vision. “N-no, you can’t...this can’t be-” And a whirl of memories smeared before Aziraphale: Crowley furtively stopping time every time they met, the fibula breaking at the feast so many months ago, the panther and the apple tree and his lost ring and the sheep and the men that followed him in court and the Nephilim child and-

“Oh yes, this is all very real. It has been so amusing, hasn’t it?” Asmodeus drew Crowley against his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the demon’s forehead. “Look, my darling one, that poor angel. He can’t help it, can he?”

“Help what, my lord?” Crowley’s voice quavered, but he just barely managed to sound casual.

“Loving you.”

For an instant, both Crowley and Aziraphale stared at each other in shocked disbelief, but Asmodeus did not notice and continued.

“That is a flaw built into all angels. They can’t help but love. Should I choose to spend my time with him, he would grow to love me too, even unwillingly. And yet, you feel nothing for him, don’t you, darling? Just as you should.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” Crowley said softly, looking away from Aziraphale. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“Poor little Angel. You can see his little heart breaking. I can almost hear it, snapping like dry bone crushed underfoot. But it’s too bad for you, Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate, because his heart belongs to me,” Asmodeus hissed. “You’re very clever to try to win it, with all these secret meetings. So tender and loving, as an Angel should be. But you’ll never take what’s mine.”

“Never,” Crowley agreed, his voice a broken whisper, turning his face to Asmodeus’ shoulder so he did not have to face Aziraphale.

Aziraphale said nothing, standing in stunned, shaking silence.

The unnatural quiet seemed to echo with the stillness that fell between them, and it was so quiet Aziraphale could hear the blood rushing through his body, the electric pulse of his nervous system.

But he could hear Crowley’s jagged breathing, even from here.

“Now what? Shall I forbid you access to my Companion? After all, this one has been my closest and dearest friend since the Fall. The one constant source of enjoyment in the darkness of Hell, who has proved unwavering loyalty again and again since the very beginning.” The golden crown of Asmodeus’ serpent ring shone as bright as a burning star against the dark backdrop of Crowley’s hair.

Aziraphale scrubbed at rebellious tears that fell from his eyes, not knowing if they were from anger or grief, and spoke in a voice thick with pain. “Do what you must, Most Unholy Prince of Hell Asmodeus,” Aziraphale snarled. “It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?”

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could cover his ears as well.

“No, that would be too easy.” Asmodeus’ fingers played through the long locks of Crowley’s curling hair. “I want to make it hurt.”

Aziraphale swallowed hard.

“I’ve been watching what you’ve been up to, Angel. You tried to take what was mine. But since my Companion seems to find you amusing, I suggest you continue your little meetings. It’s sanctioned, entirely. In fact, I’m ordering it so. Keep meeting with him, darling. And Angel, I give you my permission to keep trying to court him.” Asmodeus’ mouth was twisted in a sneering smile. “Crowley is beautiful and charming; why wouldn’t you want him? Even the humans desire him.”

“W-what about you?” Aziraphale squared his shoulders. “Why are you even here? A Prince of Hell doesn’t just...get involved in human affairs like this-”

“What has the world come to,” Asmodeus laughed – and there was a sharp edge of bitterness in that dark humor – “that a Principality would dare to question an Archangel?”

“You...you’re not-”

“Am I not?” Asmodeus held up his left hand, the golden crown shining brilliant upon his finger, as pure as it had been when it was forged in Heaven by the Creator. “A fallen Archangel is still an Archangel. I’m surprised that you weren’t also thrown out of Heaven. Perhaps you knew better than to open your mouth back then? Or were you just too cowardly to question your betters.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably on his feet, but did not look away.

“Lowly Angel, who is a fallen Cherubim yourself – what makes you think that I am limited by petty rules?” Asmodeus smiled coldly, and the fiery pressure of his infernal will beat down upon both angels, fallen and otherwise. “I make my own rules.”

Aziraphale trembled but stood his ground. “What are your terms then, Prince Asmodeus?”

“Keep meeting. Keep up those little lunches and dinners and drinking parties. You can try your best, but you’ll always know he’s mine.” Asmodeus’ arm tightened around Crowley’s waist, pulling him close. “And that you’ll never have him. Crowley is loyal only to me. He’ll stay by my side forever. He loves only me, isn’t that right, my darling?”

“Yes, my lord,” Crowley whispered, eyes fixed Asmodeus. “It’s as you say.”

Aziraphale’s eyes looked away from Crowley. Somewhere in the distance upon a tree, a bird was singing, even though he could not hear it. But he could see its throbbing throat and as he imagined its warbling song, it sang a silent song that only he could hear.

“And now...let’s get on with our lives, shall we? We can’t spend all day chatting while we have work to do. You should get moving, Angel. After all, you’ll need some time to put yourself back in order to play Nanny Melita, don’t you? I’ll see you when we return to court.”

“Y-yes,” Aziraphale said, between gritted teeth.

Gradually reality came back, first with the gentle shiver of wind through the trees and the song of the nightingale gradually faded as well as the bird flew away, startled by some unknown, unseen force.

Slowly, slowly, Asmodeus moved away from Crowley, his hands lingering on the demon’s form before he stepped away completely, taking back on his disguise as the Egyptian Nectanebo with hardly a rustle in the fabric of reality.

“Dear Akakios, you should go sit by the fire,” Nectanebo was saying, and Crowley felt like it took a little too long before he understood that he was being addressed and what was being said. “Your clothes are all damp from washing up and you don’t want to catch cold.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice an ugly rasp and he stumbled, shaking all over as he wandered toward the newly-kindled fire. “Will do, lord. Heading over right now. O-oi, Nikanor! Do you want some wine too? I think it needs some water...too strong.”

“Of course, there’s some in my water skin if you want to mix it in the wineskin directly, it’s spring water from earlier. Did you want an apple, Akakios? I finally had one and they’re very good. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be the one who offered you an apple first. But I suppose Lord Nectanebo was there before me…”

Tear-filled eyes following Crowley, Aziraphale looked firmly away from the disguised Prince of Hell and went to find the sheep. It would need to be returned to its flock before he could get back to court. And he’d have to leave soon, it probably wouldn’t do to spend another night out without warning. Aziraphale wondered if the excuses he had left the other nannies with had been good enough, a visit to an ill family member outside of Pella. Perhaps Melita had fallen ill while traveling; the weather had been strange lately, going from dry and windy to damp and still without warning.

Aziraphale wandered through the forest clearing away from the humans, away from everyone. There was something nice about being alone, almost comforting, and he wondered if he dared to take a moment to have a Moment.

The desire to run, to hide as a wounded animal might, in the deep reaches of the forest where no one human nor divine could reach him was so strong but no, it was too dangerous. Not with two demons lurking nearby.

He dared not show any weakness, not before the Opposition.

With a gesture, Aziraphale’s tears were gone.

The angel set his thoughts aside and focused on finding the sheep. Aziraphale found it bleating inconsolably from where it was caught on a thorn bush, unable to struggle free. He carefully untangled it and patted its woolly head, and it baa-ed at him softly in gratitude.

“Where did you come from?” Aziraphale wondered. “Were you kidnapped? Or created? Can an Archangel or a Prince of Hell do that? Create an entire sheep from nothing? After all, there was that island and those fruit trees, a long time ago...maybe that apple tree was of his making too?”

The sheep looked at him curiously, and Aziraphale shut his mouth suddenly, wondering if Asmodeus had overheard his musings.

“Come on, let’s go.” A tough hemp rope appeared in Aziraphale’s hands, and he made a slipknot in it, looping it gently around the sheep’s neck. “Let’s get you at least safely out of these woods. I’ll get you home soon enough. Well, to a home. It might not be your flock but it will be a flock nonetheless.”

The sheep gazed up at him with trusting brown eyes.

And then Aziraphale sighed, feeling his shoulders slump. As much as he wanted to disappear, he realized he couldn’t leave like this, not without at least thanking his human hosts for their hospitality. So he gently nudged the sheep forward, and the sheep trotted at his side, following him obediently back to camp.

“Oh hey Koinos, you found your sheep!” Demetrios cheered.

“Safe and sound and in one piece.” Tyrimmas was impressed despite himself; the human had not thought that this was a possible outcome.

“Thank you for all your help today,” Nikanor smiled. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Suppose you’d best be on your way before dark,” Crowley began. “Us too, if we want to sleep in our own beds tonight-”

“Come now, Akakios.” the disguised Prince of Hell smiled sweetly. “Koinos here has done some good work and it’s not yet even noon. Even if you need to go soon Koinos, you shouldn’t miss the sacrifice and the feast.”

“Oh yes, please sup with us, Koinos, you’re our honored guest,” Nikanor beamed. “We’ll also have a proper feast in Pella too once we return, and if you would join us there we would also be honored.”

“After all, you helped us find this boar. Stay and eat, I’m almost done getting the cooking set up! Please don’t leave so soon.”

“Let’s give Koinos the seat of honor! Uh, that’s if you don’t mind, Akakios.”

“No, no, wouldn’t mind at all, it’s fine. It’s totally, utterly fine...everything is just fine...”

Hands curled into fists, the rough rope biting into his palms, Aziraphale smiled politely and said all the right things as he wondered how he could have been fooled so thoroughly.

Chapter Text

True to Crowley’s word, there was a winding path near the harbor that overlooked the docks from where they could watch the boats loading and unloading. But now there were only the occasional fishing boats that dared the choppy waters; all the big merchant ships had been moored for the winter.

An icy rain misted down upon the docks, and there did not seem to be any distinction between sky and sea; it looked all like a gentle gray blur and it was so cold that even Aziraphale could tell that the air would be painful to breathe. And yet, it did not affect him, did not move him the way it moved the humans.

Oh, or Crowley. Mustn’t forget Crowley.

The demon was late, and seemed to come reluctantly, without the swagger or eagerness of the past, hidden in the folds of his himation as if he could disappear entirely into the mass of black cloth.

“You’re late.”

“I know,” Crowley said. “I’m sorry.”

His leather boots were soaking in the rain and if it was any other time, Aziraphale would have been tempted to dry off the poor demon. But that felt like ages ago, and another Aziraphale, one who was a stranger to him.

And perhaps another Crowley.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” Aziraphale looked away. “Hmph, I thought you would be pleased at making me wait out here in the rain.”

“No. I’m not. It wasn’t intentional, I was held up at court and-” The words seemed to come painful, and Crowley shrugged in a gesture of defeat. “What can I...I can’t make it up to you, can I?”

“How would you? It’s time I’ll never get back.”

“No. I suppose not. No, if…” Crowley sighed, the slouch of his tall figure drooping further. “If you want we can stop doing this.”

“And displease your master? I wouldn’t dare,” Aziraphale said archly.

“I deserve that,” Crowley said. “But...you know. I can’t. I can’t disobey. I mean, I couldn’t...even if I wanted to. Even if that was what I wanted most in the world. And I’m not saying it was what I really wanted the most, because...well, I- I can’t say it, it would be treason.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale’s breath caught, and the pain that he thought had faded with the weeks that had passed since the hunt came back as sharp as ever, cutting through him in the way that he imagined an icy wind would.

“What else could I have done? Even if I wanted to, I can’t choose you. You...you must know that, right?”

Aziraphale said nothing, his lips pursed in a tight line, but he nodded, just a tiny bit, and was it tears or rain that filled his eyes, blurring the hazy drizzling world even more?

“That’s why we can’t. I mean, why I can’t. You have to understand. I...I owe him everything, Aziraphale. Since that time, since.” Crowley scowled, hating the words. “Since the Fall.”

“Which you speak of so casually with all sorts of humans, but not me.” Aziraphale couldn’t help himself.

“It’s different with you. They couldn’t understand even half of it. They don’t even know what it is. But with you-” Crowley’s throat tightened. “You...understand. Even though you couldn’t know what it was like…”

“Why, because I’m not a demon?”

“Yes, exactly. You couldn’t have understood what we went through. But even if you’re not...like me. I know you understand other things and-” Crowley sighed. “I can’t get the words out, all right? I can’t. I don’t even know what to say. I just wish you had just left well enough alone. That this had never happened. If you hadn’t...insisted on staying, he might not have-”

“But you were going to keep him from me forever, weren’t you?”

“Yes, that was the plan! Because...who knows what he would have done to you?” Crowley’s voice was raised to a shout, and it disturbed the seagulls clustered around the docks hoping for a free meal from the humans, sending them into flight. “To us? This is exactly what I was trying to avoid – you don’t understand him like I do – he manipulated this entire situation to-”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice tight. “You know that there is no ‘us’.”

Crowley flinched, golden eyes wide with horror before crushing resignation fell over him like storm clouds blackening the sky. “Right. Yeah. I know. Sorry.”

“I thought perhaps for a moment that we had our own side. That we both stood together against...well, I don’t know what we were standing against. But it was nice to pretend that we could stand together, even for a moment. What was I thinking?” Aziraphale smiled, thoughtful and sad. “Delusions, I suppose. Silly, foolish dreams that were just what they were: dreams. An angel and a demon, really. It’s laughable. I don’t know how I could have fooled myself into this impossible fantasy.”

Crowley turned to stare at Aziraphale in disbelief and as he did so the fold of his himation that had covered his head fell about his shoulders. Cold misting rain beaded upon that dark hair, like handfuls of tiny scattered gems in a shimmering halo about Crowley’s head.

Stars gleaming through the veil of crimson interstellar dust and the image was so briefly clear to Aziraphale that for a moment it seemed that all the world was the stillness of space, but then reality came back as it always did, water dripping down his hands, his face, soaking into his clothing.

“...please angel, nothing has to change, nothing has changed. You’ve always known he was there, and he’s known you were there-”

“I think something has, even if the circumstance hasn’t,” Aziraphale said polite and calm, with a cool careful smile professionally plastered to his face.

“Wait, Aziraphale, listen-”

“So for now I suppose we should get down to business. The fundamental agreement between our sides is for there to be balance. As such, in the interests of fairness I thought I would extend a minor courtesy to the Opposition-”

“Right, what is it?” Crowley scowled, arms hugging himself tight.

“Ahem, if you will let me continue. Before I submit my formal report, I was wondering how I should be describing this Prince of Hell business to Upstairs. Is he entertaining the notion of laying down arms between our sides to balance things off? After all, there are two of you and only one of me. As is, the correct thing to do would be to put in a request to bring in an Archangel of equivalent rank-”

“That won’t be necessary. He’s already held back his powers.”

“Then you’re saying all that nonsense with the weather and the panther and such was your doing?”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “If you are asking me officially as the Representative on Earth for the Opposition, then yes, that was all me.”

“I didn’t know you could manipulate the weather,” Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Crowley said lightly, and immediately regretted it, knowing that he had said the wrong thing and not just the wrong thing, but the worst possible wrong thing.

“I see.” Aziraphale’s face went blank. “Ahem. Then I suppose the detente stands. I won’t need to formally request additional support from Upstairs. Even though I’d like to see what someone like Michael would do to your precious-”

“I wish you would understand.”

“Then tell me what I don’t understand.”

“I. I...can’t,” Crowley said, slowly pressing his face into both hands, and if Aziraphale didn’t know better, the demon was trembling all over. “I’m sorry. I can’t...”

“Then we are at an impasse,” Aziraphale said, and the two stood staring out at the obscured sea for a long time in a stiff uncomfortable silence, before the cold and wet got the better of Crowley, who trudged back to the palace alone.

Aziraphale stood watching the boats that did not come nor leave, and if it were tears or rain that ran down his cheeks, no one but him could have known.

Overnight, it began to snow.

Chapter Text

Pella, 346 B.C.

“...and you will have that protection for him, as you requested. It shall be done. I will allow you to continue possession of the demon Crawley, but only in name. You will retain your official title as his supervisor even as you relinquish your hold on him and the rest of your court.”

“Yes, my lord.” Head bowed, knee bent upon the pebbled mosaic floor, Asmodeus spoke extremely softly so as not to be heard by anyone else. The Prince of Hell felt the thunderous wave of infernal will pass over his own, pressing down upon him as if the crushing pressure of a vast churning ocean, dwarfing his powers as if he were nothing but a minor demon, a collared hell-hound pacing on the taut iron chain of its master. It was a voice that did not need to be uttered and made no audible sound, but it was one that he could feel through every particle of his being. “Thank you my lord. I wanted to make certain of that before finalizing our agreement.”

“Then do you accept?”

“I have a few tasks left here on Earth before I am ready.” Asmodeus stared at the golden serpent ring upon his hand, at the tangled circlet of gold and the little scales incised upon the sinuous turns, intricate and detailed. He closed his right hand over his left, obscuring the ring. “But once I am ready I will serve you and only you, wholly.”

“You may complete your tasks, but do not linger. After all, you know what I expect, and I will not be patient forever.” The silent voice passed through him like a pulsing wave, and Asmodeus bent his head demurely, staring at the geometric swirl of the mosaic floor and it seemed as if the whole world wavered in his vision, such was the power that inhabited him.

“Absolute loyalty,” the Prince of Hell whispered. “To you and no one else.”

“Yes. Now go. I await your arrival.” And the voice disappeared, and the weight of that fiery infernal will passed from him and Asmodeus looked up, shaken, feeling his being emptied again and the solitude of what was inside this apportioned shell of a body seemed oddly hollow.

He looked up. The room was empty, and Crowley was away today. It would be lesson time for the little Prince. Or perhaps Crowley went out hunting with the young men. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter; all that mattered was that his lovely Companion was somewhere else, occupied with something else.

Asmodeus looked at the shadows and light as the sun moved through the sky and realized it was time to go.

The world fluttered around him as reality bent to his will, and immediately he was somewhere else.

A stir of dust. The wind that came off the ocean crashed against the edges of a crumbling wall and twisted itself into a miniature maelstrom, scattering dead husks of insects and rustling the drought-parched grasses that had long since died. Under the searing sunlight where the glaring heat distorted reality itself, a celestial being paused to look at a skull.

Human, and there was an irregular break in the still-attached spine where it had been severed from the neck with many poorly aimed blows. Asmodeus picked it up and looked at it with cold, disinterested eyes. Yellow with dust like the rest of this sunburnt world, the skull had been picked clean by scavengers who had left scrapes and toothmarks upon the sun-bleached bone, broken teeth half-rotted out of its head. It must have caused the owner so much pain when it was still alive, and yet that meant nothing to the Prince of Hell as he tossed it lightly aside.

The skull shattered when it crashed into the ground. Michael kicked aside a piece with a grimace.

“Your type do like graveyards, don’t you?”

“Where else shall we meet? The agora? The theater? Perhaps a symposium?” Asmodeus smirked. “Shall we share a couch, lovely Angel? Have some wine? Some fruit? I know a place where beautiful golden apples grow...”

“No, of course not!” Michael flinched at the thought. “B-because there would be too many humans.”

“Exactly.” Asmodeus watched the angel’s reactions with amusement. “And so we are left with the wild places.”

“This is more of a graveyard than a wild place.”

“Then pick a better location, one that suits you more,” Asmodeus began, and then shrugged it off. “Actually, that won’t be necessary.”

“Why? What are you hiding?”

“Nothing. But there is to be a change of plans,” Asmodeus explained. “This official back channel is to be no more.”

“Wait, what?” Michael gasped. “You can’t do that!”

“Oh I can and I will. This is to be our last meeting, my dear Archangel.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I won’t be seeing you again.” Asmodeus smiled faintly. “It seems my days here are numbered. You’ll have to find someone else to involve in your future schemes. If in fact someone Upstairs and higher ranked hasn’t already figured out that certain tasks can’t be trusted to you nor to anyone else.”

Michael flushed a blotchy shade of pink that stained even the golden shimmer upon noble cheekbones.

“You’re wrong. Gabriel still trusts me, he’d be a fool not to trust me. I only did what was right to maintain the balance. This was all for the greater good-”

“Hmm, yes, of course. By asking a Prince of Hell to stymie Heaven’s machinations. I’m so certain that involving Hell to thwart Heaven’s plans is always for the greater good,” Asmodeus said, in a voice tinged with irony.

“You don’t understand. The Great Plan-”

“People rarely understand, do they?” Asmodeus paced a gentle circle around the Archangel. “Word to the wise, dear Archangel. Next time they won’t involve you, not at all. You won’t know when they make another Nephilim, because they won’t tell you. If you can’t be trusted with it, they can’t tell anyone. And it won’t be a matter of trying to create one. They’ll do it entirely without you.”

“Nonsense, Gabriel hardly ever leaves Heaven and never leaves it unaccompanied-”

“And when he goes by himself for the first time, you might not get him back,” Asmodeus met Michael’s pale shimmering blue eyes, eyes that seemed to reflect the light of Heaven itself. “Reality has a way of doing that to angels. Not everyone is like you, completely devoid of desire, of interest in the world. If you must know, once an angel gets a taste for human life and human things, they rarely want to return.”

“No, we’re not all demons like you, tempted by human things,” Michael spat, offended, saying that word as if it were an epithet, a curse. “And is...is that why you haven’t left? Why you’re still here?”

“Oh come now, Archangel. Did you already forget our little talk from last time? I told you it was a personal matter. But I did find it interesting that you sent your agent to me without letting him know I was here.”

“Oh, Aziraphale.” Michael waved off Aziraphale’s existence with an absent gesture. “It wasn’t important. I know he’s safe with you.”

“Are you so sure?” He reached out, fingers brushing the short-cropped hair at the back of Michael’s neck caressingly. “Are you so sure any of you are safe with me?”

Michael gasped, pulling away, fingers rubbing at the back of an elegant, stately neck. “I...I know that you believe in the balance too. Otherwise you wouldn’t have agreed to be involved. Which means you wouldn’t dare harm or discorporate our agent.”

“True, very true.” Asmodeus conceded. “Perhaps you understand me better than I thought.”

“Of course I do. Demons are simple,” Michael said airily. “Almost as simple as humans.”

“I hope that your faith in that holds true.” Asmodeus met Michael’s eyes with an amused look that had a sharp edge of irritation behind it. “Why did you want to speak to me? It’s not time yet for our usual appointed meeting, and I just saw you recently. Hardly any time has passed at all.”

“Ahem. I was informed that your agent was involved in some...antics with ours. Something about a panther. I was asked to follow up on this, to see if our agent required backup. I would see to it personally.”

“I’m surprised that you thought this should warrant an entire meeting between management,” Asmodeus said, guessing at Michael’s intent. The Archangel tried to look away from Asmodeus, but those wary blue eyes kept skating back toward the figure of the Prince of Hell, and Asmodeus smiled to himself.

“This is about our agent’s welfare and safety-”

“That won’t be necessary. My subordinate does tend toward mischief, that’s true, but it’s not worth an Archangel’s time to get involved. Merely a harmless prank, that’s all. No one was hurt, not even a human.”

“Oh.” And if Asmodeus didn’t know better, the Archangel seemed almost disappointed.

“I’m sorry, did you want to cross blades again, as we did during the War?” Asmodeus’ green eyes brightened with interest. “Or is it something else? I can make room on my supper couch for you at the next party, if that’s what you desire. You can drink wine from my cup too or bed my Companion. In fact, we could both bed Crowley together; I don’t mind sharing, not if it’s with you. After all, we’ve already shared a Queen.”

“N-no, no! Absolutely not! And-and that was different, we weren’t there at the same time-”

“Oh, I know. I remember it extremely well.” Asmodeus licked his lips. “It was thrilling, I could still smell you on her, taste you upon her skin. Every inch of that body, nearly glowing with the blessing you bestowed upon her womb. I’m surprised I wasn’t destroyed, tainting that beautiful young body. The things I do in the name of balance between our sides...”

“Of course I would much rather be in Head Office. I have no interest in Earth,” Michael stammered, trying hard to ignore Asmodeus’ words. “I just wanted to warn you, we won’t take kindly to overstepping boundaries with our agent. He is not to be harmed.”

“I’m certain you care deeply for your agent,” Asmodeus lied.

“Absolutely,” Michael lied. “We have a great deal of concern for all our angels.”

“Heaven has sent us quite a formidable opponent. He is above temptation and has been giving my agent quite a difficult time. It almost makes me want to get involved, the poor darling.”

“Know that if you do, I will have no choice but to get involved,” Michael stated, every word cold and fierce. “And I won’t be as forgiving as you would think.”

“Certainly. I’m glad we’ve cleared up this matter.”

“Yes, but about the back channel-”

“Figure out your own back channel. You’re a clever Angel.”

Michael shot Asmodeus a glare. “Let me remind you that both sides need an official back channel for accounting purposes.”

“Darling, you know I couldn’t close this back channel on my own. Did you think I could do such a thing on a whim? As if I had free will? Your superiors have already agreed to the decision.”

Michael gasped. “What?”

“Like I said. They’ll make decisions without you from now on. Face it, Angel, you’re on the outs.”

“I...I am not!” Michael protested, but looked up nervously, as if Heaven could be seen from here. “You’re wrong. I’ll check with Gabriel-”

“And he’ll deny any knowledge of a back channel,” Asmodeus said smoothly. “As far as he’s concerned, it never existed.”

“But how will I get the accounting?” Michael sounded miserable, almost pathetic. “Neither side can function without it.”

“Hmph...I might suggest that you continue to meet with Ligur. After all, you’re familiar with him already, and he’s quite reliable.”

“And not a Prince of Hell?” Michael asked, boldly.

“You said it yourself: you prefer to stay Upstairs. Sending a Duke means you can send someone else, like a Cherubim to do this dirty work of mucking around on Earth, getting your hands dirty just to pick up some documentation. Here, where dust can brush up against your robes and the wind can be so insolent as to touch your hair and all of the bare skin of your body…it’s quite obscene, isn’t it?”

Michael made a face of disgust. “Reality is horrid.”

Asmodeus laughed. “And yet, it is our responsibility to see to it that all of this reality runs perfectly well until it doesn’t and it’s all destroyed. It has been a pleasure, my dear Archangel. Perhaps someday we truly will cross swords again. Or share a couch.” Asmodeus offered his hand, and without thinking, Michael grasped it.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Michael said icily, squeezing Asmodeus’ hand with vicious determination, wanting to hurt him.

“Another time, perhaps. Of course, we won’t be counterparts then.” Asmodeus moved to bring Michael’s hand up to his lips, but the Archangel stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“Oh by then, I’ll outrank you by degrees,” the Prince of Hell said lightly. And without warning, Asmodeus dragged Michael close, stealing a kiss from the archangel’s golden lips. At the touch of infernal lips, flecks of gold that clung to Michael’s skin burned away or perhaps froze and flaked off, disappearing into nothingness. Michael flinched and pulled away, but before anything could be done or said, the Prince of Hell had disappeared in a spark of infernal flames.

Flushing furiously, Michael stood, touching startled lips with the tips of long fingers. A strange feeling came over the archangel, anger mixed with some unidentifiable emotion and with a flash of lightning, Michael disappeared, leaving a black scorch mark upon the parched bare ground.

Chapter Text

Necropolis at Archontiko near Pella, 345 B.C.

Crowley was there first, bundled up heavily. Spring, but it was cold this year and the ground was still covered in snow from a recent storm. In the deep moonless darkness, deeper blue shadows filled every snowy hollow, and a scrubby willow grew from a nearby grave, blooming all over with furry catkins.

The demon couldn’t help himself and so he ventured out a questing hand from the warmth of his himation to touch touch the soft catkins, to feel their silky fur beneath his fingertips as if the bodies of tiny creatures, but he knew they were not; after all, they were cold, as cold as the snow-scented air. It made him wish that he could just have two big handfuls of catkins to press against his face as if it were a piece of fur but softer still than even the softest fur of a baby animal. Or perhaps if he shrunk down in size, he could fly up and hug one close as if it were a pillow...

He didn’t have to wait long in the dark; Hastur was always on time.

“Report,” Hastur said, after having gone through all the important motions of formality.

“Erm, not much to report, really. Same old?” Crowley shrugged, cold hands crossed over his chest under his long winter-weight black himation. “But you knew that, right?”

“Lord Beelzebub wants to know what he’s done.”

“The boy? Well, he’s getting close to 11 now so we’ve been working on his reading, writing, elocution, music, arithmetic-”

“No, not the boy. Your master, Lord Asmodeus. What’s he been up to?”

Crowley was taken aback. While he had prepared for this, on a certain level he wasn’t prepared for this at all. “Erm, uh. Nothing really? He doesn’t even bother humans. He just...spends time on his own, unless he’s with me. I suppose if you must know, mostly he's just by himself. Hardly even asks me what I’m up to, really.”

“He hasn’t done anything? Met with anyone from Upstairs?”

Immediately Crowley’s thoughts went to Aziraphale. “Oh no, never. Absolutely not.”

“I thought you knew about the back channel.”

“The back channel?” Crowley blinked. “Ah, yes, the back channel. That back channel. The very excellent, very useful back channel,” the demon bluffed. “That back channel. Sure, I know all about it.”

“He’s told you then.”

“Well, sometimes he does trust me,” Crowley shrugged, leaving the possibility open even as he knew that Asmodeus hardly ever told anyone anything important, especially him. “After all, I have been by his side – so very close to him! – since, you know, uh that time in the past that people don’t like to talk about-”

“Since the Fall,” Hastur intoned in a grave voice. “But you’re sure he hasn’t met with anyone?”

“Not even a human,” Crowley lied with a cheerful certainty. “Why? Is something wrong?”

“No. Yes. Maybe everything.”

“I thought last time you said something about…” and Crowley gestured with both hands, as if gently pushing something or someone off to the side.

“Yes, of course sidelining him is the goal but.” Hastur’s expression darkened. “Are you sure he’s not meeting with anyone else?”

“I’m positive. Absolutely certain,” Crowley lied, as he frantically tried to remember if Asmodeus had said anything about any of this, or had mentioned anything that was related to any of this. “Erm, anything else, your Disgrace?”

“No,” Hastur said, but then paused. “Yes. One more thing. Do you know if he’s in contact with Downstairs?”

“You mean Lord Beelzebub?” Crowley’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Isn’t that something you’d know? I mean, you do take appointments for your Prince just like Ligur does for mine, that’s something someone more important than me would know more about...”

“No, lower. Er, higher. You know.” Hastur gestured, looking uncomfortable. “If he’s been in touch with our dark lord and master.”

“Beelzebub?”

“No, darker. Lorder. Master-er.”

“Oh? Oh. Oh!” Crowley gasped, as he realized what Hastur was trying to insinuate. “Erm, you mean…you want to know if Lord Asmodeus has been in contact with ah...Satan?”

“Yes.” The warty toad that crowned Hastur’s head glared balefully down at Crowley and if it could hiss, Crowley imagined it would. “Do you know anything about that?”

“Ah, erm, well, uh, I didn’t think Satan was talking to anyone. In fact, unless something’s changed, I’m pretty sure Satan’s not talking to anyone...”

Hastur said nothing, but his expression darkened.

“O-oh, but I’m sure Lord Asmodeus would have said something if he was talking with Luci- er, his most un-gracious and nefarious infernal Highness Lucifer. After all, that would be a pretty big deal wouldn’t it? Since Satan hardly talks to anyone. I mean, since the Fall. He pretty much keeps to himself, doesn’t he?” Crowley began. “Why, do you think that something’s going on Downst-”

“Never mind. Go back to your assignment. Keep an eye on the Nephilim and your master. Lord Beelzebub may want a written report soon.”

“Yeah, about that. The report. Uh, can you tell me what it should be about? Like, what you want answered maybe? What do you want to know? Is there a form? Or some formal method that you want this done? And once I write it, where do I turn it in and who should I turn it in...to?” Crowley shut his mouth; Hastur was gone in a flash of hellfire, and there was no one to ask those questions to anymore.

“Well, I guess that went about as well as it was ever going to go…just have to figure out what format they want the report in and who to send it to and where. Do they want a proper report? I mean, more proper than those little jottings I send Downstairs to erm, him once in a while...not that he’s even asked for one in a while, that’s just something for formality’s sake...did he ever even read those?” Crowley muttered to himself, chafing his arms as he turned to trudge back through the snow, dreading the long walk back to the palace.

At least he had already cut a path through the snow that he could follow back. And at least it was a dark and spooky night, Crowley sighed, enjoying the slight foreboding menace that hung over the evening, the hush of the night-dwelling creatures as they paused, holding their collective breaths, knowing that something dark and dangerous was passing through. Something that could easily swallow them with sharp teeth and glowing eyes.

But the moonless night hid nothing from the bright serpentine eyes of the demon.

Crowley strode forward with the arrogant confidence of a-

And then he realized he was going to be late to meet with Asmodeus.

“Ah, fuck.” Crowley muttered, and realized that he might as well fly back.

“S-so sorry, lord,” Crowley said, strutting into Asmodeus’ quarters with as much feigned confidence as he could muster. “Got a little tied up with something and couldn’t make it back in time-”

“It was Hastur, wasn’t it?” Asmodeus said, his voice full of thinly veiled menace as he tasted the air with his tongue. “What did he want?”

“Ehhh…” Crowley flinched, realizing that Asmodeus must have guessed where he had gone. “A regular update?”

“About what?”

“You, my lord.” Crowley felt his voice crack. “He wanted to know about you. About what you’ve been doing.”

To Crowley’s surprise, Asmodeus began to laugh. “Really? He wanted to know what I’ve been doing? After all these years…” Asmodeus chuckled, shaking his head. “All right, tell me darling. What specifically did he want to know about?”

“He…” Crowley exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. “Strange things. Things I don’t understand, my lord. He wanted to know if you had some kind of a back channel, as if you were going to meetings Upstairs. Or with Upstairs. And he also wanted to know if you were meeting with someone Downstairs. Erm, someone important. You know, the big boss. Not erm, you know, the big boss but- The Very Big Boss. Our very biggest boss.”

“Decades later by the human count and they’re only starting to sniff around. And by the time they catch up, they’ll still be too far behind,” Asmodeus said, amused. “Come here my dear, and tell me what you think I’m up to. What nefarious plans and stratagems, what evil games have I been playing?”

Crowley sat down upon Asmodeus’ lap, cautious, putting thin arms around the Prince of Hell's broad shoulders, eyes demurely downcast. “Honestly, I don’t know. Wouldn’t even begin to guess. I told Duke Hastur that you don’t even meet with humans, much less people from Upstairs or Downstairs. I mean, that’s crazy, isn’t it? No one talks to Satan, he’s...indisposed. Has been since uh, you know, the bad times. The erm, Fall.”

“Very good, Crowley.” Asmodeus kissed Crowley’s hair. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Erm, yeah, about that. Duke Hastur's going to want a report and I don’t know what to tell him...”

“Keep him guessing,” Asmodeus suggested.

“Yeah, but he’s a Duke of Hell. Sooner or later, he’s going to want to know, and if he doesn’t get the answer he likes, he might discorporate me or worse.”

“No, he wouldn’t. He doesn’t have the power.”

“Well, technically he does if you think about it. He could just, you know, whoosh, up in flames-”

“I would protect you, darling.” Asmodeus’ smile grew cold. “I would destroy him first and he knows it. He won’t hurt you.”

“O-oh. Right. That.” Flustered, Crowley looked away.

“I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Crowley.” Asmodeus’ voice sounded thoughtful, and Crowley ventured a glance. The Prince of Hell’s eyes were troubled, distant. “After all, you were the first I chose among the Fallen, the first I named. While the others were scrambling for power, grabbing as many as they could I took few servants. But I would say I chose well, hmm?”

Crowley felt his entire body tense; it was a memory he didn’t much care for and had not thought of in ages, the aftermath of the long, protracted fall from Heaven. “Yes, lord.”

“If I didn’t have to take Dukes and Under-Dukes and all that nonsense, I would have only picked you. You and no one else.”

“Uh...” And Crowley had no idea what to say. In all these ages upon ages, Asmodeus had never spoken to him so frankly before.

"Would you like to know why you’re not a Duke of Hell? I could have had you promoted ages ago, did you know that?”

“M-me?” Crowley gasped, dumbfounded. “No, I didn’t know...I...really? Me? A Duke of Hell.”

“Really. But I didn’t do it. I couldn’t.”

“You mean Lord Beelzebub was against it or-”

“No, I could have promoted anyone I liked and at any time. But I didn’t want you to take on that burden. I wanted to protect you from the intrigues, the infighting.” Asmodeus took Crowley’s hands in his, examining Crowley’s fingers, one by one, before pressing kisses to the back of Crowley’s hands, one after another. “Ligur wasn’t even my first Duke; that one was destroyed. I don’t think that particular Duke lasted more than a few minutes. It happened during the great power struggle among the Princes early on; one of Belial’s Dukes did him in.”

“Is that why there’s that rule? That demons aren’t allowed to kill each other.”

“Oh yes, my darling. That’s why we made that rule. We would never win against Heaven if we continually destroyed our own troops.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked, a little more of Hell becoming more clear to him, and then he ventured a question, curiosity piqued. “You said Belial had Dukes? I didn’t know a Prince could have more than one.”

“And yes, sometimes a Prince has more than one. Sometimes they’re poached from another. Did you know that? Belial’s second Duke originally served Leviathan, before Leviathan was sidelined and his court dissolved. But I destroyed that second Duke myself, a long time ago. In retribution.” Asmodeus looked at his own hands, and the gleam of the gold serpent ring caught Crowley’s eye as he did so.

“If your previous Duke was destroyed, then does that mean...”

“Ligur was not always my Duke; he used to serve Beelzebub. A second Duke of the First Prince of Hell.”

“But he’s your Duke now?”

“I had no choice,” Asmodeus smiled, but there was a sharpness to it that made Crowley uncomfortable. “My court was too limited in size and there was no one else that could take that place. Legion is powerful but not suited for the job, and so I was...very generously granted a Duke from Beelzebub’s court. One that was sure to keep an eye on me for his true master.”

“O-oh.” And suddenly the ages of tacit animosity between Asmodeus and Ligur became more and more clear to Crowley.

“It’s never been safe to be so near to those of us in power. And yet, you...”

Crowley scanned Asmodeus’ face, unsure, and for a moment it seemed like a flicker of pain passed over the Prince of Hell’s face.

“You would have made a dashing Duke of Hell. Clever, loyal, and dangerous…” Asmodeus sighed. “But not cruel enough by half. I could not take that risk. A simple position, outside of Hell. That would be best for you. Safest. Away from all the intrigue and backstabbing. And you did it brilliantly. After all, it is a position of honor to be remembered as one who caused the humans to Fall. It reflects well on me, the things you’ve accomplished here on Earth. You’ve done well for my court, as you always have.”

“Oh.” Crowley swallowed, realizing for the first time that all these thousands of years of relative freedom, away from the strictures and confines of Hell, were solely because of Asmodeus’ maneuverings in the Dark Council.

“You’re too beautiful to languish and rot in the darkness. I could not bear to see that happen to you,” Asmodeus said, and there was a strange, strangled note in his voice that Crowley had never heard before.

“My lord, I-”

Asmodeus drew Crowley close, and then Crowley could no longer see his face, but could feel the tension, the strained longing in the Prince’s grip. And just before the demon thought that it would turn into something more, Asmodeus let him go, and it was strange to Crowley because it almost felt not as if he was being pushed away so much as he was being set aside.

“Enough talk for now. The sun is rising, and there are things that you should be doing. Go, see to your human charge, I will wait for your return.”

“Y-yes, my lord. Of course, until later.”

“Yes, later.” Asmodeus gestured, taking up the guise of the human Nectanebo again, and Crowley stepped way too, thinking that he had to prepare some materials for the child to study, but his thoughts were on Asmodeus’ words.

A Duke of Hell. Crowley smiled to himself a little, imagining what it would be like to have that power of his own, not just the trickle that he could sometimes access, but his own abilities that Dukes of Hell had, and maybe a little bit of that strut as he walked out of Asmodeus’ quarters grew more confident.

Chapter Text

Crowley trudged through the snow to the woodlot. It was filled with young trees now; in a year or two, they would be cut down for whatever it was that the humans used trees of this size. The stumps were no more, hidden behind thickets of trees that looked like clumps of grass writ large. As he was accustomed to, the demon looked for where Aziraphale had sat and played his kithara, so long ago. That stump was still there but it had mostly disappeared beneath tall vigorous shoots of slender trees that now slumbered in winter silence, waiting for spring.

The demon frowned. Even when it grew warm there would be no flowers, but for a few stray patches where the trees did not block out the sun.

The waterfall was no more than a frozen trickle, the faint movement of water beneath an unmoving veil of ice.

Would spring properly arrive already? Crowley wondered. It felt like the wait was much longer this year, especially after a brief spell of warmth and tentative growth had been smothered by unseasonable storms. The demon shivered as he stood in the latticed shade of the coppiced trees, the air clear and cold and painful to breathe. Blue shadows stained and bruised the white ground, and he stared at the strangely pure blueness before glancing up at the miserable gray sky, imagining the clearness of sky and the summer sea when ships would fill the harbors and maybe they could lie down together again in the dappled shade of an old sycamore tree that blotted out the sky with rustling, fluttering leaves while birds sang above them…

Crowley shook his head. Foolish thoughts. He had made his choice, and really, it wasn’t a choice that he even had to make. Choices were for humans and other sentient beings. And he wasn’t one of those. Human, no. Well, sentient yes. A being too. An octopus, definitely not.

Curling his hand around the thin trunk of a nearby tree, Crowley leaned against it, his forehead pressed against the cold sleeping wood.

Crowley touched the black and crimson serpent mark upon the side of his face.

It would have to be Asmodeus. Of course, it would have to be Asmodeus. Who else could he choose? Who else would protect him from other, more powerful demons? Who else would mark him to keep him from being destroyed? Would love him? No one, not a human, not an angel. To want anything else was foolish.

To hope for anything else was foolish.

“It was the right thing to do,” Crowley mumbled to himself. It was proper. Loyalty to Hell, loyalty to a master that had only been kind to him for all these ages upon ages. And how Asmodeus had been pleased by all this; they had tricked the angel, hurt his feelings, and now it was time to walk away without a lick of guilt or conscience.

It was time to walk away without a lick of guilt or conscience, Crowley thought to himself once more, for the n-th time, where n is a very, very large number that only grows larger, one that was infinitely countable. Because every time this came over his mind, it was another n+1 and infinity plus 1 can always keep going. Couldn’t touch the end of those numbers, because there was always another and another beyond.

How many seasons had passed since he first proposed this argument to himself? At least four winters, no five. Six? Certainly it was working well, Crowley thought to himself. Very well, and hopefully he would soon believe it.

No remorse, Crowley thought again. Walk away without guilt. After all, it wasn’t like that time he had betrayed his demonic master and got Asmodeus locked up in the deepest pits of Hell for a few years, which was something that he certainly did not do because that was entirely an accident. Yes, totally an accident.

This on the other hand of course was the Opposition. Betraying the Opposition was his job, to inconvenience or better yet, hurt the Opposition, ideally without damaging the fine balance between Heaven and Hell, without escalating things into outright open hostility, to engage carefully in those neat stratagems of feint and thwart and undermine. And he had pulled it off, without a drop of blood spilled and without anyone getting destroyed, and without tipping the balance into open hostility and aggression.

He had done it. Perhaps there would be a commendation, if Asmodeus chose to bring it up with the Dark Council. And even if he didn’t, Crowley could bask in Asmodeus’ approval and hopefully this little detail could keep him in the Prince of Hell’s bad good positive graces for some time. So yes, of course. Absolutely. This had been the correct choice. Crowley nodded to himself.

Not that there were any other choices he could have made.

“After all, I am a demon,” Crowley said to himself, his voice a rasp of a whisper, like the scrape of ice against bare stone. “Fallen. Unforgivable. Forgotten by the Creator. No, distasteful to the Creator.”

Crowley straightened up, letting go of the tree and paced an irregular circle through the grove, taking some small delight in boots that crunched through the icy surface of the snow. There was some tiny joy in the marring of the pristine surface, and deliberately, Crowley put his foot down through the crackling crust.

“There, is that what you like to do? Destroy helpless, innocent things that didn’t do anything to you.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, a note of hope wavering in his voice.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said stiffly, and the slender black shadow among thin young trees turned, long hair a splotch of dark crimson like dried blood standing out against the bleak monochromatic landscape.

“Thank you for meeting me here-” Crowley began, but Aziraphale cut him off with a gesture.

“I’m merely doing my job,” Aziraphale said. The angel looked Crowley over. “I’m surprised you’re not in disguise. And alone.”

So it was going to be one of those more difficult meetings, Crowley thought, trying not to show his disappointment. He took a moment to think, to try to compose himself and not say anything he would regret.

“Just needed a break,” Crowley shrugged.

“What, tired of dragging all those deluded humans around by their heartstrings?”

“Aziraphale…”

“Whatever happened to Nikanor? I haven’t seen you skulking around him in a while.”

“Him? He...he’s back with his friend. The one that he knew from childhood, the one that he was supposed to be with. Should have always been with. They reconciled, in the season following...you know.” Crowley gestured. “The unpleasantness. After the hunt. It’s been a while. It’s old news.”

“Well, it’s news to me. You haven’t said a thing about it.”

“You didn’t ask.” Crowley’s eyes narrowed, but then it seemed that he lost the will to continue being annoyed. His shoulders slumped, and he turned to stare at a copse of skeletal trees like copious bony fingers reaching out to an unforgiving sky.

But if Crowley had lost interest in arguing, that didn’t mean Aziraphale was done.

“Well? What did you want?” Aziraphale asked, his voice cool and clipped.

And a multitude of things went through Crowley’s mind; he wanted to tell Aziraphale about the meeting with Hastur and then the subsequent meeting with Asmodeus, and see what Aziraphale thought of the situation. What his thoughts were, if there was something that Aziraphale thought he should do. He wanted Aziraphale to know that he could have been a Duke of Hell and what was it that Asmodeus meant, telling him something like that?

But more than that, Crowley wanted to rest his head against Aziraphale’s broad shoulder, and feel the warmth of the angel’s arms about him, as he stood in the crook of Aziraphale’s arm underneath the heated comfort of the angel’s himation. He wanted to hold the angel’s hand again, and kiss every finger to see that lovely flush fill the angel’s visage as if crimson wine poured into a vessel of rock crystal. He wanted to see those clear eyes that were sometimes the color of the sky and sometimes the color of the sea and sometimes the color of the earth and sometimes the color of a cozy hearth fire and so very rarely the colors of the entire world – he wanted to see those eyes warm again to him as they did for so many years before this.

He wanted Aziraphale back.

But he couldn’t say it.

“Just wanted to ask,” Crowley began, carefully. “If you don’t mind...helping me out again.”

“With what?”

“W-with the books. For the lessons with the boy.”

“Wait. How do I know it’s you?” Aziraphale frowned. “How do I know you’re who you say are? You could be Asmodeus in disguise, couldn’t you?”

“I’m not. Really. I could prove it-” And Crowley reached out for Aziraphale’s hand.

“Don’t touch me,” Aziraphale stepped back, cautious. “I suppose I can’t know for sure now, can I? After all, you could have told him everything.”

“Yes, I could have. But I didn’t,” Crowley said, miserable. “But you have every right to suspect me. Except...I can still do this.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and suddenly everything froze all around them. The trembling trees, discrete crystals of ice that floated in the air, all of it froze as if the cold of the world was so profound that even the air itself could no longer move.

“He...he can’t hear us now can he? If he were skulking about.”

“No.” Crowley said. “We can talk freely, for now. That’s why I did it, if you must know.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley. What are we going to do? I...I can’t stay mad at you like this forever but I can’t...I don’t. I don’t know if I can trust you anymore.”

“Best not to,” Crowley shrugged. “After all, I’m not trustworthy.”

“Don’t say that-” Aziraphale began, but then he hugged himself. “No, I suppose you may have a point there.”

“Can I?” Crowley opened his arms to the angel. “That is, erm. May I?”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale whispered. “I just...I don’t know if things can be the same again.”

“Right.” Crowley paced a slow circle around the angel. “Same. Can’t be the same, I suppose. Can’t tread in the same river twice, etcetera. I mean, you can, technically, but the second time it won’t be the same as the first and the water just keeps...” Crowley glanced at Aziraphale as he ran out of words.

“Something on your mind, my dear?”

“Yes, in fact. You know, I was certain I was making the right choices. What we had...what we thought we had,” Crowley corrected himself, seeing Aziraphale’s expression. “That wasn’t real, was it?”

“You have your…allegiances. And I do as well. Best not to forget where we stand,” Aziraphale replied, looking away.

“Yeah. Standing on opposite shores.” Crowley felt something inside that had been slowly crumbling for some time now finally collapse as if a thin crust of ice over deep snow crushed beneath the weight of roughshod boots.

Could it have been real? Or was it just a delusion, a wild folly.

It really would have been nice if it were real.

“I suppose...that we should get to work,” Aziraphale said, finally.

“Yeah. Work. Right.” Crowley kicked at a chunk of icy snow that crumbled beneath his boot tip.

“If you want help with the books, there’s no point in meeting here. We’d have to meet where the books are; such as in the library,” Aziraphale said primly. “No one comes in after hours,”

“Maybe not but," Crowley took a moment to breathe. "After hours don’t belong to me. Those are the times he wants me.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s expression tensed and then softened. “I...I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as me,” Crowley muttered, turning away. “Well, better be off then.” Crowley held up his hand with a little terse wave. “See you back in Pella.”

“Yes. I suppose I shall.” But Aziraphale didn’t move. Where Crowley had kicked the snow, a little white bud of a snowdrop appeared, sprouting strongly upon a dark green stem that had been obscured by the snow.

Aziraphale sighed, remembering the woodlot in the full bloom of spring, but seeing only the barest hint of a flowerbud lost in an icy white waste.

Chapter Text

North Africa, 3333 B.C.

A gentle rumble and the soft earth before Crawley’s feet cracked. With a sound of surprise, Crawley toppled over.

“Under-Duke Legion. What a pleasant surprise.” Crawley straightened up, only to bow as the demon stepped out onto Earth, the flames retreating and the ground reforming in the demon’s wake.

“Wow, nice place innit?” Legion looked about, bright dark eyes wide with wonder. “A real pretty place up here. What’s that smell?”

“Flowers?” Crawley guessed. “Or could be the trees, those smell rather...green? Or could be dirt, dust, or rain. Could be a lot of things, really. Almost everything has some kind of smell up here. It’s absolutely fascinating.”

“That’s neat. Nothing really has much of a smell Downstairs. Except sulphur, I guess. And hellfire? Though I guess that’s just more sulphur-scented than anything...” Legion looked about curiously, long black lashes fluttering.

“Hmmm, good point. Is something up?” Er, down?” Crawley wondered, cautiously.

“Nothing’s up. Or down, at least nothing official. I’m just here as the messenger.”

“Oh,” Crawley said, trying to not sound nervous. “What’s the message?”

“‘Be prepared to receive our lord and master Asmodeus.’”

Crawley’s breath caught, feeling a jolt of of longing and anticipation that felt like happiness but also oddly, like pain. “Is there anything else to the message?”

“Yeah, here’s his date of arrival and departure. Should be the next new moon that he arrives, and he’ll leave after about twenty or thirty of them. Moons, that is. Plus or minus some time, you know how he is. Which is to say, you never really know how he is,” Legion added. “It’s been awful busy, actually. We’ve been set to work like never before, what with all these humans about. Documentation’s multiplying like crazy Downstairs. Never seen anything like it. Did you know that there are more and more humans every year? Even dying isn’t slowing them down. Even when a lot of them die, nothing seems to slow down the appearance of more humans.”

“Humans,” Crawley said, nodded sympathetically. “Odd creatures. I’m not surprised they cause a lot of work on your end.”

“Actually, I like staying busy. It’s better than the alternative,” Legion’s mouth moved into a hint of a smile. “So what’ve you been up to up here? I haven’t seen you in...a while now?”

“Er, you know, just following orders. Making trouble and all that,” Crawley lied. “Same old, nothing’s new. Well, the world’s new all the time here, but for me, it’s the same. Erm, I’m the same. I mean, I see lots of new things but-”

“Anyone in Hell would kill to be you, Crawley. Give their right arm and their left leg just for the opportunity to spend some time here.” Legion’s smile was polite but hinted at sadness. “You’re one lucky demon.”

“Sure am,” Crawley said, feeling awkward. “Lucky.”

With a sigh, Legion looked about once more at the swaying palm trees whose leaves rustled, the soft puffs of clouds that streamed along the blue sky, shimmering dark brown eyes full of wistful longing. “So I’ll be heading back Downstairs then. Do you have a message for our lord?”

“No. I mean.” Crawley paused, realizing that it would not be suitable to let Legion return without a message. “Wait, Under-Duke Legion. I need to think of a proper response for our lord and master. Can’t just leave you to return to his side without a proper message, that’d be rude.”

“Well…I wasn’t told I had to be back right away.”

“Why don’t you stay a bit longer?” Crawley winked. “See the sights. You know, while I’m thinking of a proper response.”

“If you’re offering,” Legion brightened up.

“Come on, I’ll show you around.”

Two demons took to the air, black wings gleaming darkly in the bright sunlight. Below them, animals that crossed their shadows shivered, briefly affixed to the ground in terror or scurrying away in fear.

Crawley pointed to some flying geese, whose large outstretched wings wobbled as they tried to keep up with the two demons, but were quickly left behind.

“This place is very strange. Kind of disturbing,” Legion said, pointing up to the sky. “Why does the light keep changing? It seems to be constantly changing, and not just because something is broken. Or is something broken? Something’s always broken Downstairs...”

“Oh, you know, rotation of the planet around a star. Makes the light shift all the time. Even when things are dark.”

“So we’re on a planet? For reals?” Legion gasped. “Is that what the Earth is?”

“Yeah, it’s really a planet. Not a very big one either. I went up to check it myself when I was first here. Strange, isn’t it? Used to be that this kind of place was no more than gathered dust around a star, and we’d only care about the layout of big clusters of stars. Brightness, color, clarity, intensity... Never thought I’d spend so much time on a planet, much less have to care about what’s going on on the planet.”

“But all this fuss for a planet, doesn’t that seem a bit...much?” Legion wondered.

“Don’t ask me, I’ve never been anywhere close to the planning committee people.”

“Oh, so Lord Asmodeus doesn’t tell you-”

“Nope, not a word,” Crawley sighed. “Doesn’t even ask me my opinion, if you really want to know. Not about anything actually important."

“Oh. I thought…Erm, never mind, I don’t know what I thought. You won’t tell him, will you?” the higher-ranked demon asked, anxious. “You won’t tell him I was inquiring into his business…”

“Course not. Not your fault for asking. Won’t...erm, I wouldn’t hold it against you. Never.”

“Thanks, Crawley. You’ve always been good to me.” Legion’s smile was sweet but held an edge of nervousness.

“So erm, you might be wondering what’s on Earth that’s worth seeing. Well, lots of things are. But this, this is very impressive indeed!” Crawley landed, black wings stirring the dust of the earth.

“Oh, wow. The ground really is very different up here, isn’t it?” Legion said, stirring the dust with a gentle exploratory flap of black wings. “Look, everything moves! Even those things on the ground, what is that?”

“I think it’s called grass. Quite nice, isn’t it? Feels nice to touch, kind of soft, you should try it. But it’s not always soft, sometimes it’s scratchy and can draw blood... But that’s not what I was talking about, it’s- Oh.” Crawley’s brow furrowed as he looked over the plain. “That’s odd, I thought…isn’t there supposed to be a big migration here?”

“Migration? What’s that?”

“Well, every year around this time of year – I think – hundreds, thousands of these big shaggy beasts roam through here…”

“Big shaggy beasts. You mean like that thing? With the four legs?”

A solitary camel glared and made a rude noise at the two demons, before turning slightly so that it could keep the two within sight as it chewed mouthfuls of grass.

“Not quite, they’re more...well, less hump-ish. Oh, I think I’m in the wrong place. Or it’s the wrong time of year?” Crawley frowned. “For a small planet, Earth is a bigger place than you’d think-”

“It’s very large. Impressive. I didn’t think I’d ever see something bigger than a Hell-hound. What do you do with a beast so large?”

Crawley shrugged. “I don’t know. But we should stay away from it.”

“Why?”

“This beast – a camel – is one that kicks and bites. And spits. Best to stay out of spitting range, it’s a beast with a terrible humor.”

“Maybe it just doesn’t like your jokes.”

Crawley grinned. “Well, you try telling it one and see if it likes it.”

“Nah, I’ll take your word for it. What else is there to do on Earth? Other than look at the changing quality of light and the creatures?”

“Well, there are things you can eat here.”

“They’ve got food here too?”

“Sure, like fruits. Erm, some examples, uh, apples, pears. Cherries. Fruits are sweet.” Crawley paused. “Wait, unless they aren’t sweet. Like avocados, those aren’t sweet.”

“An avocado? What does it advocate?”

“Clean living,” Crawley said. “I think.”

“So if you don’t mind, tell Lord Asmodeus that I look forward to his arrival. And tell Lord Asmodeus-” Crawley managed to force an expression that looked almost like a smile, the bare curving of lips, imagining that the loneliness would end soon.

“Tell Lord Asmodeus what?” A new voice interrupted, and both demons turned in surprise.

“Lord Asmodeus!” Crawley went down upon both knees and bowed a humbled head in prostration, dark hair falling like a curtain, blocking off everything but the dusty soil before Crawley’s eyes.

“Welcome to Earth, Lord Asmodeus,” Legion bowed elegantly. “I trust your journey was unremarkable?”

“Crawley?” Asmodeus ignored the Under-Duke.

“I- I- erm, that is-” Crawley stammered, staring at the fine dust that stirred with every breath. “T-that I was – er no wait – I am looking forward to your arrival. And that…”

“There was something more?”

“That…” Crawley sighed, realizing that this message would have been one heard by Legion anyway. “That I missed being at my lord’s side.”

“Loyal, as ever.” And as Asmodeus’ strong hand guided Crawley up onto both feet, Crawley noticed that the dust disappeared at Asmodeus’ touch as the Prince of Hell drew Crawley against his shoulder.

Relief passed through Crawley, so much so that tears sprang into golden eyes, and Crawley’s vision blurred. Quickly, Crawley blinked away the tears. It would not do to be seen like this, either by the Prince of Hell or another member of his court, to be showing undue emotion.

“You were late in returning, Legion,” Asmodeus said.

Legion bowed, long horns of coiling hair bobbing gently, and there was a particular stiff recognition and resignation in the Under-Duke of Hell’s eyes that Crawley was far too familiar with.

But before Legion could speak, before Asmodeus could reach out to destroy the Under-Duke’s form, Crawley closed both hands over Asmodeus’ hands. “My lord, please. That’s not the Under-Duke’s fault. That was my fault entirely; I asked them to stay while I thought of a proper message to send. Please don’t blame Legion for my slowness in coming up with a proper answer. After all, time passes differently here. Earth always seems much slower, somehow, than Downstairs. I think it has to do with all the change going on up here, makes time feel slower somehow and I- I lost track of time-”

Asmodeus paused, brushing off Crawley’s hands only to close his hands over Crawley’s. “I suppose that is right. Legion, dismissed.”

“Sure thing, boss.” The relief in Legion’s eyes was palpable, and the Under-Duke of Hell bowed, careful not to look too closely at Crawley. With a gentle puff of soot, the demon was gone, leaving behind no trace of existence, not even the barest hint of disturbed dust.

“Well.” Asmodeus looked around, at the broad plain that stretched out to the horizon, at the squiggle of a river that passed through the land, and at the lone camel that had long since begun to lumber off, offended by demonic interruptions to what had otherwise been a pleasant and delicious meal of grass. “Not a particularly interesting place to be in, is it? There aren’t even trees.”

“Oh, if you like I know some nicer places, my lord. Shall we go somewhere with trees?”

“Certainly.” And Asmodeus drew Crawley close, arm tight around a slender waist and suddenly the world shifted around them sharply.

Dizzy, Crawley clung to the strong form of the Prince of Hell. “W-what was that?”

“A new power, my darling.” Asmodeus pressed a kiss to Crawley’s forehead. “Didst thou not like it?”

“I don’t know...I...can’t get my feet under me.” Crawley tottered, and Asmodeus held the demon until the ground slowly stabilized for Crawley.

“Take all the time that thou needst. We have plenty of it, after all. But this is a new power, granted to the Princes of Hell. A much quicker way of transporting ourselves across this broad new creation. After all, even moving with the motion of light or electricity is limited in direction. And passing through the Earth is certainly a method but not the most efficient, what with needing to pass through Hell every time. We know that Upstairs has granted their Archangels something similar and thus our Lord and Master has also granted us further gifts in order to be more effective in opposing Upstairs. Thou canst use it too, if thou wouldst, my darling.”

“I don’t...know.” Crawley placed one tentative foot over the other, finally glad that the ground was stable. “Would you really? Erm, that is, let me use something this powerful…?”

“I would have thee at an advantage over Heaven’s agent. Any advantage that can be taken should be taken. After all, after we sent an ordinary demon, and they sent a Cherubim. Far too dangerous of a creature for thee to face alone.”

“Right. I’ve...met the agent. From Upstairs,” Crawley offered.

“What was he like?” Asmodeus asked, interest piqued. “Tell me all about him.”

“Just an ordinary angel, I guess. Nothing special,” Crawley lied. “You know how it is with Upstairs.”

“Yes. All too well,” Asmodeus’ expression changed, looking irritated. “Perhaps in terms of character he’s an ordinary angel, but he’s still dangerous. Cherubims are armed. Thou couldst be destroyed if thou wert to cross him. I prefer for thee to stay away from him. He’s a bad influence. No, a good one. Uh, thou knowest my meaning.”

“Yeah, sure, will do my best to avoid him,” Crawley muttered.

Now, let us not speak of the Opposition anymore. Why don’t we go in and have a drink?”

Crawley blinked and realized that the world around should be given some focus, and not just this patch of finally stable rocky soil beneath bare feet. The demon looked around. This really was a much more lovely place than the plains they had left. Everything was green and gold, neat little farms filling a valley dotted all over with dark olive trees heavy with fruit, and in the distance Crawley could see the silhouettes of humans going about their farming work. And there before them, an imposing house built upon a rocky hill overlooking the valley. Not a house, though, Crawley realized quickly, but more like a palace, like a stack of houses built one beside the other beside the other, so densely that it looked almost like a little city.

“Where are we?”

“Oh, I have a place here on this island. The humans call it Crete; I find it quite lovely to winter here. It’s not as cold as other places get, though I suppose it still is rather chilly.”

“Winter...here?” But before Crawley could inquire in detail what Asmodeus meant, the Prince of Hell led them to the palace.

Chapter Text

Crete, 3333 B.C.

“It’s nice,” Crawley commented, looking around. Inside, away from the pale warmth of the late autumn sun, the stone and mudbrick edifice with its maze of rooms and corridors was bright with flickering flames but strangely not warm. The walls were plastered a beautiful creamy white, but something was strange, and it took Crawley a minute to realize that there was not a speck or a hint of soot in this building.

It reminded Crawley of Hell but far more beautiful as these smooth undecorated white walls and stone-paved floors had never known damp or rot or dirt. The quiet inside the building exuded a particular clean calm, and then Crawley realized that perhaps it was a bit more like Heaven. Or somehow, a place somewhere in between that had elements of both.

Crawley’s arms crossed reflexively over a thin chest.

“Seems kind of cold?” Crawley ventured, and Asmodeus caught the demon by the waist, dragging the lithe figure close.

“Darling, if thou’rt cold, tell me and I shall warm thee.” The Prince of Hell moved his hands over Crawley’s shoulders and with a gesture, Crawley’s hellish celestial black robes changed about the slim form, becoming the kind of dress that the local people wore; a long skirt of made of black wool with a tight-cinched belt that sat high about the waist beneath bared breasts and Crawley realized that this body was subtly different as well, the form more curved and rounded as the human women were and Crawley sighed, realizing the infernal will that emanated from Asmodeus as if the blazing heat of a wildfire had made this ordinary demon’s form conform to the Prince of Hell’s desires.

Crawley touched the golden plates of the broad belt with both hands, feeling the weight of the icy metal beneath trembling palms. The demon stepped forward, testing the feeling of the heavy skirts that hung from slim hips brush against bare legs. A pair of tough little boots covered both feet, and a little flicker of hope went through Crawley, perhaps this meant that they would do some traveling outside of this place.

The thought of being locked up somewhere again with the Prince of Hell sent a sinking dread through Crawley even as Crawley leaned into Asmodeus’ embrace.

“N-no, my lord, I’m not cold. I mean, I don’t really notice when it’s hot or cold. It’s just…and erm you know, I really think that less clothes would...would be- You know if I really were cold erm…” and then Crawley closed a traitorous mouth before saying something foolish that would draw the ire of the Prince of Hell.

Asmodeus’ hands moved through Crawley’s hair and then paused. “I never did finish this, did I?”

“Hmm?” Crawley wondered, confused, until he saw Asmodeus holding up a strand of braided hair. “Oh...I suppose there wasn’t enough time.”

“Here. Let me finish what I started then. It wasn’t that long ago, was it?” Asmodeus guided Crawley to sit upon a chair that had been covered with a pelt of luxuriously soft black fleece. Crawley’s hands brushed over the surface, fingers stroking the curling wool.

“It feels like a long time to me,” Crawley ventured.

“Time passes strangely here, doesn’t it?” Asmodeus’ fingers tangled in Crawley’s hair, almost painfully, and the demon felt a sharp twinge of longing as the memories of so many times past passed through a yearning body.

Asmodeus continued, talking as he braided Crawley’s hair. “It’s a shame I wasn’t able to finish last time. But thou wouldst have appeared beautiful anyway. I’m glad thou hast changed it not; did it remind thee of me?”

“Y-yeah. Kept me from feeling too lonely,” Crawley lied.

“Hmm, wert thou lonely without me?” Asmodeus asked, hands moving through Crawley’s hair.

Crawley said nothing but nodded, just a little.

“There.” Asmodeus said, letting go of Crawley’s hair, turning the demon to face him. “I won’t let thee feel lonely again. Not while I’m here.”

“Thank you, my lord Asmodeus,” Crawley whispered.

“Let me show thee my palace. Look at all these interesting human things. This comes from far away as the humans measure it. The humans think things that come from far away are valuable.” Asmodeus draped a necklace about the demon’s neck, shining with beads of copper and gold, malachite and green turquoises

Crawley felt the weight of the necklace pressing down on bare skin. “It’s pretty?”

“It comes from Egypt. So difficult for the humans to obtain and dangerous as well to cross the sea like that, and so it’s valuable to them. For us, it is nothing, a mere step from one place to the other. Isn’t that amusing? That they would risk their lives for trinkets when distance and space mean so little to us.”

“Yes, it’s interesting. Thank you, my lord,” Crawley said, the icy metal slow to warm against bare skin that recognized the cold but did not suffer from it.

“Clever humans and their many interesting things. Who thought a corporeal being could create? As if they were one of us? One could get accustomed to this.” Asmodeus walked the demon around the house, and Crawley noticed things here and there in the shadows of the room, beneath a table or behind a chair: a dropped earring, a slipper, a child’s toy bull, laying on its side.

Crawley tasted the air with a discreet flick of the tongue.

“So erm, had this place long?”

“Oh yes, it was always mine,” Asmodeus smiled. “The humans built it for me. Aren’t they industrious creatures? If we could staff Hell with them, we would never be lacking for workers.”

“Right, yes. Certainly.” Crawley swallowed. “It...kind of smells like humans have been in here. Regularly. And for a long time.”

“Oh, they’re around here somewhere. I keep them as pets. They’re so very amusing and do my bidding, keeping me entertained.”

“I didn’t know we could do that. Are we allowed to do that?”

Asmodeus shrugged. “I am after all a Prince of Hell. Why should I not have a court on Earth as I would have one in Hell?”

“Point,” Crawley agreed weakly. “Though your court’s never been large…”

“No, it hasn’t,” Asmodeus agreed, without giving anything away.

And I was always a part of it, Crawley thought, but did not dare say aloud. “But erm, my lord, what about free will?”

“What about it? They had the opportunity to walk away from me before they came here, but they didn’t. So now they serve me.” Asmodeus smiled.

“Oh. Oh, right.” Crawley looked away. “Sure, guess that makes sense.”

“Thou seemst troubled. Art thou not pleased to see me?”

“N-no, of course not. I-I’m glad to see you, so very glad!” Crawley managed a smile that the demon hoped was passable. “Just...a little unsettled, that’s all. By erm, the travel. Never traveled like that before.”

“And we will again. We’ll have plenty of little vacations to enjoy ourselves.”

“Yeah, sounds great, really…vacation. So uh. You mentioned you like to winter here? Been on Earth long?”

“Oh, a while,” Asmodeus said, shrugging it off as if it didn’t matter, and as Crawley looked around, at the aged wooden beams that had time enough to cure and darken, at the plaster that was spotlessly clean but no longer smelled new, Crawley felt a sudden sharp pain, a despair that felt like crackling ice spreading over the freezing surface of water.

“And you didn’t send for me. All this time you’ve been here on Earth and you never...” Crawley muttered.

“Hmm? What was that?”

“Nothing, my lord,” Crawley said, managing a smile. “Just thinking about how glad I am to be here, that’s all.”

Summer, and there was something very enticing about the heat of the sun outdoors or maybe it was just the principle of being outdoors in general. Crawley kicked up booted feet and stretched out on a sunny patch of grass near a scraggly cluster of date palms, watching the jagged edges of the fronds nodding and trembling in the ocean breeze.

Asmodeus was around here somewhere, but it almost felt like it didn’t matter what the Prince of Hell might want or think. It seemed that the only thing that mattered was this lovely shifting of light and the grass that tickled Crawley’s bare torso and arms, and the heat of the day that Crawley could tell was extreme but did not completely understand what that word meant in terms of what could actually be felt.

How long had it been since there was someone to talk to like this, someone who was not one of these strange created creatures that shied away in fear at miraculous powers or grew and aged and changed and died in their limited and imperfect finiteness? Finally Crawley was with Asmodeus again, with someone that had so long been yearned for, and strangely it felt wrong.

Yet in what way, Crawley could not pinpoint.

The sky seemed massive, huge, pebbled with white dots of clouds like stones strewn across a clear beach, and Crawley shook a disbelieving head. No, no that was not possible. The demon touched that serpent’s mark. It had to be wrong, those feelings must have been mistaken. This was the role that Crawley played, the place that the demon occupied, that of Companion to a Prince of Hell.

Of course Crawley longed for Asmodeus, for his touch, the amused brightness in clear green eyes, for the conversations and the closeness. The need had been there for so long now that it seemed that Crawley did not know what it was like to exist without it, a hunger that gnawed and bit constantly, a pain that seemed like a normal part of Crawley now, as natural and automatic as breathing.

And yet, something about the heat of the day seemed a little bit more enticing.

Crawley pressed both hands against a bared chest, feeling the brush of the grass upon the tender skin on the underside of thin arms.

The demon wondered, what it would be like to feel the way that beings did here, the heat of the sun, the cold of the night. Humans always seemed strangely uncomfortable, complaining about this, that, and the other. But mostly complaining about the weather.

And Crawley thought and thought and thought, falling into something of a trance as if searching within this corporeal form: the soft tidal rush of heartbeat with its tumbling of blood cells through each vein and artery; the exchange between molecules of air with each breath; the faint buzzing electric impulse of the nervous system; and when Crawley found it, that indescribable thing deep inside that had something to do with sensation, without thinking, it seemed that it would make sense to switch the mechanism from one state to the other.

If there was a click, it would have been loud, but whatever that strange jolt was, it shocked Crawley so thoroughly that the demon sat up.

Slowly, gradually, but inexorably the world seemed to get hotter and hotter and Crawley’s eyes widened. Whether it was wishing or dreaming that had made it happen, the demon could feel that protective mechanism that muffled Crawley’s senses from experiencing reality fully fade little by little until it was gone.

Was the grass always this sharp? Was the day always this hot?

Crawley laid down. The ground was unforgivingly hard and there was some kind of pleasantness to that, how uncomfortable it really was, and Crawley laughed, the sound seeming strange to demonic ears. And then the laughter seemed infectious and Crawley couldn’t stop, as the sun beat down hot and merciless and oh the feeling was so intense and so good and ow, that rock is really sharp…

How long had it been since Crawley had laughed or had the demon ever laughed like this before? And it felt like such a distant memory, a strange sensation washed over the demon as if suddenly the whole of reality turned unreal.

Dazed, Crawley sat up, eyes full of tears and was startled to find Asmodeus gazing down upon the demon.

“M-my lord!” Crawley got up immediately, brushing off the grass that clung to long skirts.

“I heard thee laughing. Is something funny?” Asmodeus’ expression changed. “Or is something wrong.”

“N-no, no. Everything’s fine, just fine. Say, nice day out, shall we go for a walk?”

“Yes, I would like that.”

They walked down from the hill, toward the human settlements, and Crawley ventured a glance at Asmodeus. The Prince of Hell was dressed as the human men dress, hips barely covered but for a short kilt of finely woven black woolen cloth, feet shod in boots. Distracted by a flock of birds passing by, Crawley looked away, but when he turned back to Asmodeus, the Prince of Hell had changed in form and clothing.

Asmodeus was now clad in similar clothes: long black woolen skirts, belted in gold cinched tight about an impossibly slim waist, baring a buxom bosom. Golden serpents twined about slender arms, and golden earrings dangled from both earlobes.

“My lord?”

“This is how I show myself to the humans. They think that women hold certain powers,” Asmodeus said. “Dost thou not like it?”

“No, I like it,” Crawley said, shy. “You’re beautiful like this too, in this shape.” And the demon could not help but stare at those generous breasts, pushed high by the broad belt beneath, small pink nipples pert.

“I see that thou likest this form. It doesn’t suit me as well as the other one, but I find it useful. But perhaps later…we could explore this form together.” Asmodeus smiled, and Crawley felt almost dizzy from longing.

“Y-yes I would. I would like that…”

“It would be fun to try, wouldn’t it? We’ve done it before like this, but it’s been a while...trying out every possible thing,” the Prince of Hell said, and the flush of arousal that passed hot through the demon reminded Crawley that Asmodeus was also the one whose realm of control was lust.

“Yes…” And then the thought crossed Crawley;s mind, was this longing, this yearning for Asmodeus’ touch, was that real?

Or was that the infernal will that left its dark traces upon Crawley?

But the thought disappeared with the sashay and sway of enticing hips and Crawley only realized that the day had passed much later after the demon had followed Asmodeus from place to place in a heated daze.

Winter again, and it was getting colder. When it was warm, Crawley enjoyed soaking in the heat but as the weather grew cold, it was starting to get uncomfortable.

The demon spent a few hours every now and then trying to figure out how to correct that internal mechanism that allowed this corporeal body to feel so much texture and temperature (and there was so much of it, whether it was from water or air or even the ground) but eventually, it seemed like an impossible task to find that switch much less turn it back on.

Now, Crawley set about trying to figure out ways to keep warm without Asmodeus noticing.

While there was nothing that could be done about the upper half, Crawley realized that there was a solution for the lower half that Asmodeus would not notice.

Carefully, the demon imagined another layer under the skirt, this one of heavy linen. Crawley’s eyes went wide; the fabric was scratchy and Crawley did not realize that linen was so rough. With a gesture, Crawley adjusted the fabric and it softened beneath the skirt and the stone bench the demon had been sitting on was fractionally less cold.

“What’s wrong?” Asmodeus asked.

“N-nothing,” Crawley replied. “Erm, did you want some more pomegranate seeds?”

“Yes, of course.” Asmodeus smiled as Crawley fed him crimson gem-like arils, deftly picked from the leathery husk of the fruit. Crawley ate a few as well, looking at the tips of stained fingers.

“Thinking of something, darling? Thou hast the look of a question upon thy lips,” Asmodeus asked.

“N-no.” Crawley paused, setting the fruit down on the bench, and then wondered out loud. “Well, okay, yes. Where did the fruit come from? Aren’t they already out of season here?”

“Does it matter where the fruit comes from?” Taking Crawley’s hand in his, Asmodeus took a tiny aril with his lips from Crawley’s fingers, licking at crimson beads of pomegranate juice with the tip of a heated tongue.

Crawley shivered, and then realized the shiver was not merely from the sensation of Asmodeus’ mouth but from the change in temperature; Asmodeus’ hand was like an icy vice about a thin wrist and the wet heat of Asmodeus’ mouth had left the tips of Crawley’s fingers damp and cold.

“I thought that we did not suffer from the cold. Was that not something that was told to me, directly from thy lips?” Asmodeus said, amused.

“I thought I didn’t get cold, but I must have been mistaken. Or maybe it’s just colder this year than last,” Crawley lied.

“Well, then why don’t we do something about it?” Asmodeus reached out to put both hands around Crawley, and surprised, Crawley found that he was sliding a heavy pelt of black woolly sheepskin over slim shoulders.

“Oh. Oh!” Crawley said, surprised, slow to warming but warming up nonetheless.

“There, is that better?”

Crawley shrugged. “It’s on its way to being better, but it’s not, you know, better.”

“Thou hast done something to thyself. Turned off whatever it was that protects us from reality.”

“Maybe?”

“Shall I fix it? Change whatever it was that thou hast changed about thyself? Return thee to a more amenable state, one not bothered by any temperatures at all.”

“N-no. Please, it’s better now really-” Crawley was surprised; though it seemed like celestial protections would have been preferable, there was something genuinely nice about the slow-to-warm clothing covering goosefleshed bare skin.

“No?” Asmodeus gave Crawley a curious look. “Better? Really?”

“Y-y-yes,” Crawley said, teeth chattering. “Really.” And Crawley winced, waiting for Asmodeus to reach out and change the demon's state, to correct the change Crawley had done to that slim form that shivered underneath skirts and a sheepskin.

“Then let’s go stand by the fire, darling.”

“Really?” Crawley blinked, surprised. “You’re going to let me-”

“Really.” Asmodeus looked amused. “Unless you want me to-”

“No, no. Fine. It’s fine. I-I‘m fine, really. I like this. So! Warming up sounds good. Right. Erm, let’s do that.”

Asmodeus offered Crawley his hand and the demon took it, even though Asmodeus’ hand was colder than the cold room about them. Walking to the hearth, the fire that was merely light and flames changed, turning hot at the Prince of Hell’s gesture. Crawley stood at Asmodeus’ left side, trying to relax tense cold-stiff muscles, feeling the weight of Asmodeus’ arm about shivering shoulders.

Crawley turned, slipping out from Asmodeus’ arms; the fire was hot and growing uncomfortable. And then the demon turned again, slowly rotating to warm all sides, feeling the radiant heat glow upon the exposed bare skin of arms and hands. It wasn’t as nice as the sun, nowhere near as evenly warm or with that pleasing intensity of warmth, but it was better than nothing.

“Planetary motion, darling?”

“Huh?”

“Perhaps if you walked around the hearth as you turned, you could imitate a planet’s orbit around a star.”

Crawley stared up at the Prince of Hell, surprised, before suddenly laughing. “Planetary...motion!”

“There. It pleases me to see thee smiling and laughing again. Genuinely.” Asmodeus smiled, catching Crawley’s eye as the demon turned to warm a chilled backside.

“Yeah. Good...to be doing all that, I guess. Bad. Erm, I don’t know, whatever’s the one that’s correct…”

“I’m glad. Amusement rarely passes thy lips. Before this summer, I don’t think I had heard thee truly laugh so freely in a long time. Not since…”

“Hmm?”

“Not since before the Fall.”

“Oh.” Crawley blinked, and realized that that wasn’t true; there had been lots of other occasions to laugh. But then when Crawley thought about it, those occasions were all fairly recent and had mostly happened since the demon had been on Earth and were never with Asmodeus.

“Wait,” Crawley’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember meeting you before the Fall. I know we never met before the Fall. I mean, I knew who you were, everyone knows who the- Back then you were an Ar-”

“Darling, mind getting me more pomegranates?” Asmodeus gestured toward the bench they had left. “And bring the wine, I’d like some of that as well.”

“Y-yeah. Sorry, my lord, sure thing. Pomegranates, pomegranates…wine.” Crawley said, thinking about how back then, Asmodeus had been an Archangel and would never have had the occasion to meet or know about the existence of an ordinary angel.

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

Crowley scowled as he came in, shaking off the snow. The ends of his himation were frozen stiff, and ice crusted the cloth where he had wrapped it around his face. If there weren’t humans all around, he would have miracled it all off, but instead he walked over to a nearby brazier to try to warm up. Sure, this was a fire, but it wasn’t much of a fire; it was too drafty in this hallway. With a scowl he headed toward the inner palace.

There were some ladies of the court standing outside of Asmodeus' chambers when Crowley returned, but he thought nothing of it, it wasn't like he hadn't seen something like this before. The door was open, so Crowley went inside without a thought.

“Sorry to come barging in like this, lord, but it is quite literally snowing sideways outside right now and I thought I’d come in to warm uhhh?!” Crowley paused, mid-step as he realized Asmodeus was not alone. “Erm, oh. Sorry! Sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt-”

“It’s all right. Come in, dear Akakios,” Asmodeus said, and Crowley’s eyes darted from the disguised Prince of Hell to the human that was sitting with him by the desk covered with astrological scrolls.

A young woman sat swathed a himation of fine wool but the fibula was made with a fortune in gems and gold, and just the bracelet on her wrist could have probably fed Athens for a week and Crowley’s eyes widened; he was almost completely certain that this was the Queen.

“Erm. I uh, didn’t realize you had company,” Crowley stammered. “D-did you want me to go?”

“It’s all right. I’ve heard many good things about you,” Olympias said, gesturing graciously.

Unsure what to do or what to do with himself, Crowley did the most reasonable thing and sat down immediately upon a nearby stool, trying not to tip over as he sat down. Like most human furniture it was too short, and so Crowley ended up with his knees almost by his ears, and he struggled for a minute to settle his chiton and himation in a way that looked properly dignified instead of awkward and uncomfortable, nearly hissing when the cold frozen edge of the himation passed over a bit of bare flesh where the chiton had ridden up.

Crowley looked up and realized that both Asmodeus and Olympias were staring at him.

"Oh erm, greetings your majesty," Crowley said, realizing he should bow or something and then trying to do that as he sat awkwardly on this too-short stool.

"Akakios, brother of Akakios the children’s nanny. How interesting that your parents gave the two of you the same name.”

“Yeah, well. You know. Parents. They erm, uh. Make decisions.”

“Hmm, you look very much like her. Neither of you have aged a day since the first day I saw her among my women, how fortunate.”

“Ah…”

“I would daresay that if we put you in her clothes, you and she would look exactly the same.”

“Well, yes, you know how twins are. Look the same except when they don’t-”

“How very interesting. Especially since I have never seen either you or your twin together in the same place,” Olympias smiled in a way that seemed as if the all the knives were being gently swathed in a pretty piece of silk, possibly in a way that would polish the knives into a brighter, shinier edge before the cutting began.

“Oh well, that would be silly wouldn’t it? Akakios – er, my sister, she’s totally a different person and not me at all, in fact half the reason that we weren’t in the same company was because you know, as a woman it would be untoward-”

“And yet a person might almost think you were the same person. And doesn’t one of my son’s tutors look just like you too? The literature tutor, the one with the little beard.”

“Erm, a c-cousin, on my mother’s side. You could say Mother’s influence was er, heavy-handed to say the least-”

“Then it’s a good thing that your sister did not have your mother’s personality. She was kind and well-spoken of by our children. They miss her company. I hope she's happy now that she's married?"

"Oh yes, quite.” Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as Olympias changed the subject and if he didn’t know any better, it seemed as if she had chosen to be merciful and not press the issue when she could have easily continued. “G-good dowry, good husband. Back in Ionia...erm, with this uh, rich merchant, nice guy. I hear she’s got some kids now too? Haven’t seen them yet. And uh, she thanks you for the opportunity. Oh, so I always heard good things about the kids! Is Alexander still playing dress-up?"

Olympias smiled politely but in a way that left no ambiguity that she was not about to answer his question, leaving a brief moment of awkward, painful silence.

“Erm, never mind that. Ha, silly question, me. Just remembering something my erm, sister told me. Um, erm, uh, s-so, what brings you to our humble establishment?” Crowley managed, trying to be polite.

“I come to Nectanebo sometimes when I...when I have bad dreams,” Olympias said, her mouth moving into something of a troubled smile, as though she was only smiling because she thought she should be but meant it not.

“Oh.” Brow furrowed with confusion, Crowley wondered why the Queen was being so open and frank about her problems, and then he saw Asmodeus’ hand pressed upon hers, and wondered at the demonic will he must be asserting upon the human like a low level pulse of toxic miasma. “W-what kind of dreams?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask, but immediately he closed his mouth, embarrassed that he asked.

“The worst ones are about the night my son was conceived,” Olympias said, and it was obvious that it was an uncomfortable subject but it seemed as though the human was compelled to speak by an unseen force.

Crowley folded his hands in his lap, hands taking double fistfuls of the fabric of his pooled himation and chiton.

“What about that night troubles you, dear child?” Nectanebo asked, as if in innocence.

“You should already know that-” Olympias looked puzzled, but then continued, despite herself, “That the god came to me in so many forms. First as a being of light, a god in the form of a man of middle age. But then.” Olympias swallowed, shivering. “As a serpent.”

“...oh.” Crowley glanced at Asmodeus. “Did you say, a serpent?”

“A massive, golden serpent. And…”

“Erm, maybe I should go-” Crowley began.

“Nonsense, stay.” Asmodeus smiled. “There’s no reason to leave, is there? Tell me about the snake, child.”

“I did not extinguish the lamps, just like you told me to. And I reclined upon my bed, and after the god had left, the snake slithered into my room, every scale shining in the lamplight as if it were truly made of gold…”

Crowley stared at the mosaic ground, a shiver going through him with every word.

Chapter Text

The leaden sky hung heavy, and whether it threatened rain or snow or chunks of ice or frozen fish, that didn’t matter as long as Crowley was not out in it. Walking briskly down the colonnade, the demon ducked into the library, really something more like a storeroom with aspirations, surprised to see that even at midday someone had lit the lamps, the scent of burning olive oil filling the room. Then again, maybe it did make sense; after all, the high windows had been boarded up for the winter against the cold, leaving the shelves and racks of scrolls scattered with flickering shadows from the lamps.

It would have been nicer if it was spookier, Crowley thought as looked around. Instead, it was just ordinary.

It made sense to get there early. It gave Crowley some time to compose himself, to ready himself for Aziraphale.

The demon looked around, and sighed in relief seeing that he was alone. There was nothing more than a little bench that doubled as a stepping stool, so he dusted it off and sat down, plucking out and unrolling a nearby scroll. Accounting. No, that was no good and was going to go back where it came from. He tossed it aside, not caring where it landed and pulled out another scroll without glancing at the label. Thankfully this one had the heft of an actual book.

Crowley unrolled it to a random point and began to read.

The bright stratosphere, and the incandescent rays
Of the thunderbolts and lightning flashes
Blinded their eyes, mighty as they were,
Heat so terrible it engulfed deep Chaos.
The sight of it all
And its sound to the ears was just as if broad Heaven
Had fallen on Earth: the noise of it crashing
And of Earth being crushed would be like the noise
That arose from the strife of the clashing gods.

“Well, that’s silly, it wasn’t like this at all. First of all, it wasn’t that hot, not until the very end and even then not everyone was burnt in the same way-”

“And here I thought you said you didn’t read.”

Crowley looked up, feeling his face twitch in about as many directions as his emotions did, which these days was sliding toward uncountably many. “Oh, Aziraphale.”

“Crowley.” Prim, proper, Aziraphale stood near the doorway of the narrow storeroom, his back to the closed door.

“I don’t read. But that doesn’t mean I can’t, or that I might not look at a book sometimes. Just that I don’t...properly do the reading. You know, the entire book or the entire play. All four or five scrolls worth from start to finish, the way you’re supposed to read a thing. I just like it in pieces. At random. And not set up the way the humans like it, following some kind of made up internal time and chronology.”

“Order matters, Crowley.”

“Not always. And not to us. I mean, we can unbreak things. Humans can’t do that. They’re stuck with the outcome of their own entropy. We’re not. For the most part.”

“Point.” Aziraphale frowned. “Goodness, look at the state of this store room, there are scrolls everywhere.” The angel bent down and picked up the scroll that Crowley had discarded earlier.

“I blame it on the humans,” Crowley shrugged.

“Hmm, I wonder where this goes,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, looking at the shelves.

“Are you going to start filing for the humans now?”

“It’s not filing it’s just...trying to reduce some entropy.”

“What’s wrong with entropy?”

“There’s just so much of it, and there’s always more. I am trying to reduce it by just a little bit. It seems like the right thing to do. Oh here we go, this should be here with the other accounting...though now that I know where it is, I really ought to give it a look. Accounting always gives some interesting insights on human beings. You know in some ways, I think I learned more about humans and their priorities from accounting than I have from merely talking to people. You’d be surprised at what you find out from looking over the books.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, angel.”

“What? Learning from accounting?”

“No, entropy. I don’t think it’s possible to reduce entropy. I mean, it’s kind of a consequence of the Fall, isn’t it? That there will always be more chaos.”

“Well, perhaps, but I must try,” Aziraphale said. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“Erm, about the reading-”

“I know it’s not about the reading.”

“Well, it is. At least, some of it is. So if you have any thoughts on Works and Days I’d like to hear them. Especially the thoughts that humans think are standard about Works and Days. And I’d like to hear more of it, at least enough to get ahead of the boy. But other than that, something’s come up,” Crowley said. “Erm, earlier. I...I don’t even know, should I be telling you this?”

“If it’ll displease your infernal master, perhaps you had best not say anything,” Aziraphale said tartly.

“I don’t care what he thinks,” Crowley said, and then he shook his head. “Wait, I do. But not about this, this is something else. I don’t care what his opinion is on this – because I don’t want him to know.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Ecbatana?”

Aziraphale’s mouth pursed as if he had tasted something unpleasant. “How could I not? Felt as though it took years off my life. Erm, that is, it doesn’t work like that for us, but you know what I mean…in that human sense of taking years off one’s life.”

“Bad times,” Crowley agreed. “For both of us. So. About that. I think he might be up to his old tricks. Erm, with a human woman.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale paled. “Oh no. Really? Do you know who he’s…”

Crowley nodded. “Ah...so uh, how well do you know Queen Olympias?”

“With the Queen?” Aziraphale gasped. “How...shameless.”

“Maybe this is why he’s lingering here. Maybe he’s doing something to her. Maybe it’s not just about hiding the Nephilim’s form or powers from from prying human eyes...” Crowley threw his hands up in a gesture of frustration. “I don’t know. He doesn’t tell me these things. But at least I know for certain now who the Hellish parent was. I might have an idea who the Heavenly counterpart is. I mean, I had guessed Asmodeus but now I’m certain-”

“I...suppose it makes sense.”

“Yeah. Well, she pretty much said it straight out. To both him and me. Though I don’t think she would have known it was him, I mean, he was a snake after all…”

“Oh...oh dear,” Aziraphale blanched.

“Yeah. And I’m afraid it’s still going on. But then...I didn’t see anything untoward and her women say she rarely goes to him and is never with him for more than a few minutes at a time and I’m not sure he can influence those other people if they’re not in the same room and he can’t see them directly and he wouldn’t have time at night to be doing anything weird because that’s when he’s with me-”

“But a few minutes alone-”

“No, I don’t think so. It doesn’t seem like him,” Crowley frowned. “He’s not the kind that rushes things, he likes to play and take his time and usually it’s at least a few hours or more, ideally at least an evening though it could be a lot more. Course it depends on his mood but he certainly doesn’t like interruptions or being rushed and-”

“Ahem,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “If you must know, I don’t know the queen well at all. Haven’t spoken to her since...you know, the nanny days, and even then not much. I mostly tried to stay out of her way.”

“Oh.” Crowley frowned. “Not sure how I’d get close to her then-”

“You can’t. Not in any way as you are. She won’t meet privately with men, but for your master who has a reputation in court as a celibate – which if you really think about it is just ridiculous – but fine, it’s reality and he can bend it too, probably better than both of us combined. She’s very careful not to have any intimation of wrongdoing in regards to her meetings with men. She wouldn’t do anything questionable. Not when her son’s legitimacy as the king’s heir is at stake.”

“Oh. Right.” Crowley’s brow furrowed. “But the possibility that he’s...done something to her…”

“Yes, I know. And it’s not a possibility; it’s a certainty that at least something happened at one point in the past or else there wouldn’t be this child...” Aziraphale sighed. “Crowley, I can’t leave an innocent human to be...ensnared in infernal wiles. Erm, especially his specific infernal wiles. Let me handle it; I shall bring Melita in for a visit to check the Queen over for any kind of demonic influence or enthrallment. I’m certain that would work; it wouldn’t take very long.”

“Would you?” Crowley’s eyes were bright with concern. “I would appreciate that, Aziraphale.”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale said sternly. “This isn’t personal, this is purely professional. After all, I’m here to thwart evil and who is more evil than Asmodeus?”

“Beelzebub, Belial, Hastur, Leviathan-” Crowley began. “Oh wait, you didn’t actually want a list?”

“No. But it seems rather interesting that you rate them higher in evil than Asmodeus. Even a lower-ranked Duke.”

“Sometimes I think if the Almighty had just left him upstairs, Asmodeus would have stayed a rather unremarkable Archangel. Do you remember what he was known for? Before...the Fall.”

“No?” Aziraphale shrugged. “I didn’t hang around with...that set. Wasn’t managed by them either. Completely different chain of command.”

“Right. Well. I don’t remember who my manager was and let’s just be clear that my memory from back then is not at all that clear, but I do remember him being known for looking the other way when it came to disciplinary things. Just...not taking anything further than an ‘oh well, what can be done, just make sure not to do it again next time’ kind of manager.”

“Scandalous,” Aziraphale said, eyebrows raised in astonishment.. “Such an Archangel would not be allowed to stay in management these days.”

“Huh.” Crowley blinked. “Really? Wonder if that’s all it took back then. But then again, makes you wonder – why put an Archangel in charge if they’re not going to, well, you know, take charge. You’d think Asmodeus would have been created to lead.”

“I suppose those were simpler days. And I certainly wouldn’t know how to question the Almighty’s decisions.”

“Yeah. I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Crowley’s mouth twitched.

“Oh. Oh no, I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean it that way. That was not meant as a reproach to you so much as...a rhetorical question. Not meant to be answered, just a topic of curiosity.”

“Hmm,” Crowley shrugged. “Well. I suppose we should talk about Hesiod.”

“I suppose we should. Though I wonder, how much Hesiod do you need to teach? I would say that given contemporary methods and interests, not very much? Though I believe the humans think that he is rather virtuous.”

“His dad gave me a list of books he wants me to go over this year…let’s see, where did I put that…”

“It’s fine. We’ll deal with one text at a time. Why don’t I continue where I left off last time? Oh let’s see, where was it...no, the one you have, that’s the Theogony; we want Works and Days. Ah, here we are:”

A Generation born from ash trees, violent and terrible. Their minds were set on the woeful deeds of Arēs
and on acts of hubris. Grain
they did not eat, but their hard-dispositioned heart was made of hard rock.
They were forbidding: they had great force and overpowering hands
growing out of their shoulders, with firm foundations for limbs.
Their implements were bronze, their houses were bronze,
and they did their work with bronze. There was no black iron.
And they were wiped out when they killed each other with their own hands,
and went nameless to the dank house of chill Hādēs,
yes, nameless! Death still took them, terrifying as they were,
yes, black Death took them, and they left behind them the bright light of the Sun…

Chapter Text

“So now we can see, young Alexander, that we define a circle as the collection of points at a fixed distance from a fixed central point,” Aziraphale said proudly, filling in the dotted points with a sweeping arc of his hand, using two sticks connected with a length of rope. “This is how the Egyptians drew circles too, you know. Quite a clever and ingenious way to make such a smooth perfect figure.”

“Why’s that important? I mean, isn’t it obvious that’s a circle? Just like it’s obvious that triangles exist. Why do we need to go through all this proving process? The eye tells us that it’s a circle or a square or a triangle.”

“It’s true that the eye tells us much but the eye can be fooled,” Aziraphale sighed, staring at the circle etched into smooth sand in a shallow wooden box that had been brought inside on account of the weather. “Alexander, would you say that it’s important to exercise the body?”

“Yeah, duh.” Alexander gave Aziraphale a withering look. “I can’t go to war if I’m weak. What’s that got to do with circles?”

“Well, dear child, the mind is similar; we should exercise that too, to make the best of ourselves. It won’t do any good to have a strong body but not have the will or determination to work through problems. So we study geometry and mathematics to improve our mental flexibility and fortitude. But mental strength isn’t enough if we can’t explain ourselves or convey to other people our reasoning. So in order for us to learn how to have the resilience to solve problems and explain our thoughts with precision, we study mathematics. And from mathematics we learn that we should always proceed from the definition, so as not to lose clarity or misunderstand one another.”

“I suppose that’s a good reason,” Alexander sighed and got up. “Can I try drawing circles too?”

“Yes, please. But first, let’s take a little break. You should refuel your brain at this point; no use in study if you’re starving.”

“I’m not starving,” Alexander protested, but then his stomach gave a loud growl.

Aziraphale bit back some choice words about the boy’s uncle. “Well, that might be what your uncle Leonidas says but I do believe your body is saying something else. Come here, why don’t you sit with me and we’ll have a snack together? I find that exercising one’s mind sharpens the appetite.”

“Did you have breakfast today?”

“No, my uncle says that Spartans don’t eat breakfast.”

“And Xenophon often talks about how important it is for warriors to eat breakfast. My dear child, the fact that your uncle persists in trying to raise you as a Spartan means that it will probably stunt your growth if you don’t eat more. So please, do eat up; there’s plenty more where this came from.”

“Menippos,” Alexander began, using the pseudonym that Aziraphale had adopted as the boy’s tutor, “Why is it that food always seems to taste better with you?”

“Hmm, I suppose perhaps mathematics sharpens the mind which sharpens the hunger which then sharpens the tastebuds?” Aziraphale demurred, handing the boy a peeled boiled egg, bread with slices of hard cheese and apple, and honey-soaked teganitai, the edges of the little cakes still crisp from the griddle.

“It’s also warmer too.”

“I certainly wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale said as he gently brought up the temperature of the air in the unheated room around them another fraction of a degree. It had stopped storming but the ground outside was still covered in drifts of snow and ice was slicked in patches all over the palace courtyards and colonnades. Despite all that no one gave the child more than one piece of clothing – a warm chiton to be fair – but not more than that. It offended the angel’s sensibilities; in this unusually cold weather everyone had bundled up but here, this boy was hardly clothed and those small growing humans had so much more trouble regulating their body temperatures.

“Thanks. You know, I don’t think I’m supposed to be eating this. Especially the teganitai. Leonidas says-”

Aziraphale frowned; that particular uncle who was in charge of the boy’s education was not only unpleasant but harsh in his methods and discipline. “Don’t you listen to him. Listen to me.”

“Yes, you say that but you’re soft and you’re not a warrior and you don’t even go to the palaestra. The only people who don’t exercise regularly are slaves and women.”

“...perhaps but my child, at my age and with my...erm, bad hip, I have been advised by the doctors to take it easy. Especially in cold weather, which stiffens up the joints and muscles.”

“I guess that’s all right then.” Alexander ate as fast as he could, as if he were afraid to be seen eating. “I don’t like Leonidas either, but he’s making me tough. So I can be strong when I’m a man.”

“Child, you’re already strong,” Aziraphale said fondly.

“I guess. But not strong enough,” Alexander frowned, finishing off the rest of the boiled eggs that were still just warm enough to steam faintly in the cold air, savoring the creamy yolks that were never over- nor under-cooked.

“Strength isn’t everything,” Aziraphale said, cleaning up the eggshells, trying to keep it so that there was less for the slaves to do. “After all, wit, wisdom, and knowledge go a long way. As with Odysseus.”

“Speaking of knowledge, Menippos, do you know anything about the movement of the stars?”

“Erm, as it relates to geometry? Well, we would have to learn how to draw ellipses first, I suppose, which is rather similar to a circle except instead of one fixed point there are two-”

“No, I mean. You know, the important stuff about stars. How to divine stuff from them. Figure out the future. Or what other people are planning.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “That stuff about stars. My dear child, I am not an expert in this sort of study, not in the slightest.”

“Oh.” Alexander sighed, disappointed. “I’m ready to try that circle thing again.”

“Good. Here, let’s smooth out this sand and I’ll hold the central stick, and you move the stick with the rope attached to make the points. Notice that as points grow closer and closer to each other, it essentially fills out the line of the circle. So we may think of the line that forms the circle as an infinite collection of points. In fact, this principle extends to any line.” Aziraphale watched as the boy paced around the box of sand, bare feet treading over the pebbled mosaic.

“I guess I should consult an expert,” Alexander said suddenly, as he stuck his stick into the sand with a sharp motion as if stabbing through the ground, hard enough for the stick to rattle the wooden bottom of the box.

“Do be gentle, please.”

“Sorry,” Alexander shrugged, staring at the stick.

“An expert? What do you need to consult an expert on?”

“The important stuff about stars,” Alexander said. “I thought maybe you could help me, but I’ll have to find a proper expert.”

“Hmm, I suppose. I believe if we were to travel to Babylon, we would probably find the world’s experts on stars; they’ve got quite an excellent school there. Oh, and of course, Egypt is a good place as well. I would also say that India has some quite excellent specialists...if you like, I could write to one for you, my dear child. I have some acquaintances in those places that perhaps could send me some books.”

“Oh.” Alexander looked disappointed, but then his expression changed. “Wait, what about Nectanebo?”

“What about Nectanebo?” Aziraphale felt his voice crack. “No wait, my dear child. Don’t go to him. I shall write to Babylon for you and-”

“That would take too long. I could just ask Nectanebo, he knows all about the movement of stars.”

“Erm, why not ask Akakios first? He’s quite knowledgeable; I’ve talked to him more than a few times and he was, erm, spot-on about some things…”

“Oh, he’s just the assistant,” Alexander said, dismissively. “No, I need to learn from a real prophet, a real astrologer.”

“My dear child, I don’t think-”

“No, he’s told me all sorts of things that came true before. And before I was born, he foretold my birth. Besides, didn’t you always tell me to consult the experts on a subject? Who else in court is more expert than Nectanebo?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, biting back the words that were on the very tip of his tongue. “Alexander, I don’t think it would be a good idea. I don’t think he is what he says he is.”

“How do you know for certain?” Intense eyes fixed upon Aziraphale, and for a moment the angel thought he could see the flicker of a Nephilim’s powers in that gaze.

“I...I can’t say how I would know for certain,” Aziraphale said with deliberation, choosing his words with care. “But I have been to Egypt, and have met and befriended astrologers there, and he does not...conform to the accepted standards of astronomical study that is customary in Egypt. And I would say the same about Babylon and Varanasi and Luoyang and Chichén Itzá and Nhanhagardi uthuru- erm, well. Never mind that, what I’m try to say is that if you want quality information on such things, I shall write to one of my acquaintances for you and we can consult a proper expert.”

“That would take too long,” Alexander muttered under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Oh, I was just thinking out loud. You’ve been to India? What’s India like? What are their customs?”

“Erm, well, it depends on where you are. In some places it rains quite a bit until it doesn’t, and the customs depend on where you are really because it’s not exactly a monolithic place – just as all of Hellas is not uniformly of one language or cultural group – and oh, the local food is quite good, many flavorful stews made with lentils or other kinds of beans and eaten with flatbreads and have you ever had a chapati, it’s this very lovely flat bread that puffs up when it’s cooked and oh, some people call it a roti-”

Chapter Text

It was a crisp, frosty morning following an evening of light snowfall when the former nanny Melita arrived at court to visit her brother Akakios, and for this disguise Aziraphale made sure to change some garments around, wearing some new clothes instead of that old favorite himation or the pleated chiton. After all, humans loved new clothes and if Aziraphale was going to be perfectly honest, so did he. Or she, for that matter, as she was now, at least for the afternoon.

As she walked down the colonnade toward the inner palace, she paused to glance at a courtyard. The pebbled mosaics could not be seen under a shroud of white, and the overcast sky seemed almost white as well, shrouded by bright-lit clouds.

She wondered when the blue sky would come back, when the earth would shake off its monotonal winter himation and trade it for a new green one, pinned with golden flowers draped about the rounded shoulders of hills.

“Oi! Melita!” Aziraphale looked up, hearing the sound of a familiar voice.

Crowley greeted her, taking her hands as if they truly were siblings. He was wearing that dashing military-style chlamys again and it sent a little flutter of envy through her, seeing him standing so tall and handsome. “Long time no see.”

Aziraphale smiled up at him, her lips tense. “Brother! You’re looking well.”

“How’s the family?”

“Oh, you know how they are,” Aziraphale said, looking around to see who was watching. “Numerous and quarrelsome...”

And then perhaps by chance or perhaps not, the colonnade quickly emptied itself as the humans around them left, going on about their own devices that just happened to be anywhere but in this particular courtyard, moving as fast as they could possibly go without setting off a panic.

“Right.” Crowley looked around as Aziraphale took her hands away reluctantly. “You ready to do this?”

“Yes, of course.” As Aziraphale rubbed her hands together, her eyes were fixed on Crowley’s fingers. “It’s not that hard.”

“Thought I’d ask you if there was something I could do to help. After all you’re doing this favor for me.”

“Just part of the job,” Aziraphale demurred. “It’s my responsibility, after all. I’ll be fine, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“I could join you? If you need some backup.”

“Best not,” Aziraphale smiled. “After all, perhaps your influence might get in the way. Signal interference. I might not be able to get as thorough of an inspection.”

“Oh right.” Crowley said, disappointed. “Forgot about the whole angel and demon thing, just for a moment. Meet me after? Let me know everything that you think I’d need to know, and then everything else as well. Just in case I can make some sort of connection somewhere.”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, though she did not suggest when or where. “I’ll be certain to tell you everything I can.”

“Sure.” Crowley sighed. “Best of luck and all that.”

It was easy to get into the same room as the Queen. Well, easy, given the application of a series of minor nudges – not miracles, really, but then again the not-too-miraculous-but-maybe-somewhat-miraculous fondness for a former colleague certainly didn’t hurt.

Of course, the hard part was actually getting the audience.

In spring or summer, Aziraphale remembered this as a very lovely room that she had visited rarely, well-lit from high windows gently shaded by tall trees where cool breezes blew in from the sea, the perfect room to read and rest in, away from the blazing sun. Even now Aziraphale could see hints of elegant mosaic floors and elaborate wall paintings in the gloom lit by lamplight despite the hour; it was too cold to open those windows that had been boarded and barred against the weather. Maidservants stood around shivering; one polished the furniture and another busied herself folding clothes, both working slowly and quietly so as not to disturb their mistress.

Olympias herself sat at a table. She sat very stiffly straight, as if afraid to properly lean over the table or lean against an elbow comfortably, and she was looking over the surface of the table intently.

Aziraphale stood by the door, waiting. Waiting was something she was very good at; this was perhaps a difficult game for impatient humans but she could afford to wait. Besides, it gave her time to observe.

The queen was of radiant beauty, and growing into that beauty, Aziraphale thought. When she had first met Olympias years ago, the queen was no more than a girl playing at mother, but now years later, she was a grown woman. Aziraphale smiled to herself and wondered, what will this handsome woman look like in ten or twenty years? Even more beautiful, she thought, once those interesting lines of thought and personality gently etched themselves onto the blank canvas of youth, enhancing all those interesting character traits that a person picked up over the course of their lives.

Wavy crimson hair had been dressed beautifully, carefully coiffed, and despite the apparent casualness of her day, she was dressed as if she would step into court at any time, lavish with jewelry and wearing fine clothing cinched with a girdle of plaited wool and gold. Aziraphale made a mental note that at some point she would very much like a chiton like the queen’s, of a flowing lightweight wool with a decorative border of complex embroidered flowers and fruit. Though Aziraphale thought that paler tones would suit her better, not so much these deep rich colors that the queen wore.

Olympias shifted, and moved a piece, moving first one white stone and then a black one, and then Aziraphale realized that the queen was playing petteia by herself. A pang of pity went through the angel; here, surrounded by throngs of people, was a person who was all alone.

And then the young woman scowled, and Aziraphale felt another sharp twinge of emotion. Uncertain of what that feeling was, she felt her hand clutch at her himation, pressed over her heart. There was something very familiar about this expression and she suddenly realized why. How very like Crowley the queen seemed, Aziraphale thought, between that scowl and that crimson hair and the beauty. But the expression left her visage quickly, as if she had trained herself against expressing such an emotion, and Aziraphale wondered what that meant.

“My queen?” A servant tapped on the doorframe. “They say the king is up.”

“Oh?” Olympias stood. “Were you able to get near him?”

“No, my queen.”

“Good.” Olympias pointed to the maid that had been folding clothes, a very young woman of a particularly fetching loveliness, with brilliant dark eyes and thick locks of straight black hair that had been pinned and dressed in a simple but elegant manner. “Come, accompany me today on my walk.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The two women took up their himations, covered their heads, and left.

After the queen left the room, Aziraphale found herself sidling closer to the petteia board. Unsure of what to expect, the angel certainly didn’t expect to see anything like this. Intense strategems had been set up; moves that dangled between failure and success sprouted like weeds all over the chequered board, creamy ivory pieces and shining obsidian pieces snarled into a strategic standstill. One horizontal move here, and the black piece would lead to the capture of its fellow black pieces. One vertical move there, and the white piece could capture one black piece by pinning it between two white pieces, but stood to lose its own life and that of its compatriot white piece with the next move by a black piece.

It was a tangled, thorny, and troublesome layout but then, Aziraphale saw an opening and took it; she slid one white piece across the board, and it managed to luck out of its dilemma and into the capture of a line of black pieces.

“Well, I suppose that would work. Advantage, white.”

“Ahem.”

Aziraphale started and turned to see the queen, having returned far sooner than she had expected.

“Q-Queen Olympias. What a pleasure it is to see you again,” Aziraphale said, taking her hand politely. The human was warm to the touch, a slim strong hand that gripped Aziraphale’s hand firmly. She looked down into the human’s eyes and saw that those clear blue-gray eyes were just that; clear, free from any demonic enthrallment or compulsions.

The touch of Olympias’ hand confirmed it. Whatever Asmodeus had done in the past, it had left no traces, none whatsoever.

“Melita. My son still speaks of you. He was quite fond of you and your sister. Your brother too,” Olympias said politely, going through the motions of propriety even as she glanced back at the petteia board.

“Oh, I am glad to hear that, I hope he is doing well. Cleopatra as well.” Aziraphale smiled, noticing that there had been no mention of the little Cleopatra, her daughter and Alexander’s ordinary, unremarkable, fully human sister.

“I didn’t know you played,” Olympias gestured to the board. “If I had known you were so skillful, you wouldn’t have been watching the children.”

“I suppose that may have been for the best,” Aziraphale demurred. “After all, childcare is my passion.”

“But it seems that you also have a passion for strategy. Please, join me in a game.” Olympias sat down across from Aziraphale. As her hand moved to clear the board, Aziraphale couldn’t help but reach out to stop her.

“Oh, wait! Please!”

“Excuse me?” Olympias’ haughty gaze was startling, and the angel could see in her eyes that Alexander’s strong determination and will was merely a dilution of the original. So that wasn’t from Heaven or Hell, Aziraphale realized.

“M-my dear lady, please allow me the joy of continuing this game. I’m quite curious about the outcome; it seems that both sides are balanced on a knife-point, even if white is ahead by a few stones.”

“Aren’t you concerned that I know the pieces better than you do? After all, I’m the one who set it up so.”

“That is a risk I’m willing to take,” Aziraphale said, settling her chiton about herself, straightening her himation.

Olympias sat down and moved a piece. At first, Aziraphale thought that she had moved it without thinking, but three or four moves in, the angel realized that the Queen was not moving too quickly or without thinking; it was that she had the board already memorized in her head, and was thinking several moves ahead of Aziraphale.

The angel’s eyes widened – this was nothing like playing Crowley who liked to tease and toy but was never serious about winning – the trap on the board was closing around her pieces with inexorable determination, and seeing no particular way out, she made a move of near-to-last resort, placing the only piece she could safely move between two black pieces. Where normally that would have meant capture if another piece had cornered hers, in this case moving between two of her opponent’s pieces meant sanctuary.

“It’s a shame that move works to keep you out of trouble,” Olympias said, considering the board. “I suppose we are at an impasse.”

“I suppose. Though in all honesty, I would say this means that you win.”

“Would you care for some refreshment?” Olympias asked, gesturing to her maids.

“Oh, I would appreciate that very much.” Aziraphale looked around. “I noticed you don’t have any braziers or some kind of hearth in here…”

“Oh, it’s not that cold in Pella. I grew up in Epirus, it’s much colder there in the winter. This would be no more than an ordinary winter back home and not a very bad one.”

“I thought it was unusually cold this year...but wait, isn’t Epirus further south from here?”

“Hardly, but it’s far more mountainous. Here by the sea the weather is tempered by proximity. But inland amongst the mountains, it’s much colder. And poorer.”

“Oh. I see. Do you miss Epirus?”

“I miss a lot of things,” Olympias said vaguely, and when the refreshments came, Aziraphale noticed noticed that the Queen did not partake.

“Are you sure you don’t want a bite?” Aziraphale said, nibbling on a honey cake. “It’s quite good.”

“I would love a honey cake. In fact, I would love a stack of honey cakes. But I must keep my figure.” Olympias glanced at the snacks with a look of regret. “It wouldn’t do to be anything other than the ideal Queen.”

“Oh?”

“He’s moved on ages ago but that doesn’t mean I have to give him any reason to completely turn away from me.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale looked down guiltily, licking at honey-sticky fingers. “I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“You must be the only one who doesn’t. He does take a fancy for me once in a great while, but he doesn’t like his women to be so...mature. Or to have an opinion.”

“Or to be so strategic,” Aziraphale suggested.

“Precisely.”

“Is that why your maids are so pretty?” Aziraphale asked, daring a bold question.

“He’s less inclined to chase them when he knows who they report to. And if he does, he knows he runs the risk of letting them know too much. Which he is inclined to do anyway, as most men like him like to brag. Even your sister was involved, though I would think that she somehow managed to escape his clutches. Your brother though, I’m not certain, though I hear Nectanebo cares for his servant well. So perhaps both Akakioses were safe in their own way.”

“Oh, I didn’t know…” Aziraphale’s lips tensed into a thin line.

“Yes, well. His hand is stayed because he knows the girls are loyal to me. And they in turn are well-placed to meet some rich merchants or nobles. It’s a safe way for these pretty girls from around Pella to have a better chance at life than catching the eye of straying men out in the wild. I’d rather it happens under controlled situations where they can’t easily be coerced. After all, there’s always the danger that the Queen will find out and find out more than she was supposed to know,” Olympias smiled, and there was a sharp edge of danger to that smile.

“Oh dear.”

“Someone might say that I would have been better off in this society had I been born as a man, but oh, I wouldn’t want to be that. But I certainly wouldn’t want to be this either. No, there is not much for a woman in this life to do but be like the brood mare, valued for its foals but not so much for itself.”

“In another time or another place, perhaps…”

“In another time or place, perhaps I could have been a scholar, or a general, or a king in my own right. But here I am, the supreme ruler of this petteia board and this room and a few rooms around it, better than an ordinary working woman certainly, but in many ways not nearly as powerful or free as even an ordinary working man.”

A servant came by with a little bowl of water and a towel, and Aziraphale washed and dried her hands.

“Shall we play again?”

“Thank you for the game, Melita. It has been immensely enjoyable. I would ask you to another, but I’m afraid I must stop here or else I would keep you here by my side for good. You’re an excellent listener and an even better petteia player. It’s a shame I can’t keep you here,” Olympias sighed. “Or could I?” Sharp eyes fixed upon Aziraphale in such a way that the angel felt herself pale.

“I-I’m sorry, my dear queen, but I do have other appointments and other children to mind. I can’t stay at court for very long, really, I’m just here to see my brother and a few friends. But perhaps someday we can properly play a game.”

“Someday.” But Aziraphale knew from the queen’s smile that that someday would likely never occur.

Chapter Text

4004 B.C. (Sometime After the Beginning)

It was familiar to move closer to another beneath the protective shade of a wing, but it was unusual to look up and see the pure whiteness of the feathers that had an almost translucent quality in the cloud-smudged sunlight.

A strange upwelling of emotion passed through Crawley, and the demon put thin arms around shivering shoulders, black wings folded tightly, remembering that those sheltering wings had been white once too.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” Crawley muttered, straightening up. embarrassed that the angel had noticed. “Totally fine, absolutely fantastic. Just...never seen water falling from the sky. Cinders and fire, sure. But water? That’s new and exciting.”

“Cinders and fire. That seems awful,” Aziraphale said, his voice full of concern.

“Eh, it’s just what it is. Erm, Downstairs. So. Er. Ahem. I didn’t...didn’t know it could fall from the sky. Water, that is.”

“This new creation is full of surprises,” Aziraphale agreed. “After all with water I had always assumed that it stayed on the ground, as in rivers. Or cycles through living beings as it does with the humans and the plants and the animals.” Aziraphale shifted the arc of his wing as the wind shifted, tilting feathers so that the rain that now blew sideways did not touch Crowley.

“But aren’t you getting wet, Angel?”

“It’s Aziraphale. And no, the water doesn’t touch me,” Aziraphale smiled. “An attribute of the Heavenly influence, I suppose.”

“Must be nice.” Crawley glanced down where white feathers didn’t quite shield the demon from the rain. The long trailing hem of the black robes hung strangely and Crawley made a face when the wet, soggy edge slapped against a bare leg.

“It is. Quite nice, actually.” The angel’s smile was beatific, and even through the storm that arced lightning across the sky, the pale curly locks stayed dry and then Crawley caught a glimpse of the angel’s eyes.

Dark, the color of storm clouds – no, of rich damp earth, the kind that could be found throughout Eden but especially besides the great rivers, soft and yielding, mysterious and full of the potential for life even as cool clear water flowed beside it, lapping at its banks unceasing and unthinking.

There was a faint tension in those eyes, a sadness and a politeness that made Crawley realize the angel’s smile was completely false.

“I should go,” Crawley said, but didn’t move. Lightning flashed blue-white bright and for a brief moment Crawley closed golden eyes, remembering the white-hot fall of cinders all about and the protective shade of jet black feathers that were so dark that it seemed no light could escape from them…

“Yes, I suppose I should as well,” Aziraphale said, but didn’t move. The angel glanced at the demon, a slouching slumped miserable thing just out of reach, huddled in the shelter that only an angel’s wing could provide. Pitiful, Aziraphale thought, merely an ordinary low-ranked demon and one not even properly armed against a Cherubim; no flaming sword, not even some additional powers to gain an advantage. “But oh look, is it just me or is there something about the ground that is changing because of the water?”

“...eh, I don’t know.” Crawley peered over the great wall of Eden.

“Erm, does it look a bit like the ground is not quite the same color it was before?”

“Well, sure,” Crawley said. “Obviously the soil changes color when you get it wet. Just like clothes.”

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never been wet.” But upon noticing the demon’s expression change, Aziraphale quickly spoke, “...but it does sound intriguing, this state of wetness. Please, do tell me more about it?”

Crawley glanced over at the angel, curious, and then realizing that this was all to spin out the conversation longer so that they didn’t have to immediately go their separate ways. Looking at the shifting wind that blew the rain here and there, the demon scowled but there was no actual annoyance in that scowl so much as it was the scowl of thinking.

“Erm, well? Well! It’s uh, er. Wet? You know how...if you see blades of grass that in the early morning are damp with dew, and the little clear water droplets cling to the green but then the green leaves get all stuck together sometimes? Well, when things like this are wet...” – and here, Crawley touched the hem of a long black sleeve – “they stick unpleasantly to skin in a temperature unbalancing way. It doesn’t bother me too much but I can tell that my skin doesn’t like sudden sharp temperature changes. And-”

The wind picked up and with it, the rain, which was now blowing in from at least two directions, and without thinking, Aziraphale closed both wings around them, cocooning them in a veil of white.

Crawley gasped, and backed up until trembling black feathers bumped into the angel’s feathers.

“What are you doing?!” the demon hissed.

“Just shielding us from the rain. If you don’t like it-” And Aziraphale quickly parted his wings a bit. At the immediate sight of an opening toward the outside world, the demon slipped out from the curtain of feathers and in a flash of black feathers, flew off, disappearing into the dark shaded trees of Eden.

“...oh. I suppose he didn’t like it,” Aziraphale mused, feeling strangely disappointed.

Crawley sat on the river bank, waiting out the storm, soaked through and miserable. That an angel would try to trap, to claim Crawley for their own–

A shiver went through the celestial form and Crawley muttered invective so withering that the tips of the grass around him scorched at the words.

“Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be anything like that. I mean, it’s not like that angel’s anything like him...and maybe it was just a mistake? An innocent accident, a gesture that didn’t mean what I thought it meant,” Crawley said out loud, and then those words seemed to ground the demon. Certainly it couldn’t have been what that angel was thinking.

Crawley stared at trembling hands and then looked away from the unchanging to the ever-changing.

The storm passed, and with it the colors of the world transformed; the reflection of the sky upon the waters of the river moved from darkness to shifting splotches of shadows to glistening blue.

Instead of miracling off the water that had soaked Crawley through, the demon laid down by the river, letting the warmth of the sun dry out soggy robes and wet hair. It took some time, the process was strange, and Crawley had to turn over at one point to let the other half of the body dry off, but there was something rather enchanting about it, feeling the changing state of robes and hair over time with the movement of the sun and the wind.

Crawley sat up. Still damp, and it looked like the light of the sun was waning, but that did not bother the demon in the slightest. In fact, it was better; night had its amusements as well, amusements far more enjoyable than those of the day. Standing up, the demon disappeared into the forests of Eden.

The humans were gone.

The angel was gone.

And Crawley was alone, a small stark figure in black upon the great stone wall of Eden.

There was an uncertainty now; should the demon follow the humans? The angel? Or was there another possibility?

Crawley glanced back at the deep green of the Garden and then turned to look at the golden sands of the desert beyond it. Was there perhaps the glimmer of green in the distance? Curiosity trembled at the edges of consciousness, and Crawley wondered if it was merely the matter of taking a little flight over to see what was going on outside.

Then again, that could be dangerous. That was beyond the scope of what had been ordered.

On the other hand, there weren’t Dukes of Hell up here to oversee Crawley’s actions. Nor Princes for that matter, nor Under-Dukes nor Marquises nor anyone else that might be trouble. Of course, there was an angel, but that one did not seem particularly dangerous or threatening, merely polite.

Crawley sighed and slithered down into the Garden again.

Sitting against the cold stone of the great wall, insulated from the worst of the chill by a profusion of black feathers, Crawley stared up at the clear blue sky as fingers combed through folded wings, grooming the feathers. Was there something past the walls of this place worth seeing? After the rains, that faint and distant green suggested there was something else out there, but was leaving an option?

A sudden anger welled up in Crawley. This place was wonderful, certainly more exciting and beautiful and dynamic than Hell could ever be, but the demon had no control over being sent here. There had been no choice, not even a few minutes to say goodbye to those few friends that Crawley had in the strange little circle of Asmodeus’ court. Just a rush to be sent upstairs to this place where Crawley knew no one and nothing, where it seemed like every creature spoke a different language that could not be understood nor spoken, every creature rushed along its own way, heedless of the tall black-clad figure that stood in their midst.

Even the humans who looked almost like the angels were not really similar. They could understand each other, but without wings humans seemed incomplete, half-formed, and did strange things like change, their bodies swelling or shrinking with the passing of time and of days.

Trembling arms tightened around Crawley’s shoulders, and the demon shrank down in the presence of this intimidating Earth, feeling miserable and small. A welling, crushing desperation mingled with fury gnawed through that thin and awkward body.

But then suddenly Crawley laughed, but it was not amusement so much as bitter resignation.

There had been no choice to be here, but had there ever been any choices? It wasn’t as if Crawley had chosen this assignment; that was up to the endless power struggles and machinations within the Dark Council. It wasn’t as if Crawley could have chosen which court to join; that had been up to the whims of a Prince of Hell. It wasn’t as if Crawley had chosen to fall; that was the whims of a distant Creator. And Crawley had also never chosen to be an individual with a physical form, that too had also been up to the whims of a distant Creator.

In fact, Crawley realized, there had really never even been a choice to be created. There was nothing and then there was being, and then there was separation and individuality, and if Crawley remembered correctly, that individuality might have been the start of all of this mess.

The laughter, raw and painful and choked, turned into sobbing and Crawley wrapped black wings about that slender frame to shroud burning tears from anyone looking, whether it was an uncaring Heaven or an indifferent Hell. Or even an inquisitive bird or squirrel. No one needed to know, even if anyone bothered to pay attention to one insignificant demon.

Realization came over Crawley.

No one paid attention anyway.

Gasping sobs slowly stilled. Crawley sat unmoving for a long moment, arms tight around bent knees as the strength of the epiphany built up within.

Since no one was watching, why not leave the Garden? Why not do as one desired, why not go where one pleased? Maybe the big things weren’t up to any angel or demon’s choice, but certainly all sorts of little things were.

Oh, but there was power in that realization.

With a gesture trailing tears disappeared and Crawley leapt up onto feet that had found new determination, wings unfurling with a snap.

A hot little spark of rebellion flickered in Crawley’s chest and the demon wondered if this is what those Archangels felt when they stood up against the Creator.

Crawley glanced up at the clear blue sky.

It was time to leave the garden.

Chapter Text

With a flash, black wings propelled Crawley up, and at first the demon meant to just fly out toward that mysterious green, but curiosity got the better of Crawley and the freedom of flight, the air tangling cool around black feathers, made Crawley seek further and further heights.

“Wahoo!” Crawley shouted, voice disappearing into the wind as the Earth shrank beneath the demon’s feet and even the Garden with its massive walls looked miniscule, a toy model of the Creator’s own doing.

The air became thinner and thinner, hardly breathable and then it wasn’t breathable at all but that mattered little to Crawley. The loud rush of air about dark curling hair slowly transitioned into silence and then suddenly, the demon was so high that the thin glow of the edge of the atmosphere gleamed before Crawley, a fragile envelope that held the planet in the cusp of its translucent halo.

“So it’s a planet.” Crawley drooped, losing some of that euphoria in the disappointment that this creation was nothing special. There were billions and billions of these things out there, hunks of rounded rock and gas that orbited in servitude to their stars like ordinary demons serving at court, fetching documents and running little errands, obedient to their Princes of Hell.

“Not even a star, but living off reflected light.”

And yet the planet that should have been no more than an enslaved bit of rock seemed somehow far more than just that. Within this pale blue glow, the world alive in ways that Crawley had never noticed from a planet. Flashes and flickers of lightning lit up the surface of the Earth, tiny white-red and white-hot fingers of high-voltage electricity shot up into the vast darkness above in flickers that were almost too fast for the eye to see. Storms whirled and whorled, twisting with slow majesty through the atmosphere, tinting the blue oceans with creamy white clouds and Crawley shivered, eyes taking in all the beauty. And everywhere, big splotches of green and gold glimmering as the planet gently turned. This was nothing like a bit of bare rock tumbling through space trailing a cloud of dust and gas; if Crawley didn’t know better, it seemed as if the Earth was alive in its own way.

With a gasp the demon floated back down through the clouds, feeling the frozen air slowly warm about fluttering black robes, taking deep breaths as the air became breathable again. Crawley had lost sight of Eden but in some ways it didn’t matter; there was an entire world out there to explore and the Garden was no longer the only place that Crawley thought about.

In the deep ocean the demon drifted past jagged black smoking chimneys surrounded by forests of feathery plumed worms, misshapen rocks crawling with scuttling crabs. Slogging through brown-gold-blonde grasses, Crawley stopped to glance at the spindly trees that dotted the bog and turned to see stretches of gleaming blue-gray water reflecting the fog-splotched sky, tasting the scent of alkaline waters with a sensitive tongue. In the depths of a tangled jungle, the demon leaned against the vine-entangled trunk of a massive tree and listened as the birds and insects and monkeys filled the soft drizzling twilight with a chattering cacophony, calling each other to rest.

Upon a golden sun-baked hill scattered with gnarled oaks the demon watched wistful as two black ravens in flight as if in a dance, tangling and twisting through the air together in near-perfect symmetry, and at that moment, Crawley realized that it had been some time since the demon had spoken out loud. That it had been some time since the demon had even heard someone speak.

And that was a strange feeling; even in the quiet of Asmodeus’ little court it was usual to hear someone talking, usually Legion, in one or many forms, talking to Mephistopheles or Ligur or Asmodeus or just to Legion themselves, a little crowd of Legions in hot debate with other Legions until told off by someone higher ranking and scattered.

Crawley sighed, and watched the two soaring black ravens until they disappeared, darting off into the shelter of the trees. All this time exploring and it should have been wonderful, but slowly Crawley was realizing that an aching loneliness gnawed at something deep inside, and with it fury and desperation built up again within the demon’s awkward frame.

This exile was not by choice and even all these wonderful (and sometimes tasty) things of the Earth could not change that fact.

Longing and homesick for those strange things that the demon now realized were comforts, Crawley thought about Hell with a bittersweet nostalgia: the quiet bickering of many Legions squabbling amongst themselves, Mephistopheles’ amusing little anecdotes about adventures in other courts dodging crowds of Hellish bureaucrats, Ligur’s calm and authoritative demeanor...and the companionship and comfort of Asmodeus’ arms.

Shaken, Crawley darted up into the air in a flash of black feathers and was off.

It was a long, wandering flight, trying to ignore those uncomfortable feelings and Crawley tried to let it go, following flights of birds as they soared (inevitably scaring them), pods of dolphins as they swam (inevitably scaring them), and even some whales (who were not as afraid but certainly gave the black-clad demon strange and suspicious looks with their massive eyes as he hovered over their great shadowy forms, dampened by the hot spray of their exhaled breaths.

There was so much to see, so much to enjoy, and Crawley was going to enjoy it as much as possible before being recalled to Hell.

But then, soaring high over the vast expanse of ocean, Crawley caught a whiff of sulphur in the billowing clouds.

It didn’t usually smell like much of anything in Hell but hellfire certainly had something of a sulphurous quality, even if it was conjured up rarely and mostly used for things like punishment or documentation (which was a kind of punishment in and of itself). So to catch such a strong whiff of sulphur upon the Earth made Crawley wonder; was there another demon here? Had some royalty of Hell that had chosen to peek in, perhaps even a Prince of Hell?

Crawley saw a glint of glowing crimson and excited, the demon spiraled down out of tangled clouds and smoke in a slow, majestic glide, watching the red glow brightening against a splotch of dark green and as it became more clear, Crawley realized that this was no demonic royalty, but an island holding a terrible secret in the heart of its mountain peak.

Bubbling and surging molten lava, boiling crimson cooling to black before roiling and submerging into red, Crawley trudged barefoot over the heaving surface of the massive lava lake, undeterred by its formidable heat nor by the spray from bursting bubbles that fell as flecks of stone upon its surface only to melt back again.

The demon sat down. It was hot here, surrounded by liquid stone and fire, and certainly not nearly as nice as a sunny beach with swaying palm trees, but something about the unpleasantness was kind of pleasantly unpleasantly familiar. The demon laid down, lava surging beneath Crawley’s back in an almost soothing way as if somehow floating upon water but far more solid and unyielding.

Fire suddenly sprang up around Crawley and surprised, the demon sat back up.

“Demon Crawley. A message for you from Lord Asmodeus,” a familiar voice spoke and golden eyes blinked at stinging tears that steamed away in the unrelenting heat. That was Legion, most assuredly, and a moment later the flames showed the visage of the smiling Under-Duke of Hell.

“Y-yeah?” Unused and unpracticed, Crawley’s voice was a rasp.

“One moment, Crawley. My lord?”

As Legion stepped away, Asmodeus came into view.

“Asmodeus? Ahem, Lord Asmodeus?” Crawley was so uncertain of what to do that the demon ended up doing nothing but sit upon the heaving lava lake, stunned, as bubbles of hot lava expanded, cooled, and burst all about in shatters of fragile black brittleness.

“I have news for thee, Crawley. Thou hast been commended for thy work upon the Earth.”

“Y-yeah?” Crawley shivered, wondering if this meant that there would be a recall, that soon there would be orders to return to Hell and the thought sent a sinking cold fear into the pit of the demon’s stomach; there was still so much of this Earth to see and still so much to explore and Crawley did not want to go back, not yet. Not to the endless sameness, to the unchanging and unending night of Hell with no hope of dawn. Where nothing was extremely cold or hot or soft or comfortable, where everything just existed, albeit damp and unpleasantly.

Back to the life of sitting in that little chair pushed to the side, watching Asmodeus at the nominal, minimal business as a Prince of Hell, back to hearing the endless squabbling of Legions, the tired and repetitive stories of Mephistopheles, the cold bored eyes of Ligur…

Crawley looked up, realizing that Asmodeus was still talking.

“…tempted them into ruin, as they should be. I suppose it’s just a matter of time before those things called humans are destroyed. After all, the Almighty does not and has never tolerated failure.”

“Er, does that mean...?” Crawley left the question open, hoping Asmodeus did not notice the demon’s momentary slip of focus.

“Yes, darling. Wonderful, tempting the humans into disobedience. Excellent work, job well done.”

“Oh. Oh! Glad….glad to be of service, my lord.”

“Thine actions have done well for me and my court, Crawley, and I expect nothing less. We have scored the first point in the war against the Opposition over this new creation. There was a small ceremony for the commendation-”

“My lord? Did you say ceremony?”

“Yes, nothing important,” Asmodeus said, waving it off with an absent gesture. “I told Beelzebub that thou wert far too busy to attend as there is much work on Earth, and had Legion stand proxy. Well, a Legion.”

“Oh. Right. Sure, of course. Truly, I’m honored…”

“Not that important?” Legion’s voice could be heard in the background. “But all the Lords of Hell were there and even Satan-”

Without turning around, Asmodeus gestured, followed by a flash of fire and gurgling screaming.

“O-oh yeah. Must not have been that important,” Crawley winced, even though the demon knew that Legion would ultimately be all right, as the multitudinous Under-Duke was ultimately impossible to permanently destroy. “Yeah. Right. Makes sense. Got it. Absolutely understandable. Erm, actually very busy here on Earth, in fact should probably get going again, got all sorts of...things to do. Thingy things. Stuff. Tasks and chores and duties and all that,” Crawley lied.

“Very well. I trust thou wilt continue to do my court service.”

“Sure. Of course, not a problem,” Crawley nodded. “Always. Always loyal to you and your court, Lord Asmodeus...would never fail you.”

“See that thou dost not.”

“I wouldn’t dare, my lord Asmodeus.”

Crawley sat at the edge of a great icy lake, amongst a field of snoring gray boulders. And then one of the boulders snuffled and turned around to look at the demon with great limpid eyes darker than the deep waters of the lake.

“What are you looking at?” Crawley muttered, annoyed.

The boulder yawned and showed off two rows of jagged teeth and Crawley realized that this must have been one of those...what was it called, a seal. Not that it could actually seal anything other than its mouth around a fish.

“Well, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here, and I don’t know if I’m getting recalled or not because I didn’t ask. But I don’t want to ask because the answer could be yes. So maybe I should ask? But if I asked, maybe they would recall me, and I don’t want that. But at least they like me down there? Even he said it was a job that was commended...which means that it’s completed. Mission accomplished. But what am I supposed to do now that it’s done?”

The seal made an impolite noise and half-closed its eyes, settling back down on the pebbly beach.

“You’re no help,” Crawley hissed.

With a hrumph, the seal humped itself a little closer to Crawley, and then closer still until it was almost upon the demon, sniffing curiously.

“Oi!” Crawley scowled, pointing, unsure about the creature’s proximity. By accident and completely unintentionally, that outstretched finger touched the seal’s nose and the creature shrank in upon itself, retracting its neck until it seemed to almost be impossibly inverted upon itself.

Crawley stared, drawing back a surprised hand.

The seal stared back at Crawley and extended its head again, returning itself to its normal state.

And so Crawley did it again, touching the seal’s nose and it did the same thing, retract upon itself with a look of shocked disdain before making an extremely rude noise at the rude demon.

Crawley suddenly laughed, toppling over onto the pebbly beach with a scatter of smooth stones.

The demon laughed until tears filled golden eyes, blurring the pale blue sky littered with loose pebbles of clouds.

Undaunted, the seal laid its heavy head upon Crawley’s legs. Crawley reached out without thinking, and stroked a hand over the smooth skin of the seal’s head.

“I think that needs a name. Touching the nose like this. I will give it a name someday,” Crawley giggled, a trickling tear sliding down unheeded along the length of a long nose and down the cheek to the chin. “Someday the right word will come to me…”

The seal snorted and sighed, before dropping off to sleep upon Crawley’s legs. And so Crawley stayed like that for the remainder of the day, piled upon gently by round boulders of seals that snored and snoozed against the demon’s lanky limbs.

“Oh dear!”

Crawley looked up, hearing a familiar voice, as a lizard’s tail disappeared between pursed lips.

“Aziraphale…?”

“Oh dear! Oh goodness!” And within the garden of the deep forest around them, where above them overcast skies were blotted out by towering trees, Crawley followed the sound of the angel’s voice.

“Oh dear!” The sound came from behind a towering tree, but as Crawley rushed over dead leaves and trailing roots, crushing ferns and grasses, the angel was already gone by the time Crawley caught up.

“Oh goodness!” There, further ahead.

“…how is that Angel managing to- oh, right. Miracles. Well, two can play it this game,” Crawley muttered, and with a little forward bound the demon took to the air, swooshing forward toward the sound of the angel’s voice, darting between massive tree trunks.

“Oh dear! Oh goodness!” But the angel was nowhere to be seen, though a rather large and nondescript bird stared at Crawley with insolent eyes.

The demon’s mouth moved as if tasting something bad, remembering feathers. And then the bird turned to reveal a long, plumed tail and that mouth grimaced, tongue dropping in an expression of contemptuous disgust; long feathers like that would certainly be very unpleasant in the throat.

Crawley scowled, wondering where the angel went, and then the bird opened its beak.

“Oh dear! Oh goodness!” the bird said, in the angel’s voice.

Crawley’s head tilted; was the angel playing at some shapeshifting game? But no, there was no prickle of divinity, no celestial presence. Just a bird that spoke with the voice of the angel.

“Grhmph,” Crawley said, reasonably.

“Grhmph,” the bird agreed. “Oh dear! Oh goodness!”

Crawley sighed.

The bird opened its beak and the sound of Crawley’s own sigh was returned to the demon. “Grhmph! Oh dear! Oh goodness!”

Crawley scowled, and began to turn away, but then a glimpse of something utterly and purely white caught the demon’s eye.

Clutched in the long talons of the bird’s feet was a feather.

Crawley’s eyes narrowed. Something about it…

With a sharp gesture of the demon’s hand, the bird flapped off into the forest, the white feather left behind. Crawley leaned down to inspect it more closely. Dirt, mud, twigs, dried leaves...none of those things dared linger upon the fluffy white barbs. Not a long flight feather but one of those smaller downy ones, the kind that could be found closest to the shoulders and Crawley wondered what it was doing here. After all, it wasn’t as if angels – or demons – just dropped feathers on accident; someone must have plucked this one out on purpose.

The demon flicked out a questing, curious tongue, and caught a faint pure scent, almost like cold mountain wind...

“Hmm.” Hesitant, the demon wondered if this was a trap. But then again, the angel not being personally here, it would be unlikely that any trap could destroy the demon in any serious way. With a shrug, Crawley picked it up, and immediately the feather began to disintegrate in surprised fingers, and Crawley flinched back, expecting the worst.

But nothing happened.

Wait, not nothing…

As the feather slowly disintegrated into a sparkling nothingness, a voice and a familiar one appeared, polite and pleasant.

“I hope this message didn’t overly surprise you. I wasn’t sure how else to get a message to you, at all but then... Well, that’s not important but this is: if you do get this message – and I suppose you’re bound to get it eventually, that’s one aspect of the nature of miracles of course, skewing probabilities – I would like to ask you, that is, if it’s all right with you. Ahem. I would like to invite you to meet. Perhaps? At your discretion? I’ll leave the wheres and whens to your preference. Please let me know at your leisure. No pressure of course, but I suggest that it not be so much an official meeting so much as perhaps an official unofficial meeting? An unofficial official meeting? It has been a while since our last – and first! – conversation which I am afraid did not end as well as I would have liked it to and so if you don’t mind and if you are not still offended, I thought perhaps that I could properly apologize to you in person and make amends and we could-”

Whatever the rest of the message said, Crawley did not hear as roiling thoughts were snagged on one particular idea: the angel really wanted to meet?

Even if it wasn’t a trap, which it could have easily been, something about the prospect of meeting the angel excited the demon. But then, suddenly that feeling of anticipation turned uncomfortable.

“Would be nice, wouldn’t it?” Crawley whispered, a creaky awkward sound even to Crawley’s own ears. It would be nice to meet another angel, one that Crawley wasn’t familiar with, one who hadn’t been around in the same little court for eons. It would be nice to see what the angel wanted, it would be nice to talk and tell someone about all the things that had been seen and experienced and-

And then Crawley remembered.

Remembered that that existence of being an angel was far away and long ago and that no angel in their right mind would want to meet with a demon just to talk, just to look at the clouds and the reflection of the world upon the water and the swaying trees whose leaves broke apart the light of the sun into brilliant discrete beams and remark upon the beauty of existence.

The demon leaned against a tree, putting an arm around it, head resting against against its unyielding surface, one covered in peeling bark that draped down around the trunk as if long tattered robes slowly rotting off a slim graceful torso.

A flash of memory: growing darkness and that distant familiar light of what used to be home growing dimmer and dimmer, falling out of reach and all around the sounds of crying, of-

With a sharp breath, Crawley rubbed together fingers that still seemed to remember the touch of that downy feather.

Foolish thoughts. No angel would ever want to do that with one of the Fallen.

So if it wasn’t a trap, it must be business, Crawley thought. Work. Some bureaucratic nonsense about this peculiar corner of Creation, some tired, indeterminable meeting about orders and management and proactivity and quotas and deadlines and-

Suddenly, that hot little spark of rebellion within Crawley flared up again. Meeting with the Opposition was not a part of orders, not explicitly. The only thing even vaguely resembling orders had been to cause trouble, not to deal with order.

So the demon would ignore the angel’s request. After all, Crawley was just following orders. Meetings had nothing to do with causing trouble, and even then the causing trouble part had been completed, so Crawley let the thought drift from a wandering mind that was already focused on where to go next. Perhaps the great arid plains nearby? Or across the ocean again, but toward the icy waste? Or maybe that land across the waters where the sharp scent of sulphur suggested volcanoes among snow-capped peaks and…

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

A hazy gray-green mist of evergreen leaves floated above, rustling in the breeze and Crowley looked up to the olive tree’s creamy pale flowers budding amidst the branches and leaves, catching whiffs of their faint pleasing scent, wondering if the winter had been overly harsh to these old trees. But the grove was still growing, flourishing profusely despite a season of damaging frost, soaking in the weak warmth of a spring that had been slow to return this year. Even now snow still clung to shady hollows where the ground had not yet melted into a sticky mucky mire.

Crowley sighed. He leaned against the great gnarled olive tree that in summer he had reclined upon. Arms about the thick trunk, he felt cold bark against his chest and beneath his hands and wondered when they would warm.

It had been weeks since they had last seen each other and Aziraphale had refused to meet until now, but Crowley didn’t know why. It seemed that what they had been doing was important, and yet...

“Crowley!” Aziraphale came running up, waving in greeting from across the grove, approaching Crowley from the other side of the great tree.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Aziraphale panted, leaning against the ancient olive tree, taking a moment to catch his breath. “Truly I am, my dear.”

“You’re not late, you’re on time,” Crowley said, irritated. With a sharp gesture, he stopped time all around them, and with it went the scent of the olive flowers.

“Yes, I know, but I like to be here early. Ugh, I was held up in lessons by the child. He has been quite demanding of late. A lot of questions about triangles inscribed on a circle – rather beyond the scope of what I’ve been teaching, but I suppose I should be grateful for his curiosity, though some of it’s sufficiently advanced enough for me to need to study ahead of time.”

“I thought you were going to meet with me right away after your meeting with the queen. Why did you make me wait?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale said, waving off Crowley’s concerns. “I was rather busy and besides, the news was never that pressing.”

“What do you mean?” Crowley snapped.

“I-I thought you would understand,” Aziraphale said, taken aback. Confused, he frowned to himself, unsure why Crowley was upset. “You know I would have gone to you immediately if something had been wrong with the queen. And I didn’t.”

“So that means…”

“The queen is safe. He’s done nothing to her. At least, nothing that lingered. Whatever marks he might have left have long since gone.”

Crowley scowled. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain. I even took her hand. Not a sign of demonic influence or compulsion, not even the slightest whiff of sulphur about her.”

“We don’t all smell like that,” Crowley began.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that,” Aziraphale said, seeing Crowley’s expression. “Just a turn of phrase that got away from me. You will be be glad to know that she’s all right.”

“Yes but-” Crowley interrupted.

“But? But what?”

“B-but there must be something we can do!” Crowley sputtered, pushing away from the tree, pacing.

“What are you suggesting we should do?”

“Get close to her, make sure that-”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Crowley,” Aziraphale interrupted.

“No, why not? She’s in danger.”

“I don’t think that’s the case. In fact, I would say I’m sure that’s not the case.”

“Are you so certain?” Crowley scowled. “We should do something about it-”

“But she’s not in any danger. Even if he is sometimes around her. Or more like, even if she is sometimes around him.”

“Then why don’t we-”

“We can’t do anything. We shouldn’t do anything. Not when the preponderance of evidence suggests no obvious wrongdoing on Asmodeus’ side. After all, he can’t stop time, can he?”

“No, as far as I know, just me.” Crowley shrugged. “I don’t think anyone else but me can. Because of that magic plant I took from Gilgamesh back in the- Urgh, I can still taste how pointy it was...”

“I can’t believe I’m defending him in anything, much less this,” Aziraphale shook his head, disgusted with himself. “But since Asmodeus is not involved in her affairs, neither should we be involved. We should stay out of the queen’s affairs. You should stay out of the queen’s affairs.”

“Oh.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a querying look. “What do you mean, I shouldn’t do something? This is-”

“I already put on women’s clothing and brought in Melita for a visit to check her over for any kind of demonic influence or enthrallment. None exists. So this line of inquiry is resolved.”

“But-”

“What are you trying to suggest, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s lips tightened.

Crowley took a breath, and recognizing the look in Aziraphale’s face, quickly spoke:

“Oh no, I’m sorry angel. I didn’t mean...I’m not questioning your ability or expertise, I swear.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said tartly. “And I think it would be good for both of us to remember that neither of us are anywhere near management. We cannot and should not get involved in...ahem, management decisions, no matter how much we disagree with them or dislike them. If he decides to continue to allow her to meet with him, there is nothing either of us can do to question that. After all, as much as I’d like to cross swords with him and destroy him myself, you know I can’t.”

“Yeah. He’d destroy you.” Crowley said, glumly.

“...excuse me?” Shocked, Aziraphale stared at the demon. “Are you saying you don’t think I could-”

“Angel, I can’t count how many demons he’s destroyed with his bare hands. I stopped counting a long time ago. He doesn’t even need a sword to do it. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him even hold a sword. How many angels or demons have you destroyed?”

“...oh. I suppose you have a point.”

“I believe in you, angel. In almost everything, but not in that one specific way. He’ll win. Don’t try anything, all right? Promise me.” Crowley managed a crooked little smile. “Like you said, management. We can’t question their decisions. Well, I mean, we could try, but they’d do something. Something bad. Or maybe good, if it’s your side. Er, what they think is good.”

“Right. Retraining,” Aziraphale said with a shiver.

“Or the rest of eternity in the deepest pits of Hell, anywhere between that, torture, or destruction.” Crowley scowled. “I wonder what’s worse.”

“They’re all terrible options, Upstairs or Downstairs. But being destroyed would be the worst. Don’t worry, I’m not foolish enough to pick a fight with a Prince of Hell. It’s nice to dream but you’re right. Too risky.”

“Absolutely.” Crowley huffed a breath. “But I still think there should be something we could do for the queen…”

“Crowley.”

“Hmm?” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, who watched him with calm determination.

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course I trust you. You’re an Angel.”

Aziraphale fell quiet and still for a long moment. “Yes,” he sighed. “I suppose you’re right. That is, you are right. I am an Angel. But if you trust me, then you should believe me and let this go. Don’t get involved in Asmodeus’ affairs.”

“Hm,” Crowley said, a sound that was neither in agreement nor disagreement.

They were silent for a long time together, neither speaking nor addressing each other. It wasn’t quite the comfortable silence of the past but it wasn’t the terrible, weighted silence that had been more common in the last few years either. Crowley clambered up onto the slanted curve of the trunk of the olive tree, but instead of reclining he merely sat, leaning back on his hands.

“Crowley…” Aziraphale began, but then he changed the subject. “Ah, there is one minor piece of business to note. I’m not even sure if it’s worth bringing up, but our..ahem, intrepid young student mentioned that he is interested in studying astrology with an expert.”

“Oh? Are we going to have his father send off for a Chaldean? Do you still even know some Chaldeans? Ones who are willing to travel this far into the wilderness of barbarians? I don’t. I mean, would you intentionally move away from big cities at the center of civilization that never freeze or that good roasted carp or fried fish? I certainly wouldn’t, if I hadn’t been ordered.”

“No. And yes, I do still know some but he’s already decided on an expert to study with.” Aziraphale gave Crowley a knowing look.

It took Crowley a beat too long to catch Aziraphale’s meaning.

“Oh. Oh! Him? Really? Him?!”

“Mm-hmm!” Aziraphale nodded, lips pursed tight in displeasure.

“Did you dissuade the boy?”

“Of course I did! I would rather not have him anywhere near a Prince of Hell but my dear, how often do you think that child can be swayed, much less dissuaded? I think we shall have to hope for the best; there is not much else that can be done once Alexander has his mind set on something.”

“Did he mention why he wants to study with Asmodeus? Er, Nectanebo.”

“No. Something about divining other people’s plans?” Aziraphale threw his hands up, irritated. “I never know what to do with that child.”

“I wonder if it’s for war or something else. Wait, probably not war. I mean, the Athenians,” Crowley shrugged.

“Yes, Nikias in Sicily. Mistaking a lunar eclipse as a sign from the gods and losing his army and the war in the process. Well, if it’s not war, maybe it has to do with something personal. As I understand, his mother and father are at odds. Some typical human power struggle. Perhaps it has something to do with that.”

“Probably. Maybe. Who knows? But I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for that. See if I can’t interfere a bit, send the kid off on his way.”

“I think it would be better for everyone involved.”

“Yeah. Better.”

A long pause, and the two glanced at each other as if wondering who would end the conversation first.

“Anyway,” Aziraphale began. “About this year’s City Dionysia. That’s very soon, six days from now. I hear the king’s arranged for the tutors to have seats in the theater with the court. We’ll certainly have seats together, as that’s the case. Have you heard anything about what’s being performed this year?”

“No. Haven’t asked around, didn’t want to know. Haven’t even heard what acting companies are coming. Or are they invited? I can’t remember. Anyway, no spoilers, don’t want to know. Didn’t even walk over to the theater to have a look around to see how it’s being set up.”

“I haven’t either, I’ve been too busy. It’s a shame, really. After all, we only saw one play this last Lenaia before it was snowed out.”

“You know, angel, for dramatic festivals, I prefer the Lenaia to the City Dionysia any time. And given a choice between the Dionysias, I like the Rural Dionysia better. Better music. More insults. I especially like the insult wagon. It’s too bad this winter’s official Rural Dionysia was canceled,” Crowley sighed. “I like the costumes and the processions, but the humans couldn’t have done it in waist-high snow. Would have liked a good laugh during the middle of that miserable winter, whether from the Rural Dionysia or the Lenaia. Except the Lenaia’s gotten too serious with all the tragedies. Middle of wintry Gamelion, we should all be having fun with weddings and light-hearted comedies, who decided to add tragedies to the Lenaia anyhow?”

“I suppose the humans have their reasons,” Aziraphale demurred, feeling a little twinge of guilt because an angelic hand may have had something to do with the inclusion of tragedies during the Lenaia. “Ahem. I wonder what they’ll do to make up for lost time. Perhaps the Rural Dionysia will be made up with unofficial processions in the forest? But it has been rather muddy, maybe if things dry out a bit we’ll see...well, we’ll at least hear the music and the singing from afar. I don’t think they can make up for the Lenaia, that requires acting companies and their poets and sponsors to work together.”

Crowley gestured, letting time flow freely again. As life returned with its normal flow of movement, he stared up at the dizzying green, losing himself in the swaying leaves and flowers, the soft scent of the blooming olives before turning his gaze back to Aziraphale. The wind stroked the angel’s pale curling hair and Crowley sighed, jealous. “Yeah, maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll hear the distant music of their celebrations. Now that it’s spring and everything’s coming back to life…maybe this season will be better.”

In a flash and flutter of black clothes, Crowley was off, walking briskly back to the palace, leaving Aziraphale behind. But when he remembered that Aziraphale would be returning to the palace too, he decided to make a long detour. It was nice to be moving; something about the internal jitteriness he was experiencing was making his entire body feel unpleasant and uncomfortable and that unsettled feeling that had dogged his steps for days had not eased with their conversation.

“Rejoice!” A familiar voice called out in greeting.

“Huh? Oh!” Crowley turned, taking a beat too long to realize that someone was calling out specifically to him. “Rejoice? Erm, oh! Hi! Hey! Er, Nikanor. Wow. It’s been...a while?”

The human had aged, albeit gently; a few strands of silver hairs tangled within the dark auburn hair and more in his beard. These days Nikanor had his beard styled less like that of his friends in the military, and had grown it a bit longer so that the curls stood out, more like a man in the business of running his family’s interests, an elegant gentleman of means.

“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” Nikanor kissed him in greeting, a polite little touch of lips that meant nothing these days. The human glanced at Crowley, eyes lingering on his black-clad shoulder.

“Is something-”

"You have a flower in your hair," Nikanor said, plucking off an olive blossom that had gotten tangled in Crowley’s hair, discarding it with an absent flick of his fingers.

“Just a walk in the groves,” Crowley muttered, embarrassed. “Everything’s dropping all sorts of things now that it’s spring...”

“So how have you been, Akakios? You’re looking well.”

“Erm, heard you got married?” Crowley replied as best he could, stumbling for the right words.

“Yes, a few Gamelions ago. The oldest son is walking now, and the younger one is yet to be born. They say it will happen in early summer.”

“Oh! Congratulations! I hope...you and your family are well.” Crowley managed something like a smile, thinking that he would have to let Aziraphale know that some minor blessings would be in order. Not that he couldn’t do those himself, but it always seemed to Crowley like perhaps blessings would work better if it came from Aziraphale.

“Very,” Nikanor said cheerfully. “Everyone’s in good health.”

“And your friends?”

“Tyrimmas and Demetrios are still as close as ever, even though they’re both married now.” And when Nikanor smiled, in that polite manner that almost reminded Crowley of Aziraphale when he wasn’t about to say something directly, the demon wondered if this intentional omission of Nikanor’s much more intimate friend was to spare Crowley’s feelings.

“Oh, that’s erm. Good to hear. Say, weird question but. Don’t suppose you have any kind of connection or close relationship with the Queen?”

Nikanor’s brow furrowed. “That’s an odd question. Why would I know the Queen? She’s not of my family. I hope you’re not suggesting anything untoward.”

“O-oh. Oh! No, nothing like that. Sorry, I realize now that that sounded...impertinent. Weird. Wrong. Yes, I didn’t mean it that way. Sorry, sorry... No, just thinking out loud over here. Ha. Wondering…obviously it’s not you – you wouldn’t know her personally, you’re not that kind of person – but I thought maybe you might know who her friends are?”

“Not me, I daresay. Nor anyone I know. She’s rather, er – how should I put it – controversial in court?” Nikanor was frowning to himself, a troubled and confused expression, as if not quite certain why he was saying this out loud. “But not like that. Mostly for things like the snakes or the Dionysia. Oh, and isn’t that coming up soon? I need to remind the servants to make some kind of thick cushion for my wife to sit on at the theater...ah, sorry, I have a lot on my mind these days. My apologies, Akakios, I didn’t mean to go off-topic. What was I talking about?”

“Snakes?”

“Oh yes, snakes and the Dionysia.”

“...what about snakes?” Crowley asked, listening intently.

“Really with her it’s just a matter of religious things that people find questionable. Not that a shrine shouldn’t have a snake or anything like that, or even a house to keep the vermin down, but it’s a completely different thing to keep so many and even in one’s own bed. Not that I think that rumor is true, mind, after all the house snake will do what it wants and crawl anywhere that’s warm. A bed, a crib, a chair…

“Ours likes the supper couches after a symposium and sometimes during it – but that’s what people say, that she keeps too many house snakes, and they’re often in her bed. As for the Dionysia, those rumors are too fantastic to be true. After all, in these modern enlightened times, no one eats raw flesh, much less that of someone torn apart in a sacrificial frenzy. But back to what’s important: she’s done nothing as dangerous or scandalous as having friends who are men. Though I think some malicious gossips like to try to make something like that an issue, I would say that’s just malicious gossip with no basis in fact. I’ve never seen her do anything questionable, which is to say I’ve never seen her before at all other than at official events and even then at a distance where she is always modestly covered. That would argue for her respectability, I should say.”

“Yes, of course. Certainly. Respectable,” Crowley nodded, thoughts racing and hardly hearing Nikanor after he had mentioned the snakes. “Yes, snakes. Snakes! Dionysia. I’m sure I’ve heard something like that before around court. Must have slipped my mind.”

“Well,” Nikanor smiled, a little troubled and a lot confused all at once. “I suppose I had better be going. My apologies; I can’t linger today as I am on my way to an appointment. It was nice to see you again, Akakios. I...I pray you to be well.”

“You too, Nikanor.” And the last syllable of that name was almost lost in a sigh. “I…erm, that is, be well. I’m sorry…”

“What’s that?” Nikanor turned, and Crowley caught a flash of bright gray eyes that had just a hint of wistful sadness still in them.

“Nothing. Just...thinking out loud to myself. Thanks for the conversation. I suppose I’ll see you next time.”

“Yes, until next time.”

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

Crowley glared at the dried mud that dared to cling to his boots, and the mud quaked right off as he stepped into the mud-splattered mosaic courtyard of the palace. With a huff of irritation, he stomped through the muddy corridors and found himself heading back to Asmodeus’ quarters.

As he walked, he formulated a plan. He would get permission from Asmodeus to get closer to the queen, under the excuse of corrupting her. Maybe he could argue that she was looking rather pious and holy these days; it was always a coup to get someone like that onto the Downstairs ledgers. Then, he’d change into a snake. Except it was somewhat of a walk to her quarters. Maybe he could change into a snake and get someone to carry him carried there. No, that would be unnecessarily complicated, he’d walk over to closer to the queen’s rooms and then change into a snake. But then again, what color should he choose? The one he was, naturally, or the one that he had been camouflaged into?

Immediately this was already getting too complicated, and he thought about Aziraphale’s warning. Crowley stopped where he was, and sighed. Probably best to stay away…

And then he realized he was already standing before Asmodeus’ door.

The door was open. Thankfully there were no ladies-in-waiting, well, waiting.

If he could scowl ever harder, he would, and Crowley stared at the open door, wondering what that meant. Was it always open? It was usually closed when he was there, but that was because of some other extenuating circumstances that made it so the demon didn’t want to be seen or heard by anyone else. But…

Crowley tilted his head. There was the sound of a familiar, demanding, querying voice… Flattening himself against the wall, Crowley tilted his head so that he could listen in on the conversation.

“And then, child, according to this text, the ascendant star at birth determines-”

“Do you really think the stars can tell me what other people’s plans are, Nectanebo?”

“Alexander, astrology can tell us many things about the stars. The stars in turn can tell us certain things. Useful things.”

“Like predicting someone’s schemes?”

“Why are you so interested in this, young Alexander?”

“I’m trying to help my mother. I’ll tell her the important things that I’m learning from you.”

“Why do you think that she needs your help?”

“She thinks...no, she knows my father is planning something against her, and I need to figure out what. I already have plans too, you know. If something goes wrong, I’ll help her run away to her brother’s house. He’s a king and he’s also her brother so he’ll protect her, even though my father is a more powerful king. Life is hard for a woman. They’re not allowed to do so many things that even I’m allowed to do. So I have to help her.”

“How very troublesome. I suppose it can’t be helped with humans.”

“Nectanebo, are you married? Do you have children?” Alexander’s voice demanded.

“What a question, child. Of course I have been married. I also had many, many sons and daughters. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t think you could understand the war that happens between a mother and a father unless you were married and had your own children.”

“It doesn’t seem like all marriages are warfare. Certainly mine wasn’t.”

“Not all men are warriors,” Alexander replied, tartly. “And not all women either.”

“Warrior or not, one should not discredit the dangers of any person, man or woman. That being said, please study this text for now.”

“I don’t want to, I can’t read Egyptian.”

“Then look at the pictures. I’m certain you can understand those, child.” Asmodeus’ voice sounded particularly tinged with venom, and Crowley grimaced, imaging the Prince of Hell’s expression and wondering how Alexander was still corporated and in one living piece. He had never heard anyone speak to Asmodeus like that before.

A tense quiet, and even from here Crowley could hear Alexander mumbling as the child must have been looking over the text, muttering to himself.

Crowley sighed, sliding down along the smooth-plastered wall, chiton and himation bunching against his back as he sat down.

And then, as he was straightening out his clothing, he looked up.

“My dear, what are you doing on the floor?” Asmodeus towered over him, free of his human disguise and dressed as a Lord of Hell might be, draped in inky black robes that seemed to steal the light from around him.

Crowley gasped, stumbling up onto his feet. Quickly he looked around and realizing that Asmodeus had quietly offset reality just a little bit as any angel could so that no mortal creature could see or hear the two demons.

“Erm, uh, I, that is-”

“You weren’t eavesdropping, were you?”

“N-no, my lord. Just...waiting until you were done with your visitor.”

“Ah. I supposed it would take a while, but I think we’re about done. How very convenient it is for you to be here.”

Crowley said nothing but nodded politely as every cell in his body prickled all over with an unspoken internal panic.

“I caught your scent at the door, darling. Did you know I would need you for a little errand?”

“No?” Crowley blinked. “Just a coincidence, really. But of course I’m at your service, my lord. Wait, did you say errand?”

“Oh yes. I’d like you to turn yourself into a snake. I want to test the limits of the child’s obedience.”

“...Nghk?” Crowley asked with the grace and eloquence of eons of being a minor courtier in a prominent court in Hell. A jolt of fear frazzled electric; was this punishment for something? Had he done something wrong, slipped in some way? Thoughts racing, Crowley could only think of the discoporation from those years ago, but there had been plenty of time since then to properly chastise anyone, even if it took Asmodeus some time to think up something properly painful. But then again, this wouldn’t be painful. No, this was not punishment; it was too trivial. This had to be something else.

Crowley looked up, realizing Asmodeus was talking.

“...rather proud and willful, I should say. Terribly unruly and resistant to my training and commands. I suppose it’s all that free will that these humans are imbued with. Yet, he is still in part one of us, perhaps more so than any one of my previous children. I’d like to see how far that free will extends...or doesn’t.”

“Oh. Oh! Of course! Of course,” Crowley nodded a bit too extravagantly in agreement. “Yes, yes, free will. One of us. Yes, I understand. But my lord, I…I have concerns.”

“Hmm?”

“Erm, I know snakes are sacred to these humans. But humans only like certain kinds of snakes around them. Other snakes aren’t welcome. I’m...I’m afraid when I change shape I look too erm, venomous? To them. Dangerous. That black and red coloring isn’t known around here at all. I mean, there are snakes that look like me in Australia and, and they’re all venomous too but not that much and erm, never mind, that’s besides the point. T-the point is that any kind of dangerous-looking snake could be strangled or trampled on or stabbed or thrown to the dogs – discorporated somehow – and that could be a real problem, you know. Downstairs. Downstairs would have a real big problem with both of us if I were discorporated again so soon after the last time. Which is to say, Downstairs would have a real big problem with me if I got discorporated again-”

“Don't worry darling, I will not allow anything to happen to you.” Asmodeus brushed back a lock of Crowley’s hair. “Besides, you’ll be going somewhere you’re interested in going.”

“W-what do you mean, my lord?”

“Oh, I’ll have him take you to his mother’s quarters. You seemed rather interested in her, the last time she was here.”

“M-me? Oh, no no no no no, no. No. Totally not interested, I swear, I just thought it was uh, interesting that a human was visiting you and-”

“You needn’t lie to me, Crowley. She is a fascinating human, isn’t she? Beautiful, intelligent, desirable...”

“Sure?” Crowley managed a little cracked smile, trying to disguise his excitement as he realized that whatever Asmodeus was up to was going to put him directly where he wanted to be. “Yeah, erm, fascinating...”

“Well. Should you find yourself in a compromising position in her bed, I would not be adverse to it. It would be something of a shared experience. But for now…”

“You want me to change? Now?” Crowley gulped.

“Yes.”

“How...erm, big should I be?”

“Something delicate. Light enough for a child to carry, but also small enough to be injured if he doesn’t carry you carefully. You can do that, can’t you?”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley winced at the thought of being dragged around by the tail by Alexander. “Of course.”

“It’s just a test. I’m certain he’ll pass. And you shouldn’t be worried about injury; it’s not as if you’re completely powerless when you’re a snake.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Crowley nodded. “Right, snake. Got to be a snake. Snakey thoughts...think snakey thoughts…”

With a little pop the demon turned into a small black and crimson snake that Asmodeus caught gently in his hands in mid-air, cupping the serpent in his palms.

“Excellent work, my darling.”

Not much longer than the span of all fingers, Crawly coiled around Asmodeus’ right wrist, as if a delicate black bracelet of cunning design, escaping the icy touch of the Prince of Hell’s cold hands. A tongue flicked out to taste the air, catching the scent of juniper.

Asmodeus ran his fingers over the smooth cool scales with a light and delicate touch, and Crawly shivered all over, flexing that thin muscular body tight about the Prince of Hell’s wrist.

“Darling, don’t worry. I won’t let you fall,” Asmodeus murmured, as he stepped back into his quarters. “Now stay still until I tell you to move.”

And as Asmodeus spoke, his human disguise covered over him like a snake’s skin shedding in reverse.

Nectanebo’s sandals slapped across the mosaic floor, and Crawly tried to relax without relaxing, clinging to the disguised Prince of Hell’s wrist, feeling the quiet thump of the Prince of Hell’s pulse against the tender underside of a scaled throat.

“Are you going to read me more of this? Because the pictures don’t really help,” Alexander complained, pointing to the scroll. “There are detailed diagrams but they’re all labeled in Egyptian and I can’t read it. I don’t recognize their gods. What do all these divided circles mean? Why is there a crocodile riding on the back of a hippopotamus-lion who’s standing up and carrying a crocodile and a pointy sword? Is it a hippopotamus or a lion? Do hippopotamuses or lions really stand and have breasts like human women? Is that extra line in the drawing supposed to be a mane or a tail and if it’s a tail, why does it go all the way up to the back of the creature’s neck? And why is everyone wearing round red hats above their heads? Why are there so many crocodiles? There are crocodiles everywhere!”

“Let’s call it a day for now, shall we? We’ve been studying for some time now. Astrology is a difficult subject and it won’t be mastered in one day. Make sure that you are studying the mathematics of inscribed triangles, that will make some of this easier. And ask your literature tutor to teach you the works about stars.”

“I will,” Alexander sighed, frustrated. “I guess that means more Hesiod. It always comes back to Works and Days, doesn’t it…”

Crawly managed to bite back a hiss of irritation.

“In the meantime, I have a little errand for you.”

“Yes?” Alexander stood up with a yawn, pushing aside the scrolls in frustration. “What do you want me to do?”

“There is something I want you to take to your mother.”

“What?” Alexander’s face immediately grew suspicious, and there was a hard coldness to the boy’s expression that set a little shiver through Crawly. “I’m not doing anything improper or anything that could get her in trouble.”

“It’s nothing improper. Just a gift. A small one.” Nectanebo held up his right arm, showing the golden-eyed serpent that clung to his wrist, gleaming obsidian black.

“She won’t wear jewelry in that color. It doesn’t suit her. And not from another man, even if it’s you. That would cause problems-” Alexander began, glaring fiercely up at the astrologer.

“Ah, but it’s not jewelry. Crawly, come,” Nectanebo said, and dutifully, the shapeshifted demon uncoiled from about the Prince of Hell’s wrist and into his cold hands, tasting the air with a flicked tongue as if an ordinary serpent.

Alexander flinched back. “That’s poisonous!”

“Venomous,” Nectanebo smiled, and Crawly couldn’t help but yawn, revealing a pair of tiny gleaming fangs. “But not to you nor your mother.”

“Why would I bring her a viper? We should kill it-”

“This is no mere viper, child, but a sacred snake, a rare creature from Egypt.”

“It’s not from Egypt, that’s impossible. You weren’t wearing it before. I know, your wrist was bare, and then you stepped outside and then when you came back-”

“My dear child, I cannot let anyone see the magic that summons this serpent to me. Besides, have you ever seen any snake in your life that looked like this?”

“No,” Alexander pouted. “I guess not.”

“This is a magical creature, one that obeys me. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Brilliant golden eyes turned toward Alexander and Crawley nodded, as much as the limited physiology allowed and the demon was immediately dismayed that in this form, neither shrugging nor scowling or the arch of an ironic eyebrow was possible.

“Wow. That’s amazing,” Alexander whispered in awe. “How did you get it to do that?”

“As I said, this snake obeys me. But it does more than that.”

“Really? Like what?”

“It has the power to chase away bad dreams,” Asmodeus lied.

“I should bring it to my mother then,” Alexander volunteered. “I think she would like something like that.”

“Only if you promise to keep this sacred creature safe from harm,” Nectanebo smiled, gracious and kind. “No one but you and your mother should see it. Harming a snake like this would bring great catastrophe and misfortune.”

“I promise, I’ll protect it. What was its name again?”

“Oh, the name doesn’t matter. Why, you could call it anything you like.”

Thump thump thump thump.  Hidden in a fold of cloth at the child’s shoulder beneath his chiton, Crawly was wrapped around the assuring metal closure, clinging to the golden fibula that held the cloth together, seeing nothing but cloth and feeling the jarring rattle of the child’s steps as Alexander walked deeper into the inner palace, going upstairs, wandering through the maze of the palace to find his mother’s quarters.

Occasionally Alexander would very lightly touch the place where Crawly was hidden, as if making certain the serpent was still there, and Crawly was glad the boy was gentle, was careful. Finely boned ribs could easily be broken by a human in this state of being, and the thought of being discorporated again sent shivers through the snake’s body; this time if something went wrong, it might not be Asmodeus who was sent to the deepest pits of Hell.

“I need to see my mother,” Alexander said to someone.

“Yes, of course. She’s right here.” A young woman’s voice, probably a maid, Crawly thought. Alexander stood waiting for a moment, before ushered into a rather warm room.

It was bright in here, even through the cloth of the chiton. Late afternoon sun streamed in from high windows, and this part of the palace faced south so that cold winds did not slip in through the windows.

“Mother, I have something for you from the oracle.”

“Oh? Did Delphi write back?”

“No, not that one, uh. The local one, Nectanebo.”

“What does he want?”

“He didn’t want anything, but he wanted me to bring you this…” And carefully, Alexander reached up to his left shoulder. Before he could try to coax Crawly out, the serpent slipped the tight grip of the fibula and into the boy’s hands.

“Alexander! Drop that, vipers are dangerous!” Olympias said sharply.

“No, it’s all right, mother. Really, it’s safe. This is a sacred snake from Egypt that shouldn’t be seen by anyone other than the two of us. That’s what Nectanebo said. It won’t harm us, he promised.”

Crawly nodded in agreement, curling up into a cosy little knot, trying to show how safe and completely not dangerous this deadly venomous, demonous serpent was.

“Oh…” Olympias’ mouth closed in a tight line and though she still watched Crawly with suspicion, she made no movement at all, holding very still. “Alexander, please put it in the jar over here, a snake won’t be happy if it’s not warm.”

“Yes, mother.” And Crawly was suddenly surrounded by the high sides of a ceramic vessel, warm from where it sat on the floor. The thick ceramic radiated warmth, and Crawly wondered what it was, before remembering that this room must have been above the oven of a kitchen downstairs.

“Why did he send me something like this?” Skeptical, the queen looked at the golden-eyed serpent who stared back with unblinking eyes, coiling and uncoiling, settling into a comfortable position. The inside of the deep pot was slick with a smooth ceramic slip, and the pleasant warmth and coziness of the heated vessel made Crawly drowsy. The snake yawned, settling down, listening to the humans talk.

“I don’t know, but Nectanebo said it was a gift, and that it would help ward off bad dreams.”

“I see. I wonder what he wants. I suppose I should thank him for the thoughtfulness, though I should think that he should have sent his own servant with this and not made you into some sort of messenger boy. If it wasn’t a sacred snake not meant for the eyes of others, I would say that he had insulted us. Make sure not to touch the snake. We shall leave it in the jar.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Promise me, Alexander. You’re to leave this snake alone, do you understand? It might be a tame snake but it’s still a viper, and we don’t know how dangerous it might be.”

“Yes, mother.” Alexander pouted, but acquiesced.

“Tell me, did Nectanebo say if it had a name? I think magic serpents are supposed to have names, in order to better command them.”

“He said the name, but I didn’t hear him clearly,” Alexander sounded dismayed.

“Be more attentive in the future,” Olympias said sternly.

“Yes, mother,” Alexander said, dismayed.

“Did he say if the name mattered?”

“He said the name doesn’t matter. He said that whoever had it could name it whatever they wanted.”

“I see. Then you and I have something in common, snake,” Olympias said to Crawly, as she put a perforated lid over the jar.

Sudden darkness, pierced by the faint stars of light seeping through the perforations. The humans continued their conversation, but it was hard to hear through the vessel and the warmth was very pleasant and it was very nice to not worry about things for the time being and just exist, thinking snakey thoughts, though Crawly noticed that the jar was too tall to slither out of and the walls were too steep and slippery to climb up.

“Mussst be some clever way of keeping snakessss in one place,” Crawly yawned, hissing quietly. “Very clever indeed, humansss. That’ssss going to be a problem, but a problem for Future Crawly…”

Chapter Text

Hell, just before The Beginning

“And that is as much as we know right now about this new Creation. Which is to say, not very much at this present time,” Asmodeus said, standing before the thrones of the other three Princes of Hell.

Crawley stood with the other members of Asmodeus’ court, watching the sole tall figure of Asmodeus make his presentation before the thrones. Unlike the Prince of Hell, Crawley was near a vast crowd of representatives from the courts of the other Princes. Of course in practice, no singular Prince had as many demons under their rule as Beelzebub, and so nearly everyone in attendance was a member of Beelzebub’s court.

However, being a member of such a small court had its benefits, Crawley thought. For one, they always had the best views at these big official meetings, at the front by the big empty area before the black thrones. Even though today, with Asmodeus standing so prominently before all of Hell (at least, all of those who were important in Hell), it seemed like it would have been preferable to be lost in the depths of the crowd instead of standing in front.

But that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, despite it being Hell, where generally everything was a Bad Thing. It was just...a thing. If anything, there was something exciting about the novelty of being in a rare big meeting like this, seeing different faces and hearing different voices for a change, even with all the additional scrutiny.

“It izz our understanding that the Opposition has moved forward with planzz to place their own agent upon this new Creation.”

“We must do something about it,” Leviathan agreed.

“It would be best to move fast,” Asmodeus said. “Heaven does move slowly but if we move slower, we’ll lose the initiative.”

“Then it izz agreed. As we have diszcussed, Asmodeus shall be the one to represent uz upon this so-called ‘Earth’,” Beelzebub’s voice intoned gravely.

Asmodeus paused, turning to look at the First Prince of Hell. Their eyes met. Beelzebub’s lips darkened into the hint of a scowl but Asmodeus did not turn away.

“Actually, I refuse,” Asmodeus said, in a mild and measured voice. A gasp went up in the crowd, followed by the murmur of many demonic voices.

“How could he refuse?” Legion stood closest to Crawley, and whispered in a voice that Crawley could just barely hear. “I thought it was all settled in advance. Wasn’t this meeting supposed to just be just a formality? Isn’t getting sent up there supposed to be an honor?”

“I don’t know. But I think he must have a plan,” Crawley whispered to Legion. “Wait and see what he does next-”

“Silenze!” Beelzebub snapped, and the room fell into a horrible, hard silence as demons glanced at each other furtively, afraid to move, to speak.

Legion’s hand was close, and so Crawley furtively gave it a squeeze, the motion hidden beneath the trailing long sleeves of black robes.

Legion did not meet Crawley’s eyes, but gave Crawley’s hand a gentle squeeze too before letting go.

“Explain yourszelf, Asmodeuzz.”

“It certainly is an honor, my dear brother,” Asmodeus smiled, and strode slowly forward toward the thrones of the three other Princes. Crawley made certain to betray no expression before the open court, but the demon was laughing inside; this posturing was intentional, absolutely calculated to irritate the other Princes of Hell while Asmodeus took pleasure in building up the suspense. “One that I would never refuse lightly. But it is an honor that I think should go to another.”

“Another?” Beelzebub glared, and it was such an unusual expression from the usual bored indifference that the First Prince usually evinced in open court that Crawley shivered. “Who? Why?”

“As for who, I shall give out the nomination immediately. But what matters is why.” Asmodeus made an elegant gesture, pointing upwards. “Sending a Prince of Hell is overkill. It will cause an arms race between our sides. We send a Prince of Hell, they send an Archangel. The moment we cross swords – and it will be a guarantee that swords will be crossed eventually – and the battle may never cease until it escalates into outright war. As we all know, we’re not ready. They certainly aren’t either but we can’t afford to fight until we either bolster our ranks or know their true numbers. A Prince of Hell and an Archangel would be far too much for one miserable corner of Creation, even if the Almighty was the one who personally created it. I recommend we send an ordinary demon.”

Beelzebub paused before speaking, leaning upon upon the iron-black throne, and glanced over at the other Princes. Leviathan was nodding, and Belial was tapping a small finger, not in irritation or impatience, but with a certainty that spoke to agreement.

“We shall confer upon it,” Beelzebub said reluctantly.

“Yes, of course.” Asmodeus waited for the other Princes of Hell to stand, and then walked with them out of the great meeting room.

Hastur stepped forward from his place beside Beelzebub’s throne after the Princes were gone. “Twenty minute break while the Dark Council meets. No one is dismissed. There are no drinks or snacks or breaks of any kind. You cannot do as you please.”

And then along with the other Dukes of Hell, Hastur also stepped out.

“The Dark Council.” Crawley was impressed. “Didn’t think they’d go that far but here we are.”

“An ordinary demon. Who do you think is gonna have a chance to go up there?” Legion wondered.

“Best not to ask,” Ligur said, overhearing the two chatting. “Best not to speak either. You know how he gets. We’re not all like Legion here, un-destroy-able by any known means.”

“Is that a real word?” Crawley wondered. “Un-destroy-able.”

“But it could be anyone,” Legion suggested.

“Well, not just anyone, I’m sure he has someone in mind,” Crawley said. “After all, he’s quite-”

Without a word, Legion nudged Crawley who fell silent immediately; the Princes were back and with them, their respective Dukes, following them to stand at their sides.

“Didn’t seem like enough time to even walk all the way to the council chamber and back,” Crawley whispered, as the Princes of Hell resumed their places.

Asmodeus glanced over, meeting Crawley’s eyes, and Crawley felt internal organs twist in fear as the demon cringed before the Prince’s reproachful gaze.

“Meeting commences,” Hastur intoned. “All rise for the Dark Council.”

The demons all glanced at each other from where they were standing and looked toward the seated and standing Princes.

“Then it is agreed,” Beelzebub said to Asmodeus, who had resumed his position before the thrones. “It is bezt that we maintain balance and do not unintentionally begin an armzz race between the two sidezz. We leave you to nominate an ordinary demon.”

Beelzebub’s expression changed, and there was a hint of anticipation in those pale icy eyes that were fixed upon Asmodeus’ face.

“Oh, I am honored, dear brother. I had thought you would have wanted to pick one of your own for this task.”

“No, we leave it to you. I’m czertain a member from your own court will do just fine.”

Asmodeus’ expression didn’t change, but when he turned to face Crawley, there was a certain subtle amusement in his green eyes that Crawley recognized.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Asmodeus said, feigning disappointment. “Having only a Duke, an Under-Duke, and a Marquis. Who should I pick among these exalted Fallen?”

“Oh, but those are not ordinary demonzz,” Beelzebub was transcendent with barely-masked triumph and Crawley traded a nervous glance with Legion. “Demons of rank cannot be sent.”

Asmodeus’ shoulders tensed, and Beelzebub’s expression was one of pure joy, as exuberant as a demon who never seemed to smile or enjoy anything could express.

“Then I suppose I have no choice but to send my Companion,” Asmodeus sighed. “It is a terrible, disappointing outcome.”

Crawley’s eyes went wide.

“It izz, izn’t it?” Beelzebub’s lips curved into the vague suggestion of a horrid smile. “Your precious Companion, sent so far away, never to stand again by your szide.”

“We must all make sacrifices for the greater good of Hell. The greater bad, that is,” Asmodeus said, and he gestured for Crawley. “Come, Crawley.”

“M-me?!” Crawley gasped, but then immediately nodded, strutting forward with as rakish a confidence as was possible when that particular bravado was not really felt inside. Quickly, Crawley headed toward the great desolate expanse before the thrones of the Princes where Asmodeus stood alone, his yellow hair like fire in sharp contrast to his black-draped figure.

A great chatter went up in the room, and Crawley glanced back at Legion who flashed him a furtive thumbs up that disappeared quickly beneath black robes.

“Very clever, making Asmodeus send his own Companion away,” Belial laughed. “What are you punishing him for this time, Beelzebub?”

“It would easier if you just give up your crown,” Leviathan said to Asmodeus, who was very pointedly ignoring the broad-built Prince of Hell. “It means nothing here anyway and the only one who really wants it is Beelzebub. It’s not like you’re using it for anything, they’re just meaningless symbols.”

“Though unlike ours, his crown is still somehow gold-”

“Excellent entrance, darling, thou’rt splendid,” Asmodeus said softly, just loud enough for only Crawley to hear, as he put his arm around Crawley, drawing Crawley close, standing before the assembled royalty of Hell.

For one dizzying moment, Crawley thought, it felt as if they were two against all of Hell and that sent a shock of lightheaded exhilaration through the demon’s slim form.

“What’s going to happen?” Crawley whispered, but with a sudden motion the demon was being ushered out, following Asmodeus and the other Princes of Hell.

“Get that demon ready to be sent up,” Beelezbub said to Asmodeus, overtaking them with swift steps upon short legs, heading out first as was the First Prince’s right. “I want resultzz immediately.”

“I… Am I really? Really going Upstairs?” Crawley’s voice echoed in the empty throne room of Asmodeus’ court.

“No, not Upstairs. Just up to Earth,” Asmodeus explained. “A place trapped, caught between us and the Opposition, a new corner of Creation. Something like a buffer state, I suppose.”

“What’s it like?”

“I don’t know. But I hear it was a slapdash job. Created very quickly over a short period of time without our craftsmanship, we who are angels,” Asmodeus said as he passed his hands over Crawley’s shoulders. As he did so, the faint threads of gold that had shone from the silvery-gray cloth of Crawley’s robes that still glimmered with lingering stardust turned crimson.

“What are you doing, my lord?”

“Camouflage. It would be better should they see nothing of themselves in thine appearance. An angel might take offense, thinking that thou wouldst overreach, putting on airs beyond thy station. I would not have them try to destroy thee for thy robes, thinking thou deservest not that lingering hint of heavenly gold.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right,” Crawley said, though the demon was still disappointed to see those threads become red.

“Thou art beautiful still, my darling.” Asmodeus kissed the demon, both a motion of comfort and a throwaway gesture at once. “Upstairs will no doubt send someone higher ranking. The more ordinary, the more fallen in appearance, the less likely to be harmed. Don’t worry, thou knowest that this isn’t the first time thou hast put on something of a disguise in order to blend in. It will hold, and keep thee safe.”

“My lord, are you really being punished?”

“Oh, they try their best to move against me. But I’m still the Second Prince of Hell. How could it be that I am being punished, darling? This is exactly what I wanted.”

A strange twist of emotion, hope and despair tangled up together inside a ribcage that suddenly felt brittle, fragile, and Crawley looked up to Asmodeus. “You want me sent away?”

“I don’t want thee here with me. I’d rather have thee far from the machinations of Hell. Things are only growing worse as time passes. I may not be able to maintain my position forever.” Asmodeus ran his hands over Crawley’s hair, and taking up a few strands, and began to braid them together, just behind Crawley’s ear.

“B-but that means-”

“Yes, it means it will be a long time before I see thee.”

“I don’t want to leave your side, my lord,” Crawley said, even though the demon felt a conflicting glimmer of some unspoken emotion.

“Thou willst do as commanded, to complete the assignment and-” Asmodeus paused, frowning, upon hearing intruding footsteps echoing in his court. “Yes?”

“It’s time to go,” Hastur said, looking around as he walked in. “The new Representative on Earth is being requested.”

“I will be there shortly.” Asmodeus gestured. “Out.”

And Hastur disappeared.

“What did you do to him?” Crawley gasped. “Isn’t Beelzebub going to be angry?”

“Nothing, just moved him past the front entry by the guards. He shouldn’t have come in, not into my court without my permission. I could have him punished for that; he knows he got off lucky. If Beelzebub thinks to get the best of me...” But then the twisted braid dropped from Asmodeus’ fingers, incomplete and unfinished. “I had hoped we had more time, Crawley, but I suppose this is Beelzebub’s doing too, making certain that there is no time to properly bid thee farewell.”

Golden eyes welled up with tears that dared not be shed. “I don’t- W-what am I going to do? What am I going to do without you, my lord?”

Asmodeus kissed Crawley again, deeply, but this time something about it was different. The Prince of Hell pressed his hand hard against Crawley’s thin chest, almost painfully so and a strange pulse of white-hot power went through the demon’s frame, shaking Crawley from head to foot, the electric surge lingering and tingling along every cell before quickly dissipating just as it came, and suddenly Crawley felt normal again.

Crawley touched the center of that chest where Asmodeus had touched; nothing felt different at all.

“What did you do, my lord?” Crawley whispered, shaken.

“There.” Asmodeus kissed Crawley’s forehead, before pushing the demon away. “Thou canst always reach out to draw upon my powers in case something goes wrong.”

“But I don’t know how to use it-”

“Thou’rt clever; figure it out. Besides, such powers should only be used in extremity. Revealst not to anyone, not one of ours nor to the other side, that thou hast access to a Prince of Hell’s powers; that would upset the balance. Come now, let’s go. We can’t keep them waiting.”

“I-I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do-”

“It won’t be hard, darling. I know thee and thy skills. Thou’rt one of the cleverest angels I know.” Their footsteps echoed as they walked briskly over the bare stone floor of Asmodeus’ court.

“How should I proceed?” Crawley quickened every step once Asmodeus gestured for the demon to walk by his side instead of trailing behind him. “What should I do first?”

“Just get up there and make some trouble.”

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

Time passed meaningless in the perpetual twilight within the tall jar, and it seemed like Crawly slipped in and out of a pleasant sleepy unconsciousness, occasionally waking for a moment when a human came into this room though they did not linger.

Sometimes footsteps could be heard. Even more rarely, someone’s voice. Strange, how few people came in here, and the snake wondered; what kind of personal room was this? How did the queen use this room? Crawly tried to remember the layout but it wasn’t an easy prospect, not when the snake had only caught a bare glimpse of hangings and furniture before being set down into a jar. One thing that Crawly was certain of however was that it was not a bedchamber or a sitting room, and given the warmth, Crawley wondered if it was some sort of special store room for snakes.

A snake store room, just as they had store rooms for books.

A snake library.

Crawly hissed in amusement, laughing silently as snakes do, before curling up once more, the tip of a long tail covering a cool nose before drowsing off again.

The rasping sound of the lid being moved as well as a cool draft that trickled down the tall sides of the jar stirred Crawly into waking. A light, nothing more than a little oil lamp whose brightness could not really chase away the shadows was set down on a nearby table, and Crawly tasted the faint scent of molecules of burning olive oil with a flickering tongue.

The demon looked up, yawning, wondering what time it was and if there was a drink of wine to be had and where in Hell Asmodeus was, if he had left the demon to sleep on the warm floor but then Crawly remembered being a snake in a jar.

Despite the darkness, Crawly could see clearly the figure of Olympias as she sat down, dragging the tall ceramic container close and the snake felt the hollow rasp of the bottom of the jar scraping along the floor, rattling through every rib and vertebrae.

And then, nothing.

Crawly looked up, curious, but there was nothing to see from here. The snake tried to crawl up the side of the jar, but it was too slick and so the snake yawned, settling back down in the warm darkness, wondering what to do. Couldn’t change shape, not while in the jar, would either get stuck or break something, and possibly not the jar. Maybe become a bit bigger to become long enough to slither out? Later, when there were no humans about. Probably should return soon to report in...

And while Crawly thought those demon thoughts, the queen sat for a long time quiet, her arm slung around the jar.

Finally, after about an hour by Crawly’s estimation, she sat up.

“Do you know what’s tedious, little snake?” Olympias leaned over the vessel, peering down at Crawly who gazed up at her with unblinking golden eyes.

Unable to shrug, Crawly did the second best thing, which was flick a long forked tongue and wiggle the tip of a thin tail.

“Everything. Every single day. If I didn’t have to do this, I wouldn’t. Fighting and scheming and strategizing… I’d rather read books and see plays and play games of strategy. Spend time only with my friends but know who I could really be friends with, and not suspect everyone who wants to get close. Be comfortable and not think constantly about dressing up and cosmetics and what to eat or what not to eat and how I look, and if I’m still desirable…and do you think I’m still beautiful, snake? Oh, what does it matter, why is it so important, that I’m even asking you? I hate that I have to think like this. It feels so shallow and insipid.

“If the world was different, I’d want to travel and see new places, meet new people all over the world, hear new ideas. And when I came back from all this traveling, I’d run the government better. Improve the economy. Build new cities. I have lots of ideas, but you don’t want to hear about my ideas for land reform or taxation or military budgets; no man does. Though are you male or female, snake? I never looked, but I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

Olympias sighed deeply.

“If...there’s something you ought to know, snake. It’s…” And the queen fell silent for a long time, and then she whispered her words into the jar, as if afraid of being heard. “It’s hard enough some days just sleeping and eating and drinking. Sometimes I think, wouldn’t it be easier to just pick someone like you up in my arms? And just...let you have a little bite. Just a nibble, right here, right along the neck. Enough so I don’t have to worry about sleeping and eating and drinking anymore.”

Crawly winced, but an impassive snake’s face gave nothing away, and so the snake moved about along the smooth bottom of the jar, unsettled.

“Don’t worry, I would never do it. I’m not so tired of life, just this life. Besides, I can’t let him win. After all, what would happen to my son if I wasn’t here to protect him? Tossed away, lost amidst his father’s growing army of children and bastards. No, I have a reason to live, even if I don’t feel like it all the time.”

Olympias hugged the jar, resting her chin against the lip.

“Somehow I doubt you’re magic. But then again, maybe you are. Would it matter? Even a magic snake is just a little snake at the end of the day. You can’t get rid of the dreams. I can’t get rid of the dreams. I can’t get rid of the past. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go back to who I was. Do you feel like this sometimes too, snake?”

Crawly wiggled that tail a bit more, hoping that maybe she would understand what that meant, even though Crawly wasn’t even sure if it meant anything.

“Maybe you don’t. But at least you also know what it’s like to be named and unnamed all at once. If you wanted to ask me what that means, I...I would tell you the truth.” But Olympias said nothing.

The snake could feel the soft vibration of her breathing, of her heartbeat resonating through the walls of the jar.

Finally she sighed. “All right, and perhaps this is foolish to tell you. After all, if you’re a magical snake, sacred to the Egyptians, you probably already know this. But just in case. This...this isn’t my name. Not my real name. I’m not actually Olympias. I mean, I am. That’s what everyone calls me now. These days, no one is allowed to call me by the name that I chose for myself, Myrtale.”

Crawly stiffened, thinking about the name that had been attached to this form since those terrible times after the Fall, the one that had never really suited the demon well, and the new name that had been chosen that sufficed, lacking a better option.

“My initiate name. The name that was more me than the name that my father gave me.”

And Crawly wondered; was Crowley more of a name than the name that the Creator had bestowed? The one lost in the Fall, broken and shattered, never to be recovered. The snake wished that this physiology would allow for sighing; that was a question that could also never be answered.

“Now you know the secret, little snake. And that’s why I won’t name you, even if that astrologer tells me I should. Because you should have your own name, little snake. One that you choose for yourself. Not just one that someone changes on a whim or because he could or because he won a horse race, even if it was at Olympia.”

Crawly nodded emphatically, or as best as a snake could.

“You’re a very good listener. I would hold you if I dared, but I do not. After all, a tame viper is still a viper and I have too much work of my own to do without testing how strong your venom is. They say you can strengthen yourself against the poison with a little snake, but I don’t need any more poison in my life. Besides, all my snakes are not dangerous. Except for you.”

Crawly hissed in agreement.

“It’s too bad we can’t have a conversation properly. I wish I could know what you would have to say. Oh, but you are my guest here, where are my manners? All this time we’ve been conversing and I haven’t offered you any refreshments. Would you like some milk? A little mouse? Or a lizard? Or perhaps an offering of wine; the Dionysia is coming soon and along with it all the tragedies. You’ll come with me, won’t you? We’ll celebrate together, and then afterwards...well, we’ll see when the time comes what to do with you afterwards…”

Chapter Text

Hell, a long time before the Beginning

It was dangerous to go for a walk, but Crawley was too bored not to take a walk.

Crawley had been watching the entrance of the court for ages, observing, biding time, waiting for an opportune moment. It had been a very long time since anyone who wasn’t a part of Asmodeus’ court had been seen even passing by and so the demon reasoned that it would not be unreasonable to believe that no one lingered around outside the court of a Prince of Hell. It seemed perfectly reasonable to think that it would be safe to step out for just a moment while the lord and master was at a meeting. Normally it would be impossible to go out alone or out at all but with everyone else in the court also out on business, there would be no better time.

Besides, Asmodeus himself was in nearby Conference Room B meeting with Beelzebub, and if there was any problem, Crawley decided, the Prince would certainly be within shouting distance.

And so the demon sauntered out of Asmodeus’ court in Hell, deciding to go as far as Conference Room B and then back again.

Crawley stepped out of the court and felt an immediate lightness within that tall slender frame, as if unfolding wings to fly up into a space unconstrained by stone walls and stone ceilings, and the memory of the freedom of the vast universe with its flaming flickering stars and the tumbling motion of asteroids and the stately rotation of planets and galaxies sent a sharp pang of pain through the demon’s form.

Stopping just a step beyond Asmodeus’ court, Crawley suddenly crouched down in a huddle, tears seeping from golden eyes. One even had the audacity to fall, dripping down unchecked upon rough unyielding stone.

This was the first time the demon had been out alone, the first time since the Fall, and Crawley nearly wanted to kiss the ground in gratitude.

But the demon didn’t and instead straightened up, gesturing away the tears with a commanding hand.

“Get yourself together, Crowley,” the demon said in the tiniest of whispers, trying out the new name that had been considered for a long time, before closing that traitorous mouth.

Far too dangerous to be saying things like that out loud, Crawley thought, and uncertain, unsure, glancing back at the open door to Asmodeus’ court all the while, the demon began to step forward.

Hesitation slipped away and with a gradual growing confidence, Crawley walked forward, looking around with a curious eye for anything of interest that could be seen, going at whatever pace the demon chose to take.

The hallways in this part of Hell were empty. Crawley had heard about what other courts were like and on a rare occasion had seen one, those busy hives of activity where demons shuffled about through their monotonous moods, passing messages from one to the other, sorting out the details of one thing or another, but here, the business of Hell went on quietly out of sight; Asmodeus did not like his court business resembling business.

In fact, if Crawley thought about it – and the demon did think about this issue every now and again – as far as Crawley could remember, even back before the Fall the Second Prince of Hell (who of course back then had been ranked as an Archangel) was not one of those Archangels who chaired committees or gave out assignments. Asmodeus was not the type to be writing up write-ups or evaluations, merely a pleasant and amusing personage that came by once in a while to see that everything was in order and had a good word for most everyone.

There were lots of good words, back then. All of them had for the most part been replaced by bad ones.

Crawley sighed, and stepped forward, deciding to be unconcerned about the past and only curious about the present. After all, nothing could be done – they couldn’t go back to Heaven, and at least the demon would enjoy this brief time out alone before going back to the monotony of-

Rounding a corner, Crawley froze just a few steps from Conference Room B as another demon closed the door to the conference room behind him. A Duke of Hell from the looks of it, crowned with a reptile as Ligur was crowned. Tall and lean, though not nearly as tall as Asmodeus, draped in what were still strangely pale Heavenly robes, though yellowed and stained and rotting away at the edges. As the tall figure turned, Crawley saw that the Duke had skin disfigured by boils and putrefaction, and Crawley’s eyes widened in horror at the sight.

No one in Asmodeus’ court looked like this.

The knobby toad upon the Duke’s head stared at Crawley and licked a glistening black eyeball.

“What are you doing here?” The Duke of Hell snarled.

“J-just going for a walk, erm that is uh, running errands for my court, your Disgrace. I’ll be going off that way now, sorry for the intrusion-” Crawley began, slowly retreating, keeping both eyes on the stalking figure of the Duke of Hell.

“Who are you?” The Duke demanded. “And what are you doing, lurking outside here?”

“Just...just an ordinary demon? Doing ordinary demon things? For my, er, infernal master?” Crawley’s voice cracked. “Erm, who might you be?”

“Hastur, a Duke of Hell. And we are the Fallen, not demons. How come I’ve never seen you before? Who do you serve? What court do you belong to?”

“Well…” And Crawley gasped, as Hastur’s hand closed hard around the demon’s throat, a flicker of infernal fire rising up around that unrelenting hand. For a moment, Crawley didn’t know what to do, whether to run or to struggle but involuntarily the demon flinched, hair falling back from a pale panicked face and Hastur’s hand suddenly dropped.

“Wait…” And Hastur’s hand came up again, brushing aside Crawley’s hair, to reveal that serpent’s mark upon the side of the demon’s face. The Duke of Hell’s hand snapped back as if touching something hot or dangerous and Hastur backed up, clutching his wrist as if scorched.

“N-never mind.” Hastur glanced at the closed door of the conference room, a flicker of fear coming over his black pupilless eyes.

“W-what’s that?” Crawley said, a hint of a sneering smirk coming over amused lips, shaking fear giving way to a trembling bravado. “Is something wrong, Duke Hastur? Is this something I should be taking up with Lord Asmodeus? Because if there’s something wrong, I really ought to let the Second Prince of Hell know…”

“N-no. Of course not, there’s nothing wrong. But you should go. You’re not allowed to be here! Get out of here, you miserable little runt, before I change my mind,” the Duke of Hell commanded.

Crawley stared at the Duke of Hell for a long, impudent moment before turning on a sprightly heel and walking away. After rounding a corner, the demon heard the door to the conference room open and shut, and the brief sound of Beelzebub’s voice raised in anger as Asmodeus said something that sounded both insolent and amusing at once.

Humming just a little bit, some snatch of celestial song half-remembered and half-forgotten, Crawley sauntered all the way back to Asmodeus’ court and as the demon did so, Crawley carefully tucked long strands of dark curling hair behind both ears, making sure the serpent mark was plainly visible to all who crossed the demon’s path.

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

“Phoenix, wait! I need to talk to Menippos.”

Upon hearing that strident voice and the familiar pounding of running feet behind him, Aziraphale felt something inside of him clench up; it was a day off and somehow the child had found him, despite the fact that their schedules should have disallowed the possibility.

Aziraphale wondered if there was a human word yet for that awkward uncomfortable feeling that a teacher feels when happening upon a student outside of the regulated context of a lesson, and decided that if there wasn’t, there should be a word for such an emotion.

“I should have left the palace earlier,” Aziraphale muttered to himself. “Why did I decide to reread the Bacchae in entirety before seeing it staged...”

The angel steeled himself and put on a mild, pleasant smile before turning to face the child.

“Alexander! What an...unexpected pleasure. And you’re all dressed up for the festival. What are you doing here?”

“Phoenix is taking me to the theater. Or more like, I’m taking Phoenix to the theater. Well, not all the way to the theater, just to my father and his men for the procession before the theater,” Alexander chirped, tossing back a headful of neatly dressed hair that was already not so neat from a combination of rowdy child and wind and something to do with falling blossoms from an olive tree. “I hope it’s good, even if it’s the Bacchae. I prefer the ones about Achilles.”

“Ah, yes, those are certainly compelling stories. Very tragic and action-packed, with all the murders and corpse dragging...” Aziraphale managed a smile, waving in greeting to the old man that watched over Alexander, the one nicknamed Phoenix after Achilles’ tutor, who was still down at the other end of the colonnade slowly catching up to the young prince. “Erm, did you have a question, young master?”

Alexander looked around, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I don’t want to get him in trouble because I like him, but have you seen Polynices? The literature tutor.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale paused. His first thought was one of panic: that Crowley had been reassigned, and it would be years before he would see the demon again. But then again, he knew Asmodeus was still loitering around somewhere; anyone of that stature leaving unexpectedly would have set the court ablaze in gossip. His second thought was still a nervous concern: perhaps that demonic master had sent Crowley off somewhere on a short assignment, but then Aziraphale remembered his recent conversation with the demon at the olive grove and in his heart of hearts he yelled Crowley’s name very loudly and in a very frustrated manner. Crowley!

“He missed some lessons before the Dionysia. I kept going so no one would notice and I did the reading so he wouldn’t notice, but now I’m ahead and he’s nowhere to be found.”

“Ah...how many days before the Dionysia? Er, when he first missed a lesson, that is.”

“Five?” Alexander shrugged. “Does it matter?”

“Erm, I think I had heard...yes, oh, now I remember. Around that time he told me that he received news that there was a death in his family. Very tragic. He had to go see to the rites and such, last minute. Didn’t want to make a fuss about it, he’s a very private man, you know. Terrible thing to happen so close to the Dionysia, just awful,” Aziraphale said, improvising an answer that would hopefully satisfy them both.

“Oh. He should have said something, I would have had someone give him some good wine for libations for the dead.”

“Well, you know good old Polynices, always trying to not live up to that troublesome, quarrelsome name!” Aziraphale laughed weakly. “I’m sure he didn’t want to concern or upset you too much with his ahem, personal affairs, especially so close to a festival. So! Young Alexander, did you want to calculate the distance between the palace and the theater?”

“No, I already know that. Both walking and from the balcony.” And the boy gave Aziraphale the correct numbers down to the finger, and Aziraphale had to admit it was neatly calculated, or at least well-memorized.

“Very good. Well then, unless you want to do some more geometry today, run along with Phoenix. I hope you have a good festival day.”

“It’s too bad we can’t sit together today, Menippos.”

“Oh yes, what a terrible shame that is, child. But you know that your father would want you to be seen with him on such an important day, wouldn’t he?” Aziraphale felt his smile waver. The last thing he wanted to do on a day off during the Dionysia was spend it with a child who brimmed with questions, too many of them that came dangerously close to the truth; Aziraphale already had plans for this day that didn’t involve children.

“Yes, you’re right. Well, I should go to meet my father.”

“You too!” Aziraphale’s smile brimmed with false sincerity before he winced, realizing he had said completely the wrong thing.

The tragedy had not yet begun, but Aziraphale was already drunk. Very pleasantly so on this sunny spring morning, clutching a big half-full wineskin in his arms as if it were a large squishy pillow. Aziraphale had left the procession early to drink and watch the people taking their seats, and certainly not to wait for Crowley.

He glanced at the empty seat to his left, figuring he would give the demon the benefit of the doubt. The other tutors were slowly arriving and filling the seats ahead of them, and the angel wondered who would end up sitting on his other side. Hopefully someone who was either very good company, if Crowley didn’t show, or someone who was very bad company, if Crowley did show.

To his surprise the person who sat down beside him was someone he already knew, a familiar face: Nikanor.

“Oh, a pleasure to meet you, sir,” Aziraphale said, feigning non-recognition.

“I see you must be one of the young Prince’s tutors,” the young man smiled.

“Ah, yes. I’m Menippos the Peloponnesian, instructor of mathematics.”

“Nikanor of Pellas, pleased to meet you.”

“And have you come by yourself, Nikanor?”

“No, my wife is here with me, back in the women’s seats. And I suppose some of my friends will be here as well, though some will be guarding the king, over there,” Nikanor gestured.

“Oh, how splendid, though it’s a shame you can’t sit with them. I’m waiting for a friend myself, a fellow tutor.” Aziraphale smiled, glancing at the empty seat beside him, wondering how awkward this coming play was going to be for Crowley. “Care for some wine while we wait? I brought it in case I was thirsty. Which in fact, it seems like I am.”

“Only if you’ll taste some of mine. I have a very pleasant vintage imported from Ionia.”

“Oh?”

“I suppose I picked up a taste for Ionian wine some years ago. It’s much more refined and elegant than anything we make here, though of course I normally would drink our own local wine. But today is a special occasion,” Nikanor said, handing Aziraphale his wineskin as Aziraphale did the same.

Taking a sip, Aziraphale paused for a long thoughtful moment. This one was one of Crowley’s favorite wines, one made in Chios that he hadn’t tasted in some time, not since they lived in Ephesus, mixed perfectly to Crowley’s liking.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed in surprise at the realization, without noticing that he had said something out loud.

“Is something the matter?” Nikanor asked, solicitous.

“N-no, no, I was just admiring the quality of this wine,” Aziraphale said, taking a longer drink before handing the wineskin back to the human. “It’s quite good, I’m afraid if I had more, I’d be taking advantage of your hospitality.”

“It’s all right. After all, it’s a holiday,” Nikanor said with a smile. “Yours is quite good as well.”

“It’s a vintage from Lesbos. I think,” Aziraphale replied, though as he recalled, it didn’t start off that way. And certainly, it had been some centuries since this particular vintage had been made. But it wasn’t his fault really, he had just had Lesbos on his mind when the wine ever so thoughtfully changed of its own accord.

“It’s very good. I’m tempted to trade wineskins!” Nikanor laughed. “Oh, though I suppose it’s not quite time to laugh yet.”

“No, I suppose the solemn part comes first.”

“I am looking forward to seeing the tragedian Neoptolemos. What a coup, stealing him from Athens. Have you had a chance to meet him, Menippos?”

Under different circumstances, Aziraphale thought, they might have already been friends and for a moment, the angel felt a pang of longing for those days back in Athens when everything felt simpler and freer. “Sadly, my work keeps me too busy to meet actors and the like. If I’m not giving lessons, it seems that I’m preparing for them. It’s...surprisingly demanding work for a student of one.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Though if you like, I could invite both of you to a symposium someday if you’d like to meet him. It seems that you’re quite easy to converse with, Menippos. Something about you almost reminds me of a friend I had once…”

“Hmm?”

“It’s nothing, just wine-colored thoughts. Oh look, the queen and her women are here.” Without pointing, Nikanor nodded toward a balcony overlooking the theater.

“I suppose the play will start soon.” Aziraphale looked around, but did not see any sign of Crowley.

“Do you see your tutor friend?”

“No, I think he may be held up by some family affairs though I wonder…” Aziraphale frowned, this was a good chance as any to ask around and find out where Crowley might have gone. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen the astrologer’s servant lately, what is his name again...Akakios?”

“Akakios?” Nikanor’s expression changed, just for a second, and it was as if his calm demeanor had cracked just a little. “Actually, I saw him in passing just the other day. About six days before the start of the Dionysia, in town.”

“Oh?”

“We had a brief conversation. He...had some strange questions,” Nikanor said, his eyes wandering back to the queen’s retinue.

“Really? What sort of strange questions?” Aziraphale asked, nudging the human with a gentle application of divine will.

“He had some odd questions about the queen. And seemed rather interested in gossip about her, about all those stories about the snakes and the Dionysia, as if she would be staging her own personal Bacchae out on the mountain,” Nikanor said, and as that gentle nudge of miraculous intent faded, continued. “But I suppose that’s common, a lot of people like to gossip about the queen.”

“I suppose she’s a person of interest,” Aziraphale said after taking a deep breath, wondering if Crowley was here already, at the queen’s side somehow, disguised as a snake.

“Not to me. It was a pleasure meeting you, sir. If you’ll excuse me...” Nikanor smiled politely and a moment later turned to greet an acquaintance.

Crowley! Aziraphale thought angrily, wondering what kind of mess the demon might have gotten himself into.

Chapter Text

Then Zeus gave birth to him,
the god with ox's horns,
crowned with wreaths of snakes—
that's why the Maenads
twist in their hair
wild snakes they capture.

O Thebes, nursemaid of Semele…

The tragedy had begun, and to Aziraphale’s left was an empty seat that he had saved for Crowley. Crowley, who was already so late that he was probably not showing up at all. Annoyed that the demon was probably up to some ridiculous scheme, Aziraphale found himself unable to properly concentrate on the play, and that made him even more annoyed. He glanced over to his left and noticed that there was yet another two empty seats past the empty seat at his left.

Aziraphale briefly wondered who those seats were for, but then the angel turned his attention back to the play. But as he did so, he noticed some movement out of the corner of his eye; someone who came late sat down just to the left of that second empty seat, three seats to the left of Aziraphale.

Not seeing the splotch of color from a himation or a chlamys or even a chiton, Aziraphale glanced over in curiosity.

It was Asmodeus, in disguise as the Egyptian, bared to the waist in a linen kilt.

“Of all the…” Aziraphale scowled, looking away, pretending not to have noticed, hating that there were merely two empty seats between him and Asmodeus, putting him nearly in arm’s reach. Of course it would have to be him. Aziraphale turned back to the play, furiously focused on the action, irritated that he was missing bits of the show.

...as you wave your thyrsus,
revere the violence it contains.
All the earth will dance at once.

He's welcome in the mountains,
when he sinks down to the ground,
after the running dance,
hunting the goat's blood,
blood of the slain beast,
devouring its raw flesh with joy,
rushing off into the mountains,
leading the dance—

And then gradually the voices of the actors seemed to dull, to be blunted, and a quiet, ringing silence fell over the entire theater, the little coughs and murmurs of the crowd dissipating into nothingness.

“What? What do you want?” Aziraphale snapped, turning to the Prince of Hell, irritated that the show had been interrupted. Asmodeus had dropped all pretenses of disguise and the appearance of the Prince of Hell’s actual form made Aziraphale flinch. For a moment he remembered Crowley’s warning about this particular demon’s dangers but then all that was forgotten because he was missing out on the Bacchae.

"What did you do to her?" Asmodeus demanded.

“Her? Who are you talking about?” Aziraphale asked, dumbstruck, genuinely confused.

“What did you do to Crowley?”

“Oh, Crowley? I’ve done nothing to Crowley. Why would I do anything to Crowley? What did you do to Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded.

Asmodeus was suddenly taken aback. “Nothing, of course.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Aziraphale sneered. “I’m so certain you’ve never done anything to Crowley.”

“How dare you speak to me like this?” Asmodeus hissed. “You might be the Representative on Earth for Upstairs but I am Management.”

“First of all,” Aziraphale began, clinging to his wineskin. “This is the Dionysia. And I don’t care if it’s the City Dionysia, we didn’t have a proper Rural one this year and as far as I’m concerned, we’re going to do both at once and holding to custom, even slaves are free during the Dionysia and all the social order is disrupted, and even though I’m not a slave it doesn’t matter to me right now if you are a Prince of Hell or even Satan himself, so you’re just going to have to put up with-”

“What's wrong with you?” Asmodeus snarled, with barely-suppressed rage.

“What’s wrong with you?” Aziraphale shot back. “There's nothing wrong with me. I am just drunk.”

“How...shameful. You’re an Angel.” Asmodeus was almost too shocked for words.

“Excuse me, I am drunk because it is polite to be drunk! It is in fact not just polite to be drunk, it is pious and holy! To be drunk! In public! During the Dionysia! It is criminal to stay sober at a time like this! And if you don’t mind, I am trying to watch this tragedy! And sure, Neoptolemos lives here in Pella now but it’s not like he’s on stage all the time and it is a rare treat to see such a famous tragedian. I haven’t seen a decent show since the Lenaia and even then-”

“Principality-”

“And even then, the seats were terrible and it was snowing the entire time to the point where the snow was piling up on stage and had to be shoved off and all the costumes got wet and I think half the chorus caught the flu and the other half caught the plague and one of the principals almost died of pneumonia and you know who had to go heal all these people and their families and the backstage crew and their families and all the people watching who got sick as well, oh no, it wasn’t a demon who went to make sure they didn’t die and take half the city with them in the dead of winter, oh, it was-”

“Representative-”

“Me, that’s who. The Representative on Earth. Doing all the dirty work of going into Every! Single! Little! Hovel! And house! to make sure the plague didn’t spread. And I have my own actual job too that takes up nearly every waking hour of the day! I had to do it because we needed them to live to sing another day and look, there they are not dying (not dying yet, no wait, that’s just Pentheus and that’s much later in the play) and singing quite nicely except I can’t hear anything you horrid demon because you have done something very annoying to reality and I literally cannot even hear the aulos which should be the most obvious instrument that you can hear-”

“Aziraphale.”

“Huh?”

“Are you quite done?” Asmodeus snarled.

“No. Never. Not until I find a proper insult wagon upon which to better hurl invective, and let me tell you that is where the humans have it right, to get up on a mobile platform for the express purpose of insulting people who deserve it.”

“Hm. I see that your...commitment to appearing as the humans do is commendable, if unusual,” Asmodeus said, conceding in a grudging manner, intentionally ignoring the fact that Aziraphale had unleashed a mountain of vitriol upon him. “However, if you will shut up for a minute, I have a real problem.”

“What do I have to do with your problems?” Aziraphale snapped. “You’ve caused me so many problems and now you dare ask me to deal with yours? Solve them yourself!”

“It may concern you as well. Crowley is missing.”

“So? He’s a big demon, he can take care of himself,” Aziraphale said, waving off Asmodeus’ concerns with nonchalance. “Besides, I just met with him and he was fine…” And then Aziraphale remembered their last conversation about the queen. “Oh wait, no. Did he do something stupid?”

“Like what?” Asmodeus eyed the angel.

“I...I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale said primly, realizing it would be a terrible thing to betray Crowley to one of his Hellish superiors. Worse, to betray Crowley to the highest ranked of his Hellish superiors. “Er, why do you think he’s in trouble?”

“He was sent on a short assignment but he hasn’t been back in days.”

“So? Maybe it’s taking him a few days longer to complete his work. Why are you so worried? He always comes back.”

“She should have been back several days ago.”

“How are you so certain? It’s not like Crowley’s never wandered off before.”

“Because we have an agreement. Crowley’s nights are mine,” Asmodeus hissed.

“...oh.” A chilling truth, and confronted by what that meant and what it would have meant to Crowley almost sobered Aziraphale up but the angel took a generous swig from his wineskin. “So? Let him have a few nights off, he probably needs some time to not be bothered by the likes of-”

“Last I saw Crowley, she was in the form of a snake,” Asmodeus said.

“So? He’s a big snake, he can handle himself-”

“A very small snake. About this big.” And Asmodeus gestured, and Aziraphale’s brows furrowed; that was a very small snake, no bigger in length than the circumference of a bracelet.

“...why?”

“It doesn’t matter why, but a creature of that size could easily be discorporated. You heard the humans; for this festival they like to tear living things into pieces and eat the raw pieces-”

“That doesn’t really happen anymore in these enlightened modern times...erm, well, much…it doesn’t happen much anymore?”

“Then let me make it very clear to you, Angel. If Crowley is discorporated again so soon after the last time, there’s a chance that this time she would be the one punished for it. It would be Crowley in the deepest pits of Hell, or destroyed. Not me.” Asmodeus said, coldly.

Aziraphale gasped. “Wait, what?! What do you mean, destroyed?”

“They can’t destroy a Prince of Hell. I’m safe from any real consequences, no matter what I choose to do. They need me for the war. But for an ordinary demon from my court with such a long association with me…no one would be too upset if the occasional ordinary demon is destroyed. Beelzebub would jump at the opportunity to damage me indirectly. Destroying Crowley would be a coup for the First Prince of Hell. After all, it’s no secret that Crowley is my favorite and has been since the Fall.”

“Y-yes, I suppose you have a point,” Aziraphale said, feeling a sick curdling sensation in his stomach that he decided to quell with a mouthful of wine. And another. And another. Aziraphale wiped his lips. “Ahem. Erm. This is what, the third day of the City Dionysia, and the first day of the tragedies? Last I saw Crowley was six days before the Dionysia, so-”

“And that was also the last day I saw her,” Asmodeus said, irritated. “It’s been almost ten days.”

“Nine. This day’s not over yet,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“It’s more than halfway over.”

“So where did he go and why was he a snake?” Aziraphale gave Asmodeus a pointed look.

“To the queen, but that-”

“So why don’t you just go to the queen’s quarters and have a look around? I’m sure you’d find him.”

“Don’t you think I’ve already tried that?” Asmodeus hissed. “I searched those rooms myself in entirety, more than once. Crowley is nowhere to be found.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale hugged his wineskin, feeling the liquid sloshing about the bag, and wondering if it would ever really reduce in volume even as he continued drinking (it wouldn’t, the angel had accidentally taken care of that with a thoughtless miracle, though now the wine inside had changed from that golden Lesbian wine to that lovely luscious Chian wine that Crowley favored). “Well, that’s a problem. Have you checked Downstairs?”

“No. Not without raising suspicion. They may not track my movements upon the Earth, but certainly they know when I move between Heaven and Earth and Hell.”

“Wait, you visit Heaven?”

Arching an eyebrow, Asmodeus did not deign to answer that question.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know. Urgh, I really don’t want to know. All right, why can’t you send him a message?”

“All messages are monitored through Downstairs. Someone would find out.”

“What about…” Aziraphale made a flapping gesture with his hands. “You know, what are those squawky things called again...erm, oh right, birds. Tried sending a message that way?”

Asmodeus stared at Aziraphale.

“Right. No birds. Or insects. Or smoke. Ahem. You probably would explode them anyway or something awful. Erm...let’s be clear here, I don’t know how I’m supposed to help you? I’m merely a Principality. Not even a flaming sword at this moment – though I really could get a hold of one if I wanted to, I swear. But you are an entire Prince of Hell. You can do just about anything you like. You warp reality like...like a black hole warps space-time. And you’re already ruining the Bacchae and they don’t often put it on even though Euripides wrote it here because it’s expensive and some people get upset about the graphic content and- wait, why do you need me?”

“I thought you might have a mutual interest in seeing that Crowley wasn’t destroyed, but I suppose I was wrong,” Asmodeus said with cold finality. “I’ll leave you to your play.”

And at that reality flickered back in a flash, returning to normal and the disguised Prince of Hell stood up and began to slowly walk up the stone stairs, heading out.

Aziraphale sat staring at the stage, clutching his wineskin, very much ignoring Asmodeus.

...But then those Bacchic women, all unarmed,
went at the heifers, using their bare hands.
You should have seen one ripping a fat, young calf apart—
others tearing cows in pieces with their hands.
You could've seen ribs and cloven hooves
tossed everywhere—some hung up in branches
dripping blood and gore.
And bulls, proud beasts till then,
dragged down by the hands of a thousand girls.

Without thinking about it, without meaning to, Aziraphale found his legs bouncing with nervous energy, sloshing the wine gently within the skin. He glanced behind him; Asmodeus was still in the theater, walking up the stairs, taking his time.

Hides covering their bodies were stripped off
faster than you could wink your royal eye.
Then they went back to where they'd started from,
those fountains which the god had made for them.
They washed off the blood. Snakes licked their cheeks,
cleansing their skin of every drop. My lord,
you must welcome this god into our city,
whoever he is. He's a mighty god in many other ways...

“Wait!” Aziraphale whispered loudly, catching up to Asmodeus at the top of the hillside. “I think I have an idea where he might be.”

“Yes?” Asmodeus turned slowly to glance back at Aziraphale.

“But after we find him, you owe me a Bacchae. The Euripides one, staged properly, with Neoptolemos as the lead. With...with a good satyr play afterwards to cleanse the palate. Not some kind of horrid trick,” Aziraphale scowled.

“I owe you a Bacchae,” Asmodeus agreed, in a mild and measured voice.

As they walked away from the theater, the wind began to pick up, and Aziraphale pulled his himation around himself tighter.

Chapter Text

“And what exactly did you tell the humans Crowley was?” Aziraphale asked, as the two angels, extremely fallen and otherwise, walked away from the theater.

“A sacred snake from Egypt,” Asmodeus replied sourly. Having shed the human disguise, what Aziraphale had initially thought were Hellish robes turned out to be Hellene. Asmodeus was now dressed as a wealthy, albeit very tall and handsome aristocrat, draped in a luxuriously heavy black himation that hung as beautifully on him as if carved from stone, his gold-embroidered chiton pinned with golden serpent fibulae.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but grimace when he recognized those golden fittings, remembering the danger that Asmodeus’ meddling had put him in. “I see. So you caused your own problems. This is, as is said, one of the key consequences of evil-”

“Enough,” Asmodeus held up a commanding hand. “No one needs to hear propaganda. I will refrain from the drivel spewed by my side if you refrain from that which is made by yours.”

“Fine,” Aziraphale harumphed. “We will try the shrine of Asklepios. Crowley might have been taken there. After all, Asklepios is supposed to heal through dreams, and I have on good knowledge that the queen has troubling dreams.”

“Why are you glaring at me? Do you think I had something to do with it?”

“Oh, I’m certain you weren’t involved,” Aziraphale’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Just like you were never involved in anything that would make you deserve your place Downstairs.”

“...I will disregard that statement.” Asmodeus spoke with deliberation, grinding out each syllable between clenched teeth.

“Fine, the shrine’s up there,” Aziraphale began, pointing to a distant hilltop where the faint outlines of a building could be seen through an obscuring veil of trees. “It’s not a long walk, though it’s a bit steep a-”

Strong hands closed around the angel’s shoulders, and reality folded around them so quickly that Aziraphale didn’t have time to be surprised until they were inside the shrine itself.

“Aaah?!” Aziraphale yelped. “What was that?”

“Travel,” Asmodeus said, voice grim, and he gave Aziraphale a little shove as he let the angel go, so that Aziraphale staggered, stumbling to regain his balance. Asmodeus strode forward with measured steps, looking about the shrine. Tame, friendly snakes crept about, slithering along their business of healing the sick and injured, who lay dreaming their poppy dreams on mats and other makeshift beds upon the floor.

Once Aziraphale got his legs underneath him again, he looked over at Asmodeus. In the dusty rays of dim filtered sunlight that seeped into the darkened shrine, Aziraphale could see that the Prince of Hell’s bare feet were smoking slightly in the sacred precinct.

“Goodness, are you all right?” Aziraphale began, before remembering that this was a Prince of Hell.

“No, but it doesn’t matter. We won’t be here much longer. Crowley’s not in here.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Do you see a black and crimson snake? Or perhaps a golden one?” Asmodeus asked, stalking slowly toward Aziraphale who began to back away, finding his hands going up instinctively as if that could ward off the looming Prince of Hell.

“No, but-”

“Then Crowley’s not here.” And Asmodeus’ hands closed about Aziraphale’s shoulders again and they were off, suddenly back at the same place where they were before.

“Aaah!” Aziraphale gasped. “Can you...will you please stop doing that!” The angel swatted the Prince of Hell’s hands away from him.

“Stop doing what?” Asmodeus asked, surprised, taking a step back.

“Shifting reality like that, dragging me about-” Aziraphale shuddered, internal organs and external body all akimbo from the sudden motion of moving through quite a bit of reality in a moment shorter than the pause between heartbeats. “It’s quite unpleasant, you know! Very jarring and distressing. Disturbing to the mind and body. Can’t we just walk?”

“I would rather not waste time,” Asmodeus said coldly.

“I don’t think we have much to worry about regarding time. In fact, I don’t think we have much to worry about at all. I’m certain that Crowley, wherever he is, is perfectly safe.” Irritated, Aziraphale fussed with the draping of his chiton and himation whilst balancing his wineskin against his hip, displeased that Asmodeus had laid hands upon him.

“How much longer is the play?”

“An hour or two, I suppose?”

“What happens after the queen and her women leave the theater?” Asmodeus demanded, pacing about Aziraphale, looking down at the angel. “I know Crowley is fine now; there have been no summons from Downstairs, but what do you think will happen if the queen gets there before us?”

“Drinking and dancing? Music?” Aziraphale shrugged. “Probably some evening rites and celebrations. After all, those kinds of celebrations are done after sunset.”

“And then what?”

“The humans sleep?” Aziraphale was unconcerned. “I would, if I were drinking and dancing that much. Not that I do that. Erm, dancing, that is. Or sleeping.”

“And then what happens when they wake up? You heard the play.”

“It is very unlikely that they’ll even find cattle to tear apart,” Aziraphale said, prim and precise, “as they’re all out on the spring pastures now-”

“I would rather we find Crowley before anything can happen to her.”

“Yes, well. About that,” Aziraphale clutched his wineskin close against his body as if it could protect him and glared up at the tall Prince of Hell, generally hating the way that Asmodeus loomed over him. “I’ve been thinking. How do I know you’re not trying to do me a mischief?”

“Excuse me?”

“After all, the last time...the last time we spent any amount of time...that is, the last time you were in the vicinity-”

“I think we agreed upon an official answer to all that,” Asmodeus said, flippant and dismissive.

“Before I take another step with you, I want the truth.” Aziraphale stopped obstinate in the middle of the road, at the high point between the wheel ruts where the compacted dirt was most dry. “Did you cause my himation to slip? At that banquet?”

Asmodeus gestured, a scornfully eloquent movement of his hand. “I would call that gravity. These things slither about anywhere they want if they’re not pinned.”

“But then you broke my fibula.”

“Yes, when the moment presented itself. The humans wanted to see what you looked like under your clothes; I just gave them what they wanted.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, biting back an angry diatribe. “All right. Then...then you also owe me a new set of fibulae! A nice set, one that I like. With nothing devious or evil about it. And what about the panther? Was that you too?”

“Yes.”

“And the cord on my ring snapping? And the ring falling into the water?”

“Yes.” Asmodeus was beginning to look bored. “Did you want a new cord as well?”

Aziraphale ignored Asmodeus’ question. “And the sheep? That was you, wasn’t it`? Where did it come from?”

“I don’t know, wherever a sheep comes from?” Asmodeus gestured toward the hills in an absent manner. “Where do sheep come from?”

“You didn’t create it, did you? Wait, what about those apple trees?”

“Not the sheep, no. The trees were just luck, I suppose.” Asmodeus shrugged. “I wanted some fruit.”

“You...you foul, evil, devious, fiendish-”

“My dear Principality, before you work yourself into another state, let me remind you that given the opportunity, you would thwart me as best as you could, doing me a...what is that term again? A mischief.”

“…it had never occurred to me,” Aziraphale said, amazed that it had never occurred to him to do something like this, and he decided that perhaps in the future he would put the option under consideration. “But...thwarting and irritating pranks are two very different things!”

“How so?”

“Thwarting isn’t…isn’t personal. It’s just work. All those terrible things you did back then, that was personal!”

“So?”

“If you can’t tell the difference between personal actions and work…” Aziraphale scowled. “So do you think that your...ahem, possession of Crowley counts as part of your duties?”

“What?” Asmodeus was taken aback. “Of course not. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Look here, even if we are on opposite sides, there is a professional courtesy that we extend to each other in the field. No interfering with each other’s personal lives. No dangerous or even irritating pranks. All our work is centered about humans, not each other. There is of course more to it than just this but these are some of the key precepts. I thought you’d understand such basic principles...” And at the very last moment, Aziraphale managed to bite back what he really wanted to say – because you’re management.

“How would I? We don’t have the same experiences.”

“Then if you weren’t sure and if you didn’t know the rules, why would you even get involved in-” Aziraphale threw up his hands in a gesture of disgust, or at least as best he could do while clinging onto a big wineskin. “I don’t even know why we’re even discussing this, this is absolutely foolish.”

“I agree. We should return to the matter at hand. Where is the next place you think Crowley could be?”

“Well, probably not the shrine of Apollo,” Aziraphale said, giving Asmodeus a particularly pointed look. “It’s not the right time of year. In this season for the Dionysia, the queen doesn’t always stay in her quarters. She goes out to a place in the wilderness with her women to celebrate. They stay out there overnight and sleep under the stars. Of course, there are tents and guards and such, and I believe some relatives stay nearby, to chaperone. Perhaps out there?”

“Where is it?”

“I’m not telling you,” Aziraphale scowled. “I’d rather not be whooshed around like so much baggage.”

Impatient, Asmodeus seemed exasperated at first, but then his expression changed, and Aziraphale glanced up at him cautiously.

“What? What is it? You’re planning something devious, aren’t you?”

“No, not at all,” Asmodeus lied, as they began to walk briskly down the road, toward the hills outside of town. “Though there is something that I am curious about.”

“What? What is it?” Aziraphale hurried, trying to keep up.

The Prince of Hell glanced at Aziraphale with a sly knowing grin. “Perhaps you’re the one planning something devious. If I didn’t know any better, Principality, I’d say that you were doing all this to spend more time with me.”

Aziraphale gasped, shocked. “No, I am certainly not doing anything like that! That’s ridiculous! Whatever makes you think that I would-”

“After all, we could be done with this little adventure in a few seconds with the right information. But you insist that we walk. Together. All alone, in the countryside, just the two of us...”

“It’s not like that,” Aziraphale looked away, inching away from Asmodeus, moving toward the muddy edge of the road. “And you know it.”

“Do I?” Asmodeus slowed his long stride down, making it a little easier for Aziraphale to keep up with him.

“Of course. I would rather have no business with you at all, do you hear me?” And remembering his wineskin, the mass of which Aziraphale had slung over his shoulder, he aimed the neck opening and gave it a squeeze so that a stream of wine went into his mouth.

“And yet...it would make sense for you take advantage of this opportunity somehow, would it not?” Asmodeus asked, amused.

“Advantage? Opportunity? What are you talking about?”

Asmodeus leaned in close, his voice low and intimate. “Did you want to fall in love with me as well, Angel?”

Aziraphale’s face went through an entire tragedy trilogy’s worth of astonishment and consternation. Including the processions and accompanying satyr plays.

Shocked, the angel could hardly speak. “I...I would never, ever… how. How? HOW?! How could you even insinuate such a-”

“Or is it information that you want? After all, when was the last time you were able to meet with management on the other side?”

Aziraphale swallowed, trying to get his expressions and emotions under control, which was materially helped by pulling the wineskin off his shoulder and into his arms, hugging it close. “I have never, and I would have preferred to keep it that way, but for the likes of you.”

“Oh, but don’t you want to interrogate me about the plans Downstairs? How many troops we have, which Princes of Hell we have that are ready to fight…”

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable. “I would rather enjoy this pleasant wine. And pretend that this is a pleasant walk to the countryside by myself, not with you. Besides, wouldn’t that make you a traitor, offering up that sort of information?”

“My dear Angel,” Asmodeus began, (and Aziraphale thought that perhaps the word that Asmodeus meant to say was far more pejorative than ‘Angel’) “what makes you think that I would do anything to betray my side?”

“You were literally suggesting that I should try to get information out of you, which I am sure would not be true and- oh, I see how this is.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Asmodeus asked, feigning bewildered innocence.

“You’re just trying to get me in trouble with my manager. Not the immediate one but the Archangel one. I know how this works: anything you tell me, I would be bound by duty and conscience to report, and then that would open a veritable Pandora’s box of questions up to and including why I am...chumming around with a Prince of Hell.”

“Chumming around,” Asmodeus said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“It was an exaggeration, a, a- a play on words. We are not ‘chums’ and will never be.” Aziraphale closed his mouth.

For a long while they walked in silence as Aziraphale fumed. Really, he thought, that a Prince of Hell would try to be causing him so much trouble. The memory of those troubles jabbed at the angel, pricked him with reminders that he could have done better, that he should have seen the betrayal coming before it did, that he could have protected himself better. Sharp and unpleasant feelings cut through the edges of a soft wine-scented haze as Aziraphale recalled those things that Asmodeus had said to him in the wilderness beyond Pella.

“Why do you have such a hold on Crowley?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, before realizing he should have thought a little more deeply about how to phrase that question or perhaps drunk a lot less before asking.

Or drunk a lot more.

“Why do you want to know? How very odd that you have such a curiosity.” Cold green eyes scrutinized Aziraphale, and the angel did his best to moderate his expression, to ignore the prying eyes of the Prince of Hell.

“I…” Aziraphale bit his lip. “...have never heard of such a thing before about Downstairs. I thought the Princes were all very professional, like our Archangels. Aloof. And...and as such, did not engage in...erm, fraternization.”

“What makes you think we aren’t? After all, as we discussed before, what I have with Crowley has nothing to do with my duties. It is a purely personal matter, the personal business of a Lord of Hell.”

“And yet…” But Aziraphale closed his mouth before he could say anything dangerous.

“If you must know, we are companions by circumstance,” Asmodeus continued, ignoring the angel. “Chance and nothing more. It was not initially my choice nor Crowley’s. But lacking better options back then, we’ve grown close over time, grown to enjoy each other in every possible way. Crowley has been a dear companion to me since we were brought together.”

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“You don’t have to believe anything. It’s the truth.”

“As if you’re one to be honest,” Aziraphale muttered. “After all, you are one of the Fallen.”

“Excuse me?” Asmodeus’ voice grew hard.

“I’m merely saying that you must have the kind of character to deserve to Fall,” Aziraphale said with a certain smug condescension. “That includes an inclination toward dishonesty and behaving as you have, in an...immodest manner.”

“Explain yourself, Representative,” Asmodeus hissed.

Aziraphale held up a finger, signaling to Asmodeus to wait as he drank deeply from his wineskin. “Sorry, getting a bit thirsty with all this walking.”

But before Asmodeus could respond, Aziraphale offered him the wineskin. “Did you want a sip?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why are you even offering me wine?” Asmodeus asked, puzzled.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but be polite about this at least. Force of habit, I suppose. Or maybe? Maybe it’s because…”

Asmodeus gave Aziraphale a skeptical look, before his lips curled up into a smirk. “Is it because you would like to see me drunk as well? Inhibitions cast aside, tongue and clothes loosened...disheveled and at your mercy?”

Uncomfortable, Aziraphale changed the subject. “And...and speaking of wine, do you even know what Crowley prefers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you even know what Crowley is like? What Crowley is really like?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“Then tell me, do you know what Crowley likes? Wine, food, places to go, birds to cause a commotion with...”

“...the thought hadn’t occurred to me,” Asmodeus said through gritted teeth. “There isn’t much to ‘like’ in Hell.”

“But, you’ve spent time with him up here. Non-trivial amounts of time, from what I understand. Well, by human standards. Years and years. You really have no idea?”

And when Asmodeus did not reply, Aziraphale continued.

“Look. Like this wine. Well, you can’t see it because it’s in a skin but never mind that, it’s a Chian wine that’s his favorite from when we were both stationed in Ephesus. But it doesn’t mean that’s the only thing he drinks. He doesn’t really have preferences, per se, not as humans do. Just preferences for a situation, if that makes sense? So if we’re in Ephesus and it’s summer and it’s hot but there’s a really good symposium going on, this would be what he would want to drink at that symposium. But if we’re in Pella and it’s winter, it’s something else – oh right, that erm, hot spiced wine. Ideally when the base is a sweet red, and that red comes from Thrace. And far more watered down than they like to drink it here, watered down to just a hair above Athens standards. He used to put less water in it and drank it stronger but then there was some...unpleasantness with unmixed wine that we shall not speak of. Anyhow, even when he likes something this much he wouldn’t drink it often, because he’d want to enjoy the novelty of it, the rarity of the experience.”

Asmodeus said nothing, listening.

“And he likes soup, even in the heat of summer. Soup all year round. Sometimes it’s the only thing he’ll eat. In fact, that’s probably one of the first things that he ate up here that wasn’t just, you know, fruit or a frog or some other live animal swallowed whole. Not that he still eats too many things like that. Whole, that is. At least, not as much. But do you know how long it took me to get him to stop eating poisonous things, at least in public where humans can see? He still does it sometimes, if he can get his hands on bitter almonds or nightshade berries. Oh, and let us not talk about how he eats cherries...abysmal. He always forgets the pits are poison and then has to miracle the cyanide out once it starts acting upon him-”

“The thought had never occurred to me,” Asmodeus admitted. “I didn’t even know Crowley ate things humans made.”

“Maybe he doesn’t around you. After all, there are standards, aren’t there?” Aziraphale sneered. “To being royalty in Hell. That is to say, management.”

But then Aziraphale paused, stopping dead in the middle of the muddy road upon which there was a central ridge of miraculously dry surface, a strip just wide enough for two angels, extremely fallen and otherwise, to walk side by side without being actually near each other.

“Oh dear, did I just say too much to his manager…” Aziraphale muttered to himself, squeezing his wineskin in his arms, squashing his face into it.

Asmodeus stopped as well, with a sigh. “There is no one to report you to, Angel. I don’t care enough about the politics Upstairs to go through the trouble of getting you written up. It’s not worth it to me to register a complaint. And writing up Crowley would only reflect poorly upon me. It...bears thinking that perhaps I don’t know Crowley as well as you seem to do. At least, this persona she’s put on upon the Earth.”

Aziraphale almost spoke, but then closed his mouth before he could say the words that were on his mind, that perhaps this Earthly persona of Crowley’s was just actually Crowley and nothing more than that. Discretion, the angel thought, and thought that word very loudly to himself, repeatedly, and then had some more wine.

Chapter Text

There was something rather disconcerting about walking through this bucolic countryside with a Prince of Hell.

Looking back, Aziraphale saw dark clouds hanging over Pella and he wondered if it was going to rain. But out here in the countryside now that they were further away from the palace and city proper, it was still a very pleasant sunny spring morning. They passed farms that would have normally been abuzz with workers, the work temporarily abandoned for the festivities of the Dionysia. The road was lined with trees bursting with green leaves, many in tentative bloom. Birds sang, albeit in a strange subdued confusion as both angels – extremely fallen and otherwise – passed by, almost but not quite canceling each other out.

The two walked side by side, all the while trying to avoid uneven patches and muddy holes, awkward spots where wagon ruts that cut chaotically through the dirt, but most important of all, each other. They were not close but close enough, which was far too close by Aziraphale’s estimation. Yet at the same time, both for their own reasons were reluctant to let the other slip out of sight.

Aziraphale heard the faint music of a syrinx and turned to catch a glimpse of the distant figure of a shepherd seated upon a rock before the sound disappeared as the wind stole it away, tearing the song to shreds.

Focus, focus, the angel thought to himself, clinging to his big wineskin, hugging the big sloshy vessel in his arms as if it were the moral support he needed at this time.

He wished Crowley was here, and not just this squashy wineskin that was far too soft and nothing like Crowley. Something about angular shoulders and pointy elbows and knees that went in all the wrong places sometimes until they were in all the right places left him shoving his face into the wineskin, flustered and embarrassed, afraid to be caught out by none other than Crowley’s evil Hellish demonic master.

Focus! Aziraphale peeked his eyes up over the leathery top of the wineskin, staring at the road before him, rather resentful at this sudden and embarrassing outburst of emotion. Aziraphale’s eyes skated up toward Asmodeus who thankfully did not notice the angel peeking. Was this sudden longing for Crowley some demonic interference from the Prince of Hell? Some effect of his infernal will? Aziraphale’s face went through a mostly obscured and mostly anxious series of emotions before settling on maybe and no and yes definitely but no, not possible. Which seemed as good as anything to go by these days, if there was a need for a specific thing to go by.

Trying to stem that nagging feeling of nerves strung far too tight to the point of thrumming as if a bowstring in a stiff breeze, Aziraphale tried to focus on the matter at hand. The important things, like what it would take to get Crowley away from this Hellish master. He recalled that there was that business that Crowley mentioned about getting Asmodeus sidelined but it would require too much dabbling in politics Downstairs that would be impossible for him and Aziraphale racked his brain trying to think of things that could help facilitate that goal without actually being involved. He stole a glance at Asmodeus, wondering if there was anything that could be done to convince the Prince of Hell to let Crowley go of his own accord.

But just as Aziraphale looked up, Asmodeus turned, glancing down to meet the angel’s eyes.

“You never answered my question, Representative,” Asmodeus said suddenly, and something between the look and the unexpected query surprised Aziraphale nearly into tripping over an unevenness in the dirt road, though the angel caught himself at the last minute with a righting stumble.

“Question? What question?” Aziraphale asked, genuinely flummoxed. “You had a question?”

“You seemed to be such an expert on who deserved to Fall and who didn’t. I thought you were going to elucidate further,” Asmodeus said, in a voice dripping with venom.

“Well, certainly I wouldn’t know the specific details as clearly as someone who currently is a demon now,” Aziraphale snapped. “But I can guess as to the kind of angel you must have been before to deserve such a thing.”

“Hmm, do tell,” Asmodeus said, and there was a hint of bitter amusement in his tone of voice, in the set of his lips and his cold green eyes.

“I do not think that it’s worth discussing,” Aziraphale replied snippily, feigning disinterest even as the angel wondered if Crowley had been correct, that before the Fall Asmodeus had just been an ineffectual Archangel, a useless personage among the glittering gems of the court of Heaven.

“Then I suppose you’ve never heard the truth of it from Crowley.”

At that Aziraphale couldn’t help but wince, remembering that Crowley had said more to a mere human about the Fall than he had ever spoken to Aziraphale about it. Somewhere deep down it seemed that whatever he knew about Crowley, everything that he had bragged to the Prince of Hell about was so superficial as to be mortifying – it seemed that he didn’t really know Crowley at all.

“I can’t say we’ve ever felt the need to bring up such...an unsavory subject,” Aziraphale said with a very careful flippancy, trying to pretend as if it never occurred to him to bring up such a topic. At this point it just seemed like a good time to continue drinking. Perhaps until at least the end of this unduly drawn-out conversation, or perhaps ideally until the end of the world, if Asmodeus would always going to be loitering, skulking about in the background like some minor actor behind the skene, ready to jump out from a doorway at any moment behind any number of obscuring masks.

“The truth of it is that very few people were directly involved in the rebellion. Only two Archangels that I know of for certain. If there were more, I would not know. But their entire organizational structures were purged. Every single angel that worked for them, no matter how far down the org chart, no matter how trivial their position was, no matter if they were involved directly or not. Most everyone did not deserve what happened to them, and I would argue that even the ones who did ‘deserve’ it should have merely been forgiven instead of punished.”

“That...that’s impossible.”

“Is it? Did you forget that I was an Archangel too, and would have recognized my own staff and subordinates?” Asmodeus gave Aziraphale a peculiar and curious look. “And what do you mean impossible? Forgiveness?”

“Yes, that too, but also: what you’re saying is absolutely ridiculous. How did you expect me to believe something that is so obviously a lie? God would never have done such a thing! Why would She have done something so...so awful?”

“Were you there?”

“No, I was working and arrived late to the War and was hardly involved, but for a few scrapes and bumps,” Aziraphale said, bending the truth just a little. “But I don’t believe you…”

“Perhaps you remember the Archangels doing their best to purge our ranks of everyone marked?”

“Then how did you get involved?” Aziraphale glared. “Were you in conspiracy with Lucifer as well?”

“I hardly knew the Light Bringer before. We worked on vastly different projects, on scales that aren’t even comparable. Prior to the Fall, I don’t think I had spoken with Lucifer more than a handful of times, and only at meetings. I was purged for doing the right thing.”

“Well, it must have been the wrong thing, if you Fell. After all, angels are only supposed to do the right thing.”

“You say that as if I am not an angel myself. If it’s wrong to stand up in defense of other angels being destroyed without warning or reason…” Asmodeus stared at the palm of his left hand for a moment as he walked, before letting his arm drop to his side.

“I don’t believe you,” Aziraphale said, firmly.

“You don’t have to. It’s the truth.”

“You say that a lot, Prince Asmodeus, but-”

“But? Have I ever lied to you, Angel?”

Asmodeus waited, while Aziraphale rummaged through his memories.

“...I don’t know.” Aziraphale said eventually, after consideration. “I can’t be certain if what you say is the truth or not. In all fairness, even some of the things you said in the past that didn’t turn out to be true may not have been intentionally false. After all, you might not have known those things were not true. Then of course there is the matter that there is no way for me to verify most if not all of your claims. In fact, there may be no way for anyone to verify them. And I don’t know you well enough to know if you are an habitual liar or not. But that doesn’t mean that I trust you, nor does that mean that you can’t be unreliable. After all, I still don’t know if this is a ruse. That you forced Crowley into a dangerous situation in order to manipulate me somehow…”

“I didn’t,” Asmodeus sighed. “And I wouldn’t have done anything nearly so foolish as to intentionally endanger Crowley over a minor spat with the Opposition’s Representative. Believe me when I say that I wouldn’t bother interacting with you if I didn’t need the help. You’re far too troublesome and quarrelsome to be bothered with.”

“Hmph!” Aziraphale gave his wineskin a squeeze so that the wine within sloshed angrily.

“Did you think I would have chosen to spend my day with you out of my own interests?” Asmodeus sneered.

“I would say you’ve said some things in the past that would justify any number of my suspicions.”

“Hmm, like what?”

“Don’t make me say it,” Aziraphale flushed, embarrassed to be reminded.

“So it’s like that,” Asmodeus’ mouth moved into a sly smirk. “I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Angel.”

“It’s...it’s not anything like that and you know it-”

“Face it,” Asmodeus said, and something about the Prince of Hell’s tone of voice made Aziraphale extremely glad to be out of doors, where there were no confining walls to deal with. Aziraphale looked around for means of escape – just in case – and found that the road here was infernally narrow, bounded by potter’s holes and mud pits on both sides so that he was obligated to stand just a little closer to Asmodeus than he would have preferred. “An angel cannot help but love, can’t they?”

“I’m sure you think that it’s a design flaw that can be exploited, but I can assure you, my dear Prince of Hell, that under no circumstance do I or would I ever consider-” And then Aziraphale’s words ran out, as certain thoughts clarified and the idea came as an extraordinarily useful and pleasantly spiteful epiphany.

“Hmm? Was there something else that you wanted to say? Or am I leaving you breathless?”

“Quiet, I’m thinking,” Aziraphale said and then suddenly in a burst of inspiration, he began his line of inquiry, starting off with something innocuous. “I was just wondering, what do you think exactly could have happened to Crowley so that he can’t come back?”

Asmodeus’ expression froze but his voice came out cool and clipped. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Somehow I feel that even if you’re telling me the truth, you’re also hiding something. As if there’s something you don’t want me to know,” Aziraphale glanced at the Prince of Hell, but Asmodeus’ expression gave nothing away that was useful. A flicker of righteous malice grew in his chest and Aziraphale put his hands on both hips. “All right, if that’s the case then – if it’s not that Crowley can’t come back – what could it be that might have happened to Crowley to make him not want to come back?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Asmodeus said, dumbfounded. “Why wouldn’t Crowley want to come back?”

“I’m only covering all the possibilities.”

But then Asmodeus lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, and the thought crossed Aziraphale’s mind that he should say something perhaps but then that flicker of malice grew once more in the angel’s heart, a nasty righteous vicious joy. Yes, let the Prince of Hell stew in his own guilt, Aziraphale thought. Evil had always deserved this sort of self-reflective self-flagellation, it was just what a foul, wicked demon deserved.

“I had never considered the possibility that Crowley might-” Asmodeus began, but then Aziraphale pointed to a wooded glade in the distance without thinking about it, a shaded little mountain valley full of ancient trees.

“Oh look, we’re almost he-”

Chapter Text

“…eeeaaah!” Aziraphale yelped as reality suddenly changed around him, slapping at the hands of the Prince of Hell who had grabbed him and unceremoniously shifted them both a distance of more than a dozen stades without any warning.

“You’re rather noisy,” Asmodeus said, irritated, as he straightened Aziraphale’s wobbly figure with a firm hand before letting him go with a little shove.

“You should ask before doing this sort of thing! You should always ask! It’s not polite!” Once Aziraphale got his feet under him, he immediately began to straighten himself out while balancing his wineskin on his hip, brushing off his shoulders where Asmodeus had touched him, fussing over the drape of his clothing.

“Hmm, I’m sure,” Asmodeus muttered in response, looking around. He then glanced down at his feet, smoking faintly. “I didn’t know outdoor places could have this property.”

“It’s a sacred grove,” Aziraphale explained. “I’m surprised you’ve never come across one. They’re quite common, and not just in Hellas.”

“I do not travel as much as the Representatives on Earth would, nor as frequently.”

“I suppose you don’t. Ahem. Perhaps you should do something about that burning? Such as covering your feet?” Aziraphale pointed.

Asmodeus gave the angel a wry look and with a gesture, his bare feet were covered in boots.

“Your concern is very touching, A-”

“Does that stop the burning?” Aziraphale wondered. “The boots, that is.”

“Not entirely. It’s just more bearable.” With that Asmodeus walked away, headed toward a tent set up by a large stream, bypassing the few humans that had been left behind to do the work of maintaining this little camp.

Aziraphale followed the Prince of Hell, rubbing at his temple with his free hand to try and ease that sense of discomfit caused by the quick travel that he had gone through, muttering to himself in annoyance.

Before the angel could follow the Prince of Hell inside, Asmodeus stepped out of the tent looking irked. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of an orderly field kitchen on one end and stacks of neatly folded blankets on the other. “Nothing. It’s merely full of things that humans put in their mouths.”

“It’s called ‘food’,” Aziraphale snarked under his breath. “If you knew anything about them, you’d know that it’s important to humans.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, merely remarking on human things, nothing important,” Aziraphale said lightly, changing the subject. “Speaking of humans, at least there aren’t many about.”

“And they should all sleep,” Asmodeus said. With a gesture as if drawing his powers up from Hell, the humans that were going about their business in the grove slowly slumped down to the ground in slumber.

“Was...was that necessary?” Aziraphale scowled and it was definitely about the humans and their welfare and certainly not because that gesture reminded him of Crowley in any way.

“I don’t like them interfering, even on accident. It’s best this way, they’ll wake up when we’re done. I have not harmed them in any way.”

“Well, I suppose you have a point. But doesn’t it seem a bit much, when they wouldn’t have seen us anyway?” Quickly Aziraphale went to work, granting the sleeping humans miraculously pleasant dreams.

“I refuse to argue with you over trifling, foolish matters. Where do you think they would be keeping Crowley? I would rather not search every corner of this miserable gully.”

“If there’s a shrine or a holy place, perhaps he’s being kept there,” Aziraphale suggested.

“And what would that look like?”

“A large tree or a stone, something sizable, notable...maybe a statue or even a building. But it will stand out somehow because people will have left offerings at the site. Fruit and flowers and that sort of thing, or maybe an animal sacrifice. Blood or wine stains often indicate an altar.”

“I see. Then I will look in this direction if you would look in the other.”

“With all the people around...I would rather keep my eye on you,” Aziraphale said, in a stern manner. “I think you will understand that I do have a responsibility for these people. You are after all, a Prince of Hell.” And some other things not worth speaking aloud, Aziraphale thought grimly, as he followed Asmodeus.

Asmodeus said nothing in reply.

They wove their way through trees, over damp soil and new grasses that had sprung up vigorously in the warmer spring air, even though in the deepest shaded hollows dirty snow still clung to the dark soil as if winter could not quite give up its grip upon the world. It seemed so odd to be walking through this lovely little corner of Creation perfumed with flowers and birdsong with what all of Aziraphale’s senses kept warning him was a terribly dangerous demon.

Not that he hadn’t ever spent time with a demon, but this one was a very different matter altogether. Remembering his first encounter with Asmodeus still left an unpleasant cold shiver through his body.

The trees grew denser, and Aziraphale looked up, stopping in his tracks.

“What is it?” Asmodeus asked.

“There’s something about this grove. I think we must be coming upon the shrine. There’s a quality to the air, to the land itself...it’s not just an ordinary sacred grove, someone really cares about this place.”

“Yes, a quality that any angel can sense. Is this often associated with shrines?” Asmodeus wondered.

“Not particularly, though it can be. I suppose it likely depends on who is being honored. For example, there is a shrine to the Semnai Theai on the northeast side of the Areopagus in Athens that is in fact rather spooky and unpleasant. Oh, but look, here you can tell we are coming closer to something important; everything is in shadows. After all, darkness is important to sacred spaces.”

“I would not have guessed,” Asmodeus replied, looking around. “I don’t usually enter temples or shrines or sacred groves.”

Aziraphale sighed, pleased to feel the soothing, enveloping quiet of sacred stillness as they continued deeper into the grove. Rustling leaves blotted out the sun and through the darkness of mysterious shadowy places beneath ancient trees, they came upon a small clearing in the forest, one that was deeply shaded by massive trees that loomed overhead.

The grasses had already been worn flat by the pounding of many dancing feet, and Aziraphale wondered if the women had danced every night here since the Dionysia began.

“I think this must be where the rites are held,” Aziraphale said, though there were no signs of thyrsoi or wreaths or even a wine jar. Like the camp, everything here was orderly and Aziraphale wondered if there was even a blade of grass that was out of place here.

Asmodeus’ eyes narrowed and his steps grew quick, and Aziraphale remembered that the sacred ground must have been burning the demon’s feet. Perhaps it was more so, now that they were entering the holiest part of the grove.

“Where are you-” and Aziraphale followed fast on Asmodeus’ trail, as the Prince of Hell coursed a narrow path barely visible between two great trees standing like the columns of a temple.

By the time Aziraphale caught up, Asmodeus was already lifting a little black and crimson snake from a tall jar, cupped gently in his hands. A sharp bittersweet venomous bite of some unknown, unspoken and perhaps unspeakable emotion overcame Aziraphale as the Prince of Hell held up the serpent before him. The angel found himself pressed against the trunk of the great column-like tree, clutching it for support.

“Crawly,” Asmodeus sighed, relieved.

“Crowley,” the snake hissed. “No wait, right. I guesssss it is Crawly right now. Ssince I’m a ssnake. Thanksss for getting me out, lord. I was a bit sstuck.”

“How is that possible, darling?”

“Thisssss.” And the snake changed sizes several times in Asmodeus’ hands: an even tinier snake, a slightly bigger snake, a much larger snake, and finally a massive python that draped over the Prince of Hell’s arm and wound over his shoulders, the end of a long tail coiling around Asmodeus’ waist, careful not to touch the ground. “That’ss all I can manage. Ssame shape, different sizessss. Different types of snakessss were possible too, but I’m tired of fainting. Can’t get back to the ussual form.”

“Why not?” Asmodeus was taken aback, and then realization came over him. “Oh...you weren’t fully complete yet, darling.”

“No, not really. Mostly. Erm, got dumped back into thiss body sort of unexsspectedly back when you were um. Indisssposed. You know, with that unpleasantnesss Downsstairsss. Anyway. Tried getting a bit bigger and crawling out but the ground burnssss. Damned sacred grovess. Would be eassier with feet, lesss surface area, belly’ss too tender for thissss, even as a ssidewinder. Mind lending me a hand?”

“Of course,” Asmodeus said. He closed his arms around the serpent’s form, pressing his cheek against Crowley’s sinuous coils, stroking his hand tenderly over cool smooth scales, and exerted his will.

Aziraphale’s breath caught and he realized that his free hand was pressed against his mouth. A sharp, cold pain went through him, and somehow his eyes blurred but he did not understand what mechanism that could have been that stung and obscured his vision.

For a moment, the angel didn’t know what he wanted to happen, even though some part of him that he could never admit to wanted Asmodeus to fail.

Crowley suddenly popped into being in an awkward tangle in Asmodeus’ arms, his clothes settling like a black cloud around him.

Shivering in the cool spring air, glad for the mammalian warmth of a thermoregulatory body Crowley looked around, and saw the edge of a cream-colored himation disappear from the wooded entry into the shrine. “Aziraphale?”

Disappointed, Crowley tried to get down onto his feet to follow but Asmodeus tightened his grip on the demon’s slim frame.

“Let him go,” Asmodeus said, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “He helped me find you, but the price was quite low. I would have expected him to negotiate for more, but all he wanted was a play.”

“A what? And...was that a big wineskin he was holding?”

“Never mind, it’s not important. Shall I fix the mechanism? So that you can readily shift-”

“N-no. No, I don’t…” Crowley sighed, and putting his arms around Asmodeus’ neck, fingers digging into the Prince of Hell’s muscular back.

“Crowley?”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I really am sorry. But I don’t...I don’t want to be a snake anymore,” Crowley’s voice was muffled against Asmodeus’ blond hair, no more than a whisper. “Not again. Please, my lord. Never again. Please...don’t hurt me.”

“If...that is your choice,” Asmodeus said, surprised.

They stood there in silence unmoving, until Asmodeus noticed Crowley’s shivering. Subtly Crowley’s black robes heated around his slim form and the demon felt his entire body relax with the warmth, almost as hot as a sun-warmed rock but so much more pleasing from the softness.

“Oh, thank you my lord, that feels great...it was cold in the jar. Maybe they thought we’d just sleep if it was cool? I mean, they tried to keep it warm, but it’s not so easy in the shade this time of year and they didn’t leave someone to just sit around and tend a fire but that would have been a problem too, all us snakes would probably have been cooked if there was a fire-”

“I’m...pleased to see that you aren’t injured. Or...cooked.”

“Yeah. Erm.” And then Crowley took a deep breath, collecting himself. “So ah, thanks for the help, lord. All the help. Lots of help, good help. Er, helpful help. Couldn’t have done it without you. Definitely couldn’t, what am I saying, I was extremely stuck. And chilly. Not anymore, that warmed me up perfectly. So uh, if you don’t mind that is, could you er, maybe set me down?”

“The ground will burn you.”

“It’s fine. I’d just rather be on my own two feet.”

Carefully, Asmodeus set Crowley down, not letting go until Crowley had regained equilibrium. Once the demon was steady on his feet again, he gingerly walked toward the entrance to the shrine, hopping lightly from one booted foot to another, wincing.

“Ow! Ah! Ouch!”

But then Crowley paused, and came back to the altar of the shrine.

“Something the matter?” Asmodeus asked.

“Just...felt like leaving a gift.” Still hopping, Crowley picked up the discarded lid of the jar amidst many other jars, near the charred remains of burnt offerings, the sticky residue of wine offerings, and the scatter of fresh flowers. He looked inside. It was such a terribly ordinary vessel and not even a particularly large one and so he laughed a little to himself, that he had been inside of it for so long.

The demon passed his hand over the jar and it filled with a dark, luscious wine. Later, Crowley thought, once she reached the dredges, she’d see the message he had left for her in the lees. Poor Myrtale, Crowley thought, and remembered that Aziraphale had been right. Best to have left well enough alone; Crowley should have wriggled out of the situation many nights ago when the jar was still in the palace instead of necessitating this ridiculous rescue mission that had probably traumatized the poor angel.

A flurry of conflicting emotions at the thought of Asmodeus at Aziraphale’s side left Crowley momentarily breathless. With deliberation the demon took a deep breath to steady himself, despite how vulnerable and exposed he felt. What was done was done, and there was nothing that could be done about it, other than to check up on Aziraphale discreetly at a later date, to make certain that the angel had not been harmed or overly upset.

But this was a problem that he couldn’t deal with right now, and definitely not with Asmodeus watching.

Crowley stared at the jar, focusing his thoughts elsewhere.

Whatever had happened between that poor young woman and Asmodeus, whatever it was, it was over. And whatever she was left with was nothing that anyone could do anything about, though he made note to ask Aziraphale to give the queen a nice blessing at some point. Something that might help her aspirations to a political career, something that would help her sleep better at night.

“Is that wine, my darling?”

“Eh, she fed me and gave me some good drinks, I figured I’d do the same,” Crowley drawled, replacing the lid upon the jar with a stylish flourish. “Thought she’d probably rather have wine than a jar full of mice.”

“I suppose mice are not to a human’s taste. A shame, they put up quite a struggle. Shall we leave?” Asmodeus offered Crowley his hand, and the demon hesitated.

“Yeah, we should go. But not...not like that, if you don’t mind. I mean, if you want to go that way, please, go ahead, I wouldn’t hold you back. Not that I’d ever dream of doing that, holding you back, that is. But I’m going to walk back? If that’s all right with you, my lord. Erm, practice, you know. For my legs. Gotta remember how to use them properly again, after all that uh, snake time. Can’t be returning to Pella wriggling about on my belly, the humans would notice that, bit too too unusual, even during the Dionysia...”

“Of course, if that’s what you want.” But Asmodeus did not retract his proffered hand.

“You don’t have to come with me,” Crowley managed an awkward smile, a crooked little thing that verged shyness. “I’ll be all right alone. I mean, I’m always all right, right?”

“It’s fine,” Asmodeus said. “I think...I should enjoy the walk.”

“So how far is it out of this grove?” Crowley asked, taking Asmodeus’ hand, cool to the touch, and he wondered if this is what his skin felt like, when he was a snake.

“It’s a reasonable amount of walking if you do mean to walk. I think it was several minutes, though the path we took was not direct.”

“Maybe you should carry me then…at least out of this blasted non-infernal, non-forsaken grove.”

Chapter Text

Aziraphale was on the road back to Pella when two long-legged demons caught up with him.

“I shouldn’t have stayed,” Aziraphale muttered to himself as he stomped along the road, trying to walk off, to shake off the upset and upset that what he was doing wasn’t working. “Didn’t want...no, didn’t need to see Crowley’s personal business. Should have stayed out of it. Did not want to see that. They’re probably...well, I don’t know what they’re doing. Probably can’t do that in a sacred grove if they’re demons but whatever they’re doing together, I don’t want to know-”

“Know what?” A familiar voice, and Aziraphale glanced back to see that Crowley and Asmodeus were just a few steps behind him. By the time the two were walking beside Aziraphale, Crowley had tactfully maneuvered himself between the angel and the Prince of Hell.

“O-oh. It’s you. And you.” Aziraphale’s mouth tightened. “I’m surprised, I thought you two would have whooshed your way back to Pella.”

“Eh, I thought a walk would be nice. Get those legs moving and all, good practice after erm, slithering around. Say, is that wine?”

“Yes. I suppose you’ll want a drink,” Aziraphale replied.

“Rather parched after all that snake-ing, so yes, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale handed over the wineskin.

Hefting the unwieldy bulk of the wineskin up onto his left shoulder for ease of use, Crowley squirted a long drink into his mouth, licking his lips.

At the taste, his breath caught and his eyes met Aziraphale’s eyes in a startled moment of recognition.

“I see you’ve had practice with that,” Asmodeus said, breaking the silence, and Crowley shrugged, handing the large wineskin over to the Prince of Hell.

“It’s not too hard, my lord, if you’d like to give it a try.”

Asmodeus stared at the wineskin for a long moment, as if trying to come to a decision. Finally, he lifted the wineskin, and a mouthful of wine poured miraculously into his mouth.

He savored it slowly, before handing the wineskin back to Crowley, who drank deeply, thirsty.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Crowley asked, licking his lips.

“Interesting to learn something new about your preferences. I can see why you would prefer this wine,” Asmodeus said. “It is truly delicious. I’ll remember the flavor for a long time.”

Crowley turned a few different competing shades of pale as his legs threatened to slide him off the road and into a muddy ditch, but even as he straightened himself out by sheer willpower and maybe more than a little infernal intervention, he was careful not to make eye contact with Aziraphale. Crowley swerved back closer to the angel but not too close, keeping Asmodeus on his left so that Aziraphale was not walking directly beside the Prince of Hell. “Ah. Yes. Good. Er, bad. Erm. Whatever. Yes. Glad you like it, my lord…”

“Though it is rather interesting, the container the wine is kept in,” Asmodeus continued. “Is this some sort of animal skin, sewn together in a cunning manner? I can still see the legs.”

“Yeah, that’s how the humans make them. They take off the skin, process it somehow, and sew it up, inside-out. Well, mostly. Sometimes it’s the other way around. Look over here, you can still see the stitches.”

“Do you think it’s that lost sheep from that time we went hunting in the forest? Poor little creature, to end up in such a state, flayed and ignominiously filled with wine, no more to its existence than to be a container for drink.” Asmodeus held up the wineskin up before himself to examine it and then taking another mouthful. “No, I suppose not. It can’t be that little sheep. The wine is redolent with the lingering finish of goat.”

“Ha!” Crowley laughed. “Really, lord? You’re not supposed to point out the goatiness! It’s, it’s part of the flavor profile, the bouquet, the terroir-”

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide. And maybe, just maybe, the angel had to stifle the hint of laughter that burbled uninvited up into his mouth. For Crowley to crack jokes, that was expected but did the Prince of Hell just make a joke?

“I’m merely wondering if the humans think that the bits of goat hair floating around and steeping in the wine are an improvement upon the fermented grape.”

At that, Aziraphale could not help but giggle, and both demons turned to look at him in surprise. Mortified, Aziraphale clapped a hand over his traitorous mouth, pretending to cough.

“So uh, hey, are those rain clouds?” Crowley pointed in the direction of Pella, where dark, ominous clouds had gathered over the city, and Aziraphale nearly melted with relief, glad for the reprieve; it would not do to be finding a Prince of Hell amusing.

“Oh yes.” Asmodeus seemed particularly pleased with himself. “The Dionysia’s been rained out. The humans are waiting for the rain to stop and trying to decide if they should try to proceed again, if the weather will cooperate. The play has been put on hold. Once we return the clouds will scatter and they’ll restart the Bacchae from the beginning.”

“You!” Aziraphale pointed at Asmodeus in an accusatory manner. “Why did you intervene in such a thing?”

“You wanted me to make it up to you,” Asmodeus gestured absently in the direction of Pella, a hint of an amused smile upon his lips. “And it seemed like the most convenient way to do it. Did you think I was going to wait until another season? By then, the humans will want to have something else, perhaps some other play with even more murder. Or a different style of murder.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale scowled, feeling there was something wrong in this reasoning but unsure of how to address it or how to proceed in refuting it. “I suppose that makes sense,” the angel conceded.

“Glad I’ll get to see the Bacchae. Been looking forward to the Dionysia all this time,” Crowley cut through the awkward moment in a cheerful and sprightly manner that surprised both Aziraphale and Asmodeus. “No plays out in wilderness shrines. Just a lot of dancing. Music was good though, I’d recommend it. Really quite lively stuff. She’s had some extra funds and paid for some good musicians for the festival.”

“Anyone famous?” Aziraphale perked up.

“No, you know that no reasonable man wants to play Orpheus to a bunch of maeneds during the Dionysia, not even for money. That just doesn’t end well, even if the most the ladies will tear apart are some rules about women’s modesty. And it wouldn’t do for respectable women to be hiring flute girls and the like that play at men’s symposiums. More like, I think she sponsored a few women some years back to learn the aulos and the kithara and such, and now that they’ve had some training and practice, they’ve gotten quite good. Never did hear a man’s voice among the crowd, so I think it was just all women.”

“Well, that’s quite clever!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I wish we had something like that back when the boy was smaller. Back then it was more haphazard, nothing more organized than a modestly talented servant or two. And they never have as much time to practice and learn songs if they’re weaving or cleaning most of the time.”

“Yeah, I guess the Queen thought that if you don’t have the musicians you want and they’re not available to buy in the marketplace, then just make some for yourself,” Crowley grinned. “Especially for events like the Dionysia, it makes a lot of sense. Lots of things that only women are allowed to participate in, so you might as well have only women participating.”

“You’re lucky then, to have heard them for a few nights running,” Aziraphale began, but then paused, deciding it was best to not press the issue further, not with Asmodeus listening.

“Yeah, that part I liked, though when you’re a snake, you’re a lot more sensitive to ground vibrations and that got a little tiresome, all the synchronized pounding feet. Bit stressful, that,” Crowley replied. Golden eyes skated toward Asmodeus and Crowley changed the subject. “Say, my lord, have you uh, seen the Bacchae before?”

“I’ve never seen a play before, not in its entirety,” Asmodeus replied.

“Oh.” Crowley stared. “Really? But we’ve- oh right, you never stayed. Just long enough to be polite.”

“Just long enough to be polite,” Asmodeus agreed. “I have never cared to pay much attention to such things.”

“Well, why don’t you stay with me and see this one? I think you might like it. Lots of snakes and human desires and so forth. Oh, and the tearing apart, mustn’t forget the tearing apart. To bits, really. Awful bits, scattered everywhere. They usually make the bits with some clever crafting. Though...I guess you weren’t ever as into that bits and pieces game so much as erm, setting people on fire and melting them?”

Asmodeus said nothing, and for a moment Aziraphale hoped that it meant that the Prince of Hell would refuse, and then he could sit with Crowley and they could have a lovely time together just as they often had before this terrible assignment-

“If it pleases you, my darling,” Asmodeus said finally.

Aziraphale stared straight ahead in his disappointment, a pleasant expression fixed upon his face.

Chapter Text

Returning to the theater, many humans were milling around now: servants bringing out cushions and setting folded cloth over the damp stone seats of the theater, people returning to find their seats, even the royal women returning to their perch on the balcony overlooking the stage.

To Aziraphale’s relief Nikanor was gone, perhaps home with his wife or else the human had moved to another seat. Whatever the case, Aziraphale was glad Nikanor had left. That saved everyone – that is to say, Crowley – from something of an awkward or possibly even ugly scene if that last conversation he had with the human was of any hint.

There were now two empty seats beside Aziraphale, one on each side. Crowley sat at Asmodeus’ right hand side, just to the left of Aziraphale, one seat away. The Prince of Hell had resumed his disguise as the Egyptian with Crowley at his side as the servant Akakios. This was terribly disappointing to Aziraphale, as it would have been nice to have had Crowley by his side.

Back in Ephesus or Athens they nearly always went to the theater together – giggling at mispronounced words or lost lines, laughing at a really good joke, sniping about a missed entrance, holding hands beneath the cover of draping himations during tense, frightening scenes. More than once Crowley had wiped tears from Aziraphale’s face, whether from laughter or from weeping, and more than once Aziraphale had felt the weight of Crowley’s head against his shoulder as the demon’s tears silently soaked into his himation, leaving dark blotches on the pale cloth.

Afterwards, they would go for a very long and luxurious dinner together – with plenty of good wine and even better music of course – and gossiped about the actors or discussed the musicianship or compared notes on the design and drape of the costumes. That is, until the symposiums were in full swing, and then the two would go from party to party meeting the poets, the musicians, the actors. It would go on like this until almost dawn, joining every komos they came across, reveling their way through the streets. Once the humans went to bed, they would invite each other over to their homes, quarreling and bickering cheerfully over whose house should host breakfast. Afterwards, a lazy reclining on the supper couches would inevitably turn into Crowley napping at his side or sometimes entirely draped over him in a cozy snoozing sprawl until the new day’s play would commence and then the cycle would start all over again.

But to Aziraphale’s dismay, there would be none of that today, not with Crowley. He would have to go alone if he wanted to do such things.

After all, Crowley’s nights were not his own.

Even now, he could see a particular stiffness in Crowley’s shoulders, a tension that was never there anymore when Crowley was with him, and that old longing to steal Crowley from that infernal master bubbled up again within Aziraphale, so much so that the angel put his arms around his wineskin. Tucked under his chin, he hugging the soft squishy vessel to himself though it was a poor substitute for awkward bony limbs that seemed like too many knees and elbows all at once.

With a sigh Azriraphale endeavored to focus on the play.

It was as flawless of a Bacchae as Aziraphale had ever seen, and besides those first few moments yearning for something that could not be, Aziraphale found that to his surprise, he enjoyed the performance and had briefly forgotten that just within reach but out of reach was Crowley’s slim hand, cool and inviting.

Crowley glanced up at Asmodeus. The Prince of Hell was sitting with the fingers of his left hand pressed to his lips, completely absorbed in the play. Strange, the demon thought, he had expected Asmodeus to at best find it a little dull, but the Prince of Hell was so intent on the action on stage that he did not seem to even notice that Crowley was at his side.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Crowley dared to sneak a peek to his right. Aziraphale too was fully engaged in watching the play, arms wound tight around the wineskin and Crowley felt himself sigh, catching a glimpse of a plump firm hand, a round generous shoulder draped in creamy white.

“Well, my lord, what did you make of it?” Crowley asked, still giggling from the subsequent satyr play.

Aziraphale stood up without a word and immediately left as Crowley spoke. As the angel walked away, he handed his wineskin off to a surprised human who cheered with his friends at the unexpected windfall.

With a deep reluctance Crowley looked away from the retreating figure of the angel, intentionally fixing his eyes on the Prince of Hell lest the longing for Aziraphale’s company grow unbearable.

Crowley took a steadying breath without moving too much, without showing too much. This was usually the demon’s favorite part of going to the theater, afterwards when the show was all over and he could look forward to hours of riotous company with Aziraphale.

But today that was not to be.

In fact, it hadn’t been like this in years. Years of quiet Dionysia evenings, obedient at Asmodeus’ side, without the dinners or symposiums or drinking or actors or musicians or poets…

Some sharp feeling went through Crowley deep inside but it was an old pain that he had lived with for so long that it no longer hurt nearly as much as it did when this pain was new.

The humans left as Crowley waited, and eventually with a weary gesture, Asmodeus shrugged off the disguise but did not yet speak.

While he waited for Asmodeus to respond, Crowley tried not to think too hard about exactly how many years it had been since he and Aziraphale had made a night of it after a day at the theater. Remembering the cycle of all the other dramatic festivals that took place a single year beyond the Dionysia, he stifled a sigh, trying not to think about all the symposiums he would miss tonight, tomorrow night, this year.

Something about a subtle motion that Crowley had made without realizing it seemed to jar Asmodeus out of his silent thoughts.

“A leader of men, first among the mortals he supervised, who was driven mad and destroyed for disobedience to a God incarnate walking amongst the mortals. Such brutal, hideous punishment. And for what? A mere lack of proper reverence to an unrecognized ruler. Even though he did what he thought was right, or as the humans think it correct, to uphold the laws and norms of their society. It is unjust, and yet the humans too think it fit punishment for lack of abject obedience to God. As if unintentional ignorance or insult demands nothing less than an immediate terrible destruction and permanent exile.” Asmodeus sighed, reaching out to press his hand to Crowley’s cheek, his fingers stroking along the tangled coils of the serpent mark, the hard edge of his golden ring cold against Crowley’s jaw.

“My lord?” Crowley took Asmodeus’ hand between her own hands, concerned. “Did you even watch the satyr play? I thought you’d find all those overstuffed and oversized dancing phalluses amusing. Euripedes writes a great tragedy and you’d think he wouldn’t be funny at all since the tragedies are so serious, but he writes an even better-”

“Perhaps this is Her way of speaking to me,” Asmodeus mused aloud.

“Huh? Who? You mean, with the phalluses?” And for a moment, Crowley thought that Asmodeus must have been talking about the Almighty but then again, the demon wondered, did Asmodeus ever talk about the Almighty?

“It doesn’t matter, my darling.” Asmodeus stood up, drawing Crowley with him. The wind picked up, and it seemed that the air suddenly grew colder, damp and chilly, and Crowley felt a shiver run over her skin. “It’s not important. We should go. It seems that it may yet rain again.”

“Oh, yeah. Maybe. Say, did you...erm, perhaps we could...before we head back, maybe. Go for some, that is, a restaura- oh, never mind, ha, just rambling about nothing, suppose we should get back to those rooms like usual, be nice to do some reclining or um…”

Crowley glanced up, and in that moment before reality folded around them, it seemed to her that the sky agreed with the Prince of Hell, heavy dark clouds murmuring with distant thunder and unshed drops of rain.

From where he stood upon the hilly crest above the theater Aziraphale stopped, turning back to look at a black-clad figure sitting beside what appeared to humans to be an Egyptian in a linen kilt.

Even though he was not cold, Aziraphale drew his himation close about him as the wind picked up, ruffling his pale hair with cool ozone-scented fingers. All about him humans chattered, strolling and visiting with each other, talking about the play but here he was still standing, his gaze fixed upon Crowley’s distant figure.

No, certainly not just Crowley, that would be silly. Upon two demons. His gaze was fixed upon two demons.

Of course it made sense to observe. He was here as an observer. His job was observation. He had a duty, an obligation to fulfill. It would not do to leave an entire Prince of Hell unsupervised amidst a crowd of vulnerable humans, much less the Opposition’s Representative.

Aziraphale’s fingers clutched the soft wool tight to himself, and then feeling a strange impulse he could not understand, he did something that he didn’t normally do: he drew a fold of his himation up over his head as Crowley would.

Immediately he regretted it. Within the warm draping of cloth came the familiar smell of lavender, aromatic and herbaceous. The comforting scent filled his nose yet he wished that it was another scent, soft and inviting and intimate and stained just faintly with roses, almost undetectable until close up, a warm beautiful scent that lingered upon smooth cool skin that he could just about feel pressed against his lips…

“Certainly it’s because of the rain,” Aziraphale muttered to himself, though it was not yet raining. “Should cover my head like a reasonable person does, to keep off the rain.”

Indecisive, he toyed with the idea of tossing that fold of himation off of his head so that he could once again feel the chill of the wind in his hair or to just stay as he was. While he indulged in hesitation, wavering between one choice and another, Aziraphale realized that Asmodeus had slipped that ridiculous disguise while he wasn’t paying attention.

Frowning, Aziraphale scrutinized the black-clad figures. Watched as Asmodeus tenderly pressed his hand to Crowley’s face, stroking Crowley’s cheek and then watched as Crowley took Asmodeus’ hand and for a moment, Aziraphale found that he had forgotten to breathe as he wondered if Crowley would kiss the Prince of Hell’s fingers too.

There was no small amount of relief to see that Crowley did no such thing.

That was just between him and Crowley, Aziraphale thought spitefully and very pointedly in the direction of Asmodeus.

A distant flash of lightning and his eyes caught the reflection of the sheeting white electricity, and if someone had noticed, they would have seen that for a moment the irises of Aziraphale’s eyes were so pale as to appear white themselves.

“That is something just for the two of us. Something that you’ll never have with Crowley, and something you’ll never know about him. Ever,” Aziraphale muttered under his breath. A part of him wished that these words could have been said to Asmodeus but he knew better – Asmodeus would just steal it, and use it against him. Against Crowley.

Thunder rumbled, and the humans began to slowly disperse, reluctant to leave their friends.

Aziraphale waited until both demons stood to leave, and then he slipped off into the crowd before either could catch a glimpse of him, disappearing into the mass of chatting and gossiping humans as if just another human as well, going about an ordinary human life, anonymous and unremarkable.

As he made his way through the crowd an icy rain began to fall, causing the humans to yelp and scatter and he was glad to be covered.

Aziraphale wondered if Crowley was cold. If they were together, he would have gallantly draped his own himation about Crowley’s head, his shivering shoulders. He would keep the demon miraculously dry beneath the cream-colored wool. They would walk home together in a gentle laughing sway, stumbling and leaning against each other as the rain fell, their footsteps matching in step as they skirted puddles. And then it didn’t matter if it rained all night or all week – sprawled out on a supper couch or by the hearth with cushions, they’d pass the time, sometimes talking, sometimes quiet, sometimes playing music or reciting poetry for each other...

Aziraphale hoped Crowley wasn’t cold.

Not daring to glance back, Aziraphale hastened his steps to the palace.

It rained all night and into the next day.

Chapter Text

Hell, an even longer time before the Beginning

From the little chair behind the throne and to the left that was set against a grim and unadorned stone wall (not that any walls in Hell at this time were adorned with anything other than an occasional blood splatter or eviscerated demon), Crawley sat and watched as a messenger from Beelzebub’s court spoke to Asmodeus.

Though watched was perhaps something of an exaggeration as to what the demon was doing; listening was probably a more accurate term. Crawley could not see more than a glimpse of the shift and movement of Asmodeus’ left hand as the Prince of Hell’s throne faced away, but the demon could almost catch a glimpse of the messenger, a drab being in tattered black robes, reciting a long-winded missive from Beelzebub’s court.

Though Crawley could have easily turned slightly to the left to get a better look at this emissary, the demon knew the importance of obeying orders and so did not even sneak a glance. Arms crossed and golden eyes downcast, Crawley stayed unmoving and quiet, so still that it seemed that the demon was just part of the decoration of this little court, no more notable than a stylish ornament.

This wasn’t an important message either. Or at least, it wasn’t meant to have the appearance of an important message. Anything that was meant to be of utmost seriousness would have been sent through a Duke of Hell or someone else almost as important, but this was not Hastur or even Dagon but some ordinary demon who had been sent out to run a message between the two Princes.

Crawley tuned most of it out; there really wasn’t much to listen to yet. The messages always began and ended with excruciatingly long formulaic greetings and salutations no matter how long the real message was, even if that message was just one word, which it often was (and of course, one word messages were always a ‘no’).

For a little while at first there was something almost exciting about the novelty of official court business but the excitement wore off quickly as tedious predictability took over. Between the monotone voice and the fact that Crawley wasn’t really meant to draw attention, the demon felt restless, hoping that it would end soon.

From beneath the obscuring veil of long dark hair, Crawley caught a glimpse of that serpent ring gleaming gold as it caught the light when Asmodeus raised his left hand to lean his chin upon it.

Even if Crawley’s body was still and silent, that didn’t mean the demon’s thoughts had to stay in the same state. Sitting unmoving near Asmodeus while mostly ignoring the drone of the messenger’s voice reminded Crawley of an issue that the demon had meant to put some serious thought into.

Now that structures had been built around them, whatever Asmodeus did for Hell was something of a mystery.

Before all these great walls and ceilings, it seemed like all the work of Hell was just a matter of surviving the vicious in-fighting and the endless struggle for power. The new tedium of walled courts was a gratifying change after ages and ages of bloody skirmishes and battles between the Princes of Hell, wrestling for control of the multitudes of the Fallen, quite literally carving up power amongst themselves. The change to boredom was quite welcome, especially as Crawley remembered discorporations and destructions, the idle cruelty of other Princes and their subordinate Dukes. It was much better closed up here with Asmodeus, who very rarely destroyed anyone and these days mostly just Legion who didn’t really count as Legion was at best only temporarily destructible.

Curious, Crawley tried to remember what Asmodeus had done before when he was an Archangel, knowing that it wasn’t exactly something he could ask Asmodeus directly. While Asmodeus was easiest to talk to on just about any topic, even he had his limits and those questions involving the Prince of Hell himself were subjects that Crawley knew better than to ask about.

In this Legion was no help. Despite the multitudes that on occasion were overwhelming, Legion remembered little. That seemed like an enviable state, to have lost most memories of anything important before or after the Fall, and often after being temporarily destroyed. Crawley had the vague impression that perhaps Legion had reported to Asmodeus before the Fall, but that was an early conversation that could never quite be verified – whatever Legion had remembered then had since long been lost.

Ligur was not much of a conversationalist. The Duke was polite enough but mostly kept to himself, even avoiding Asmodeus. As for Mephistopheles, the Marquis was of no help either, also having reported to Lucifer before the Fall and not remembering much more than Crawley did.

And so Crawley was left trying to piece together little shattered pieces of broken memories. If they were physical objects, the demon’s nimble fingers would have bled everywhere from the sharp corners and razor edges that neither fit together nor made sense, a jumble of images and impressions, with hardly any clarity or quality, not even the hint of a syllable of a name that had been lost, torn and shredded away.

Crawley found thoughts wandering until the messenger began to speak about new business, and then the demon’s attention focused intense.

The message was brief, just something about security, but Crawley took in every word.

Soon enough, Asmodeus shifted in his throne, his left hand seeming to dangle off to the side carelessly and Crawley stood up at the signal, stepping out of the court, disappearing into a back corridor that led into Asmodeus’ private chambers.

The messenger, who was just starting the end formula stumbled on their words, distracted by the sudden movement, and Asmodeus gestured, sharp and commanding as if offended. With that, Beelzebub’s messenger found themselves unceremoniously dumped in the dark and empty corridor outside of the Second Prince’s court.

With a shiver, the messenger got up on shaky legs to report back to the First Prince of Hell.

Chapter Text

Asmodeus liked his privacy, especially given the legion of Legions that occasionally wandered the corridors, so there were many rooms of all different sizes and shapes that branched off of the central chamber of Asmodeus’ court. Legion wasn’t allowed in many of these rooms and neither were the Duke or the Marquis, but Crawley had the run of all these private places, plain unadorned chambers that Asmodeus used at his pleasure, especially when there wasn’t official court business.

And there really wasn’t much official court business.

But the problem with these rooms was that they weren’t always there. The form and structure of these private spaces changed with the whims of the Prince of Hell and it was not uncommon to spend some time in a room only to step out into an unfamiliar place and be lost, wandering through an everchanging and mutable landscape of corridors and chambers until eventually stumbling back out exhausted into the central court chamber, shaken and worse for the wear.

Worse yet, sometimes entire rooms would suddenly become disconnected from the hallways. Ligur tended to punch his way out, breaking through the stone. Mephistopheles on the other hand just made so much of a commotion that Asmodeus had to reorder the rooms to let him out. Legion, not so much, though an occasional Legion could be found wandering, not knowing what had happened over the last eon or two, having been trapped in a little stone room that had been orphaned for some time, disconnected from the rest of the court.

Crawley had been trapped a few times as well, but Asmodeus now knew better than to close anything around the demon, at least not for long. But Crawley had long since gotten around that problem, not wandering too far into the tortuous labyrinth unless the demon meant to spend some serious time there, and even then often waiting it out in the same place, plus or minus a handful of rooms and a corridor or two, until Asmodeus himself came to find and fetch Crawley out.

Knowing that Asmodeus would be looking to talk soon, Crawley laid sprawled out on the flat expanse of the ceiling, enjoying the pleasant solitude, a brief respite from being at Asmodeus’ side. It was a spacious room, not as big nor as cold as the central throne room yet there was still an echoey emptiness to this room. Turning about, shifting in various positions, none of them particularly comfortable or uncomfortable, Crawley tried to find a preferred position. Side, front, back...the latter of which was only possible because Asmodeus had set an unspoken rule by example: the Prince of Hell folding away his own wings so that they were no longer visible.

Which was something of a strange custom, but Crawley liked it. It made sense that the Princes of Hell had together decided to enclose Hell in stone to keep out the prying eyes of Heaven. Wings were a bit ungainly in this enclosed space, especially when many ceilings were so low and there really was no place to fly anymore, where they were now. After all, Heaven didn’t have ceilings like this.

In fact, Heaven had no ceilings at all.

Better to live like this then, without the hint of wings, not to be reminded of flight.

It was strange not to feel the counterbalancing weight of wings and without those broad feathers, it minutely changed how Crawley stood. But at the same time, it allowed for pleasant moments like this, back pressed to stone of no particular warmth or cold, arms and legs dangling down from the amount of gravity that Crawley had decided to accept.

Pretty pleasant, Crawley thought. Could do this more often, flopped out like this, staring down at the stone. Crawley rolled over onto the wall, all four limbs dangling in a different way that was also acceptable, though the ceiling was a little better.

Not that it was genuinely pleasant – nothing was ever pleasant. Everything was stone here, not quite rough but not quite smooth either and there was a drab dull gray monotony to it all that made Crawley uncomfortable. But that was the point of Hell, wasn’t it?

Crawley yawned, stretching out, enjoying the fleeting luxury of knowing that there was a little free time to do as was liked, to not think about what was expected or required, only to exist and enjoy the variable tug of gravity upon limbs while defying that inexorable pull as much as possible.

Of course it didn’t last long. Soon enough, Asmodeus found Crawley, who had retreated not too far into the mutable maze, knowing the Prince of Hell would want to talk.

“Tell me, darling, what did you think of that missive?” Asmodeus asked as he strolled in.

“Sounds generous, my lord, offering guards for every court. But I wouldn’t take it if I were you.”

“No?” Asmodeus looked up, at where Crawley reclined upon the wall, legs and arms dangling loose, long silvery-black robes swaying.

“Nah, sounds like a scheme, doesn’t it? The guards come from Beelzebub, which means the guards report to Beelzebub, and that means that any conversation or message that goes between any of the Princes of Hell have to go through Beelzebub. So that’d be guaranteeing loyalty to Beelzebub – no wait, not that, more like, guaranteeing that no one could be disloyal to Beelzebub. Every message could be intercepted. No one court could scheme with another without Beelzebub knowing.”

“Yes, I had thought something like that as well. Though not in so many words.”

“Oh, and that’s just messengers. Do the guards protect the Princes or do they just keep them in their courts? Because once there are guards outside, you probably can’t do anything to get rid of them, not without causing a huge fuss and commotion. After all, they even changed the rules so that it’s punishable by destruction to kill another demon – er, the non-Legion ones that is, and if you’re not ranked above a certain grade, since of course a Prince’s word is law – and a demon could get into a lot of trouble just getting out of a court if there’s no way to get rid of the guards and the guards are ordered by Lord Beelzebub to keep you in. Could be a problem, even for a Prince. After all, Lord Beelzebub could complain about damage or destruction of the guards and use it as leverage to get other kinds of concessions. Like grabbing personnel and so forth. Though since your court’s small, my lord, that might not be a huge issue...unless it is a huge issue because they might not be able to grab Ligur but they could grab someone like me, theoretically. Since you couldn’t be forced to give up ranked nobility.”

“Very astute, darling. As always, I’m impressed by thine analysis.”

“Yeah, well,” Crawley looked away, briefly hiding an embarrassed face in the fold of a danging sleeve before remembering to stay focused upon Asmodeus. “So, er, you’re not going to take up the offer, are you my lord?”

“Of course not, but there is likely no choice in this matter. I will push it off as long as possible, but eventually they will assign guards to my court entry.”

“You could probably push it off even longer by asking for a committee to look into the matter. Oh, no wait, first ask them to form a committee on committees, you know, the kind where a committee is formed to decide how to assign other people to other committees. Just picking the first committee will take ages and ages – an eon or three – and the assignments to other committees will probably take even more time. That’ll throw them off.”

“Clever. How dost thou think up these things?”

“Just kept my ears open I guess, back in the day. Never went to the important meetings, but always listened at our own meetings when they talked about the reviews and so forth. Not that I’m an expert on anything. Honestly I wish I remembered useful things,” And here Crawley almost said like my name but managed to change the subject at the last second, “but instead my brain’s full of procedural junk.”

“It’s very useful to me, thy knowledge of ‘procedural junk.’”

“Yeah, well. Good to be useful, my lord.”

“And thou wilt be useful in other ways. But I notice that thou art upon the wall again, darling.” And as Asmodeus stepped beneath Crawley, the Prince of Hell reached out his arms and with an extension of his infernal will, Crawley felt gravity’s tyranny in a sudden swoop, tumbling with an ungainly flop into the Prince of Hell’s outstretched arms.

“My lord Asmodeus-” Crawley began apologetically, as Asmodeus shifted the demon in his arms so that they were facing each other.

“It’s fine. If thou pleasest, thou canst. I will not forbid what thou enjoyst most, even if it is the wall or ceiling.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Crawley felt some of the tension slip away, putting her slender arms about the Prince of Hell’s neck.

“Perhaps next time I will join thee there, to see what the draw is. It could be fun to join together up there, we haven’t done that in a while. But for now...there are some things that need to be completed before we can go.” With that, Asmodeus set Crawley carefully down upon both feet, keeping a steadying arm about Crawley’s waist as the demon took a moment to remember how gravity and legs usually functioned.

“Go? We’re going somewhere?”

“A soiree. We’ve been invited by our Infernal Majesty to join him soon.”

“Oh. Really? Was there another messenger?”

And Asmodeus’ expression seemed to soften as he looked upon Crawley’s face, seeing a glimmer of bright exuberance in the demon’s golden eyes.

“Really. The invitation was sent directly to me by his infernal Majesty,” Asmodeus tapped his forehead. “We are truly doing something different for a change. I would have thee at my side for this; it would not be seemly without thee. But there is a small matter that must be attended to before we may go. I need to see thy wings, my darling.”

“Erm, okay?” Crawley shrugged, unfolding wings as gray as the day the demon fell, the soft color of smoke or fog, paler than the drab stone walls, as if white wings suffused with a layer of soot that could be gently dusted out to reveal the white beneath.

“Beautiful. I will miss this lovely gray,” Asmodeus said, stroking possessive fingers over Crawley’s immaculately groomed long flight feathers. “But it is impossible for thee to appear as such before the Lords of Hell and their noble courts. Thou wouldst be scorched by jealousy. Rage would tempt someone to try something foolish and I would not have that. Best to disguise thee myself than risk losing thee to a destroying hand outstretched in anger.”

“I thought everyone knew that people were burnt in all sorts of different ways, my lord. Wasn’t that settled a long time ago?”

“One would think, as it is obvious what kind of situation we are all in,” Asmodeus said with a hint of bitterness lingering in the twist of his lips. “But it is still an issue that comes up. Some who initially escaped the most harm were the ones to take the brunt of punishment from their lords or peers.”

“Were? Do you mean…”

“Yes. Many have been destroyed. Perhaps you remember those times before our individual courts were built. There are those who do not want to be reminded of any hint of our...lofty origins.”

Crawley shivered, hugging thin shoulders, leaning away from memories that could not be forgotten, sights that could not be unseen. “Right. What will you do then, my lord?”

“Something of an illusion, just a tiny structural shift of the cells that refract light, one that will hold without maintenance. I have been considering the mechanism. It is something that will preserve the true color of thy wings beneath a shroud of black.” Asmodeus gestured, and those familiar wings began to tint darker, tainted by an infernal will that shifted the shade into a dark charcoal and then black, almost as black as Asmodeus’ own wings.

“Oh.” Crawley reached out to touch the tips of her own feathers, surprised now how black they were now, and it seemed that they were the wings of a stranger, another one of the Fallen that Crawley did not recognize.

“I have been putting this off for a long time my darling, but it was purely out of selfishness, not wanting to see thy form tainted further. But thou’rt beautiful nonetheless, and will always be so, despite this superficial difference.” And yet, there was disappointment in Asmodeus’ eyes.

“Will you be all right, my lord? You don’t...seem to like it.”

“It is not to my taste but there is no choice, not if you are to appear before the noble courts of Hell with me. Though I suppose that now when we mostly put our wings away, it matters little. I have been too complacent in this matter, putting it off as long as I could. It should have been done ages ago; perhaps it might have saved the existences of a few of us, those ones who dared approach thee with malicious intentions early on.”

“Right.” Crawley grimaced, remembering the chaos of the past.

“It can be undone, my darling, just a matter of thy choice in willing it to being but I think it best that the disguise holds. After all, I cannot have thee by my side always, and there are always dangers lurking about. Of course thou hast my protection. That will not change, ever.”

“Yes, of course my lord,” Crawley nodded, grateful to be in the Prince of Hell’s affections, knowing the significance of having such a powerful patron and how much harder and more tortured or destroyed existence would have been without Asmodeus’ favor. “Thank you.”

Asmodeus offered Crawley his arm. “The others will be waiting for us.”

“Yes, my lord.” And despite the weight of black wings that somehow felt heavier than expected, Crawley felt a little bubble of genuine excitement burble up within, the anticipation of something new and novel, something that cracked through the unending tedium of existence in a Hellish court.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a very long time, something completely new was happening and an excitement tinged with joy went through Crawley. It was a feeling that hadn’t been felt in so long that it seemed as if these were wholly new emotions that had never been experienced before.

Even the motion of moving forward was novel; the demon followed along obediently behind the small court of the Prince of Hell that claimed Crawley as one of its members. Directly ahead was the straight tall back of Asmodeus, who seemed even taller with his wings out, black robes fluttering about his broad shoulders as he walked. To Asmodeus’ left at the place of honor was Duke Ligur, and to his right was Under-Duke Legion and Marquis Mephistopheles. It was an elegant court, the most elegant in Hell, or so Crawley had heard.

And from what Crawley understood, it was also the smallest court in Hell.

Crawley touched the serpent mark that labeled the demon a Companion to the Prince. Not an official role per se but one that was protected nonetheless: a prized possession. No other demon had this standing as far as it was known and Crawley felt a sense of pride or at least, a sense of non-shame. Other demons without rank would never have a chance to go to a proper soiree in Satan’s court. At least, this is what Crawley guessed from regular chats with Legion who kept many eyes on to the goings-on in Hell.

It was the first time since the Fall that Lucifer had opened his court, and there was something momentous to that occasion. Everyone wondered, would it be like the official staff meetings Upstairs? Would it be something different? And if so, what would that difference be?

Crawley would not have known; the demon had never, even as an angel, been invited to be presented before the throne of God. That was for Cherubim and Archangels and the like: powerful people in upper management who attended planning meetings and attended the Almighty. Ordinary angels as Crawley had been would never have had a chance to be near the ruler of Heaven, to see Her or even hear Her voice.

But now despite not ranked, despite being nowhere near the seat of power in Hell, Crawley was going to see His Most Infernal Majesty Satan. It wasn’t quite the same, of course – not like the demon hadn’t seen Lucifer before all the unpleasantness – but it was impressive nonetheless now that Lucifer was now the reigning ruler here. And none of this could have happened without the influence of Asmodeus.

As they stepped inside, Crawley’s breath caught, overwhelmed with the sight of many strange demons standing about in irregular clumps, some by themselves, other close to their respective Princes. Curious, malicious eyes followed them as they entered.

But perhaps what was even more striking was the sight of the massive court. Satan’s court was circular and far larger than Asmodeus’ court though as Crawley looked around, the walls were blank and did not seem to lead to the same kind of private spaces that were more familiar to the demon. Catching a glimpse of the walls as they entered, Crawley saw that it had been created with irregular grooves that limned the volcanic rock walls, as if the rock had been gouged out by the motion of scratching fingertips. Something about that seemed strangely familiar in a very disorienting way and Crawley felt an unpleasant shiver at the sight.

When they entered the presence of Satan, a hush fell over the milling muttering crowds. From the sound of it, Asmodeus was late, and had been the last to arrive.

This was intentional, this must have been intentional, Crawley thought, and as they slowed down, Asmodeus suddenly stopped, turning to pull Crawley forward.

The demon’s wings shrank back, trying to not become entangled with Asmodeus’ wings.

Crawley’s eyes widened as Ligur stepped aside so that Crawley stood to Asmodeus’ left, the Prince of Hell’s commanding arm around a lithe waist.

The Usher of Hell stepped forward, clearing a loathsome throat in that small globular body. “Asmodeus, Second Prince of Hell, Lord of the Serpents.”

Black robes slithering about about him as he slowly strode forward, Asmodeus ignored the demons of the other courts with an arrogant tilt of his head. Crawley tried to remember to breathe, staying close by Asmodeus’ side, trying not to look around much as they strode forward.

Remembering at the last moment to cast eyes modestly downward, the demon saw that the black volcanic stone ground was stippled with pockmarks like the rough surface of an asteroid, and Crawley could not imagine what could have caused that.

“Splendid, darling. Stay close by my side, keep your head down...yes just like that,” Asmodeus murmured, speaking just loud enough for Crawley to hear, and Crawley tightened trembling fingers upon the Prince of Hell’s arm, overwhelmed.

“Your Majesty."

Asmodeus let go of Crawley to kneel as the rest of his court prostrated themselves before the ruler of Hell, black robes and black wings pooling about them upon a ground that seemed to still simmer with a heat that the stone could never forget.

"Rise," Lucifer's voice intoned, waiting until everyone was back on their feet. "I'm surprised, Asmodeus. You were always so charming and popular Upstairs; how did you end up with such a small court?"

"I suppose I've become more discerning in my choice of friends and subordinates," Asmodeus said lightly. If Crawley had glanced over at Beelzebub, the demon would have seen that usual scowl deepen into something darker; that had been a thinly veiled insult against the First Prince of Hell whose court was comparably innumerable.

As it was, Crawley instead was trying to subtly smooth out a trailing sleeve that had been accidentally knelt upon by the demon’s own traitorous knee.

"I did not expect to see you here as well," Lucifer's expression was wry. "You weren't even near the planning committee for the rebellion. How did you get caught up in this mess?"

"Perhaps I asked the wrong questions, Majesty," Asmodeus said lightly, as casually as if he had put neither thought nor consideration into the matter. "Or was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I suppose when it came down to it, that was all it took."

"It is both a pleasure and a disappointment to see you here. You were always very witty; I suppose that could be in part what got you into trouble."

"Such a decision was out of my hands," Asmodeus shrugged. "Out of all our hands entirely." Subtly, he drew Crawley closer and the demon felt the change in Asmodeus’ grip and leaned into it, because it was either that or lose balance entirely.

Lucifer's finger pointed, counting the members of Asmodeus' court. "This seems like the absolute minimum number. No, not quite the absolute minimum, you have one extra?"

"Crawley," Asmodeus said, drawing Crawley closer. "An ordinary demon, but my Companion."

"I didn't know that was a title," Lucifer said, and a hint of curiosity in his deep, resonant voice made Crawley look up. Crawley stifled a gasp; Lucifer had changed too. No longer anything like the proud and commanding Archangel whose austere, eternal beauty was remarkable even among angels; the first among equals.

So this was who had taken the brunt of the Fall, Crawley could not help but think, and all of the demon’s own suffering seemed trite and miserable in contrast.

Celestial robes gone, Lucifer’s flesh was burnt and cracked, torn asunder with open weeping wounds. His wings had been burnt beyond the singe of charred black feathers and were instead leathery and tattered, a thin skin-like membrane covering the bony frame and Crawley wondered if that was what wings would look like if the feathers had all been scorched off, incinerated to oblivion. The Archangel’s golden crown was no more; only black twisted horns that rose from his forehead and Crawley subtlety turned away, eyes screwed shut against the image, face hidden demurely against Asmodeus’ shoulder for just a moment before the demon regained composure.

Carefully, Crawley looked up, eyes fixed on a point behind Lucifer’s throne that could be seen beyond a tattered hole in those membranous wings.

"Not an official one as we might consider it. Certainly nothing like a Duke or an Under-Duke. But Crawley has a position nonetheless; this demon gives me much enjoyment, don't you darling? It’s splendid passing the time with someone by your side. A lovely distraction from the concerns of management." Asmodeus stroked the curls back from Crawley's face as if without thinking, briefly and provocatively exposing that serpent mark along the demon's face.

"Y-yeah, of course, my lord," Crawley said, looking up to Asmodeus who did not even glance down at the demon.

"Crawley has been a close companion to me for so long now. It's always enjoyable to have someone to talk to, someone to listen. Someone so utterly loyal that they will always stay by one's side. I don't know what I'd do without Crawley."

Crawley forced a rebellious face to hold a wavering expression steady and the demon managed something of a smile, albeit weak and wan and hoped that it looked more like shyness than reticence. "I wouldn't know what to do without you either, my lord Asmodeus."

"See?" Asmodeus smiled. "A lovely friend for these dark times in exile. Truly, everyone should have such a close and companionable friend."

"Ah," Lucifer said, and if Crawley didn't know any better, the Ruler of Hell stared at Asmodeus with interest.

“It is always a pleasure to see you, Majesty,” Asmodeus said politely and with reverence. “I hope to speak with you again soon. I’ve always found our conversations to be most enjoyable but for now I suppose we should return to work. Thank you for the soiree.”

“Of course. We should speak again soon.”

“Yes, I look forward to that.” Asmodeus smiled.

Lucifer shifted in his throne, and the movement sent up a scatter of embers floating into the air that came down in a rain of blistering sparks. Uncomfortable, Crawley shifted closer to Asmodeus, and the former archangel’s black wing stretched out in a gentle arc to shield Crawley from the fire of falling cinders.

And at that, Asmodeus led his court out, the last to arrive and the first to leave.

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B.C.

Crowley came strolling in, just barely missing what seemed like a small tawny-haired missile that went flying past the doorway as if a bolt hurled by a siege engine.

“Ah, Alexander?” But the boy was already out of earshot, disappearing into the grand maze of corridors and rooms that made up the palace, and Crowley shrugged, entering Asmodeus’ quarters.

“Hey, so. Lord Asmodeus. I don’t want to be weird about this but I noticed…”

“Yes?” Already free from his disguise, the blond Prince of Hell looked up from the astrological scroll he had been staring at, and Crowley wondered if Asmodeus had even been reading; the Prince of Hell had been completely silent and unmoving, eyes apparently fixed on what looked like an Egyptian star chart covered in hippopotamuses.

Why was it always hippopotamuses, Crowley thought to himself for a moment, taking a deep breath.

“Erm, that is,” Crowley stammered, realizing that Asmodeus was still looking at him and obviously expecting him to say something. “Seems like the boy, erm, Alexander, comes by fairly often?”

“So?” Asmodeus’ cold green eyes fixed upon Crowley. “Why does it matter to you?”

“Only...well, I’ve never really seen you so friendly with a human before.”

“You’re assuming quite a bit about how human he is. Why wouldn’t I be friendly with him? After all, he is far more like us than he is like them.”

“Oh. Good point. Part celestial, right? As befitting of a Nephilim. Anyway, my lord, I noticed he seemed...um. Well, rather unhappy when he left here? Normally he stops to say hi and sometimes can’t be budged from talking my ear off but this time he didn’t even seem to notice I was here.”

“He wants me to take him out to see the stars for himself, somewhere out in a treeless place where the movement of the stars can be seen as well as calculated. But I told him it was not yet time.”

“No?”

“No,” Asmodeus replied, giving no more detail on the matter.

Crowley frowned a little to himself, thinking it odd. “Is it really that big of a deal? I mean, it’s just stars, right? We could do it any night. I mean, there are stars every night, aren’t there? Erm, except when it’s raining or cloudy or I don’t know, I guess a volcano could spit out a bunch of smoke-”

“The time will be of my choosing, not his.”

“Oh.” Crowley was surprised. “Uh, sure. I mean, yeah. That you’d choose the day and time. I mean, why not? Makes sense, I guess? You’re in charge and yeah, that’s a late night for a child, probably can’t stay up so late without permission. Need all sorts of permissions to take a child like him out at night. Probably even a proper retinue with guards and all. But it does seem like he’s here often?” Crowley ventured.

“Every day for an hour,” Asmodeus said amiably, standing up, letting the open papyrus scroll curl up with a soft crackle. “I hear that I am now counted among his teachers.”

Crowley managed a crooked smile. “Wouldn’t I be better company, my lord?”

“Of course. You’re always far better company. But the boy is impetuous and demanding, and besides, one doesn’t turn down a Prince.” Asmodeus’ lips quirked into something of a sardonic smile.

“Yeah, good point. And about that, not that I’m doing anything like turning down anyone and especially not you but I was thinking that lately, I haven’t been out much and maybe if you don’t mind, it’d be nice to, that is, I’d like to-”

“Come here, Crowley.” Asmodeus reached out for the demon and Crowley stifled a sigh.

“Sure, of course…” Crowley managed a smile. “Of course I’d rather be with you, lord…”

Alexander blinked at hot tears, chlamys pulled tight around shaking shoulders, huddled in a hollow tree in the ancient olive grove that no one knew about.

No one, that is, but Hephaistion.

Then again, Hephastion didn’t count as everyone else.

“Alexander, are you all right?” Hephaistion’s dark blue eyes were filled with concern as he sat down beside Alexander; there was just enough room in the hollow for both of them, if they sat close together. “I heard Phoenix mention that he couldn’t find you. So I thought maybe you went out by yourself and something might be wrong.”

“No. Not really. Nothing’s wrong.” Alexander’s voice broke into a sob on the last word, and the boy hid his face in the folds of his chlamys.

“Hey, what happened?” the taller boy asked, putting his arm around Alexander’s trembling shoulders, drawing him close so that Alexander leaned against him, the young prince’s red-blond hair looking almost dark compared to Hephaistion’s pale golden hair. “You only come here when you’re really upset. Was it your dad again? Or was it your mom this time?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You weren’t here when it happened. It was a long time ago.”

“Just because I didn’t see it for myself doesn’t mean I can’t understand the situation,” Hephaistion replied, reasonably.

He waited in silence, patient and calm.

Slowly, gradually Alexander began to relax, and when he had mostly calmed down, Hephaistion began to talk:

“Hey, so I wanted to tell you first, Alexander. My dad said next Gamelion when I turn 12, he’ll get me my first horse, and I’ll get to help choose. What kind of horse do you think I should get?”

“A strong one.” Alexander said right away, sniffling. He wiped his face with the edge of his chlamys. “But a young one, so it can live a long time and be your horse for years and years, even when you’re a man. And one with a lot of passion and energy, nothing that’s too tame or too boring. Leave those quiet ones for pulling carts or for little kids to learn on, you want a good warhorse, like Xenophon says. You wouldn’t want a carthorse or something that’s only good to plod around a farm, you’d get bored and it wouldn’t be any good in battle.”

“Anything else? What if it’s a man-eating horse or one that breathes fire, like in the stories?” Hephaistion teased.

“Those aren’t real.”

“I don’t actually think those are real, Alexander, I was just kidding.”

“I know you’re kidding,” Alexander smiled. “Of course they’re not real. That’s ridiculous, whoever would believe such a thing? A firebreathing horse and whoever owned it would already be master of the entire world. I mean, imagine what foals it’d throw or sire. Besides, if it only ate men, it’d be too expensive for upkeep. After all, there aren’t that many enemies or criminals in the world, are there? We don’t even fight the Thracians or the Illyrians enough to justify feeding a man-eater and we’re always fighting them. I mean, horses have to eat every day and more than once a day. Though a flying horse would be cool.”

“A flying horse would be so cool. Too bad they’re not real either,” Hephaistion wondered for a moment, imagining it.

“Yeah, too bad. It’d be so much fun to ride one, wouldn’t it? Too bad it’s impossible.”

“Yeah. What do you think is a good name for a horse? I’ve got some ideas for names, mostly things from history like Leonidas or Achilles. But you know, now that you mention it, Aithon or Konabos could be a good name too, especially for a war horse.”

“I don’t know, I’d have to see it. Get a sense of its personality,” Alexander said, shifting closer to Hephaistion, his arm going around Hephaistion’s waist beneath the taller boy’s chlamys so they were snugged close together in the hollow. “But I think if I had a horse, I’d name it after what it looks like. Like Snowy or Midnight or Speckle.”

“What about a dog?”

“It’d be nice to have a good hunting dog. I’d probably name it something normal. Like what it looks like, or when it was born, that kind of thing. Something practical.”

“What if you called it ‘Dog’?”

“That’s a stupid name. I’d want it to know when it was being called. Unless maybe you had a pack of hunting dogs that you didn’t care much about, and then you’d name them all Dog. That way, if one is killed by a boar, you can say, ‘Oh no, Dog died! But thankfully we still have Dog.’”

Hephaistion laughed, and Alexander did as well, just a little, resting his head comfortably against Hephaistion’s shoulder.

“But I think that’s a terrible idea,” Alexander continued. “There’s no point in having a bad pack for hunting. Better to have a well-managed pack, or train up a pack until it’s good. But an entire hunting pack is probably too much trouble for one person, especially if that’s not their only work. After all, it’s not like we’d be hunting all the time. I’d rather just have one really good dog that I could train. A big one, that I can take hunting. One that’s strong and brave enough to take on wolves.”

“Yeah, me too. I’d like a dog like that too. Maybe if we get ones from the same litter, our dogs could be brothers.”

“I’d like that. We could train them together. It’d be like making our own pack.”

They sat in companionable silence and Alexander took Hephaistion’s hand, pressing it close under his chin.

“I like it here. It’s nice not being in there once in a while, even if I get scolded later. Feels like I can actually think,” Alexander sighed.

“You probably have a lot to think about.”

“Dumb stuff.”

“It’s not dumb if it’s bothering you this much. Troubling stuff, I’d say.”

“Maybe.” Alexander was silent for a moment, and Hephaistion waited but did not have to wait long for Alexander to open up again. “...he keeps saying things, hinting at things. Bad things.”

“Did you mean that astrologer guy? The new teacher?”

“Yeah.”

“He is kind of weird,” Hephaistion agreed. “And not just because he’s an Egyptian. I’ve met Egyptians before. My dad does work with foreigners sometimes and sometimes he takes me along. That man just looks Egyptian, but he acts...different, I don’t know how to describe it. It’s hard to explain, especially when he’s not really out all that much in court. So what did he say to you?”

“He’s been saying these things and making me do all this extra stuff for him and…”

“What stuff?” Hephaistion asked, alarmed.

“Just one thing but it...it was stupid, delivering something for him. As if I’m some kind of servant.”

Hephaistion made some appropriate noises of outrage.

“But that’s not what’s important, it’s what he said...wait, I don’t…” Alexander frowned. “What he said today reminded me of something. Something I haven’t thought about in a long time.”

“What was it?”

“I...I’d rather show you.” Pulling the taller boy up with him, Alexander drew them both out of the hollow. He let Hephaistion go and with a burst of energy, the Prince was on the run again, this time heading back to the inner palace with Hephaistion fast at his heels. They dodged servants and courtiers, guards and ladies-in-waiting, a few who had the standing to fondly admonish them as they passed, accustomed to the antics of the noble boys.

Alexander led the way to a nondescript room, and immediately set his sights on a heavy cedar chest, which he half-dragged out from its resting place against the wall where it had been partially obscured behind a colorful woolen hanging. Kneeling before it, he threw the chest open and started pawing through the contents.

Hephaistion stood at the doorway as if standing guard.

In a furious flurry, Alexander dug through the cedar chest, tossing aside too-small chitons and a ragged chlamys. When the maid came by to check on what he was doing, he waved her away, dismissing her.

Hephaistion watched in patient silence though he ached with worry for the young Prince. Lately, it seemed that Alexander had been more upset than not and there was little that Alexander had told Hephaistion about why or what it meant until now, which meant that whatever it was, it was serious.

There it was, hidden at the bottom of the chest, and Alexander pulled out a worn and weathered lion pelt made of dyed felt and knitted yarn, a little costume for a little one that had long since lost most of its golden color. He brought it up to his nose; it smelled like cedar and the past – a hint of smoke from the torches, the animalian scent of wool.

“What is that?” Hephaistion asked.

“A memory. From when I was little,” Alexander sighed. “Something I hadn’t thought about in a long time. The first banquet I went to as a child. Nanny Melita made me this when I was little because I liked the idea of wearing a lion skin like Herakles and she was always very kind to me. I ran away from my couch to say hi to a friend. You know him, the astrologer’s servant, Akakios. He introduced me to his master, and that man said some things to me. Things I didn’t understand at the time...”

But who – I mean, where – is your father, son of Zeus…?

I’m Herakles!

Who is your father?

The voices of the past whispered to him and the memory came back sharp and painful. With a start he threw down the costume, and leapt up onto his feet.

“What happened?” Hephaistion asked, startled. “What did he say?”

“I know when I’ve been slighted. I didn’t understand it as much then but it’s starting to make more sense. He’s been at it for ages now, just needling me about little things. Pushing me around like I should obey him, hinting that he knows who my real father is, veiled insults about my mother, saying that she’s not as loyal as she says she is. Not every day but every now and then when I don’t expect it, he’ll say something that I just...can’t stand. It just took me until today to put it together, to remember it all,” Alexander said.

Hephaistion took Alexander’s hand in his own, and Alexander managed a smile, gripping that comforting hand tight.

“Tell me if there’s anything I can do to help,” Hephaistion said with earnest. “I’ll support you, you know that, whatever it is. Even if it’s revenge.”

“No, I don’t need your help. Not with this. It wouldn’t take much. And I know you want to know what I’m going to do but you’re too polite to ask me directly. So I’ll tell you because I love you, and because I trust that you won’t say anything to anyone.”

“Of course, you know I’ll support you.”

“I’m going to do what’s right. I’ll do what any man would do in this situation: Protect my mother’s honor,” Alexander’s eyes were cold and bright with determination, and Hephaistion felt a little thrill of excitement, glad to see Alexander happy again.

Chapter Text

“Nrghk,” Crowley said to himself, head down, arms draped over the table.

All around him, humans moved about the tavern without noticing the demon, drinking, eating, gossiping...

“Grhngh?” Crowley asked himself, very sensibly, half looking up before pressing his forehead back onto the smooth wood. He reached up to tangle his fingers in his hair, and then his left hand flinched back when it touched a braided lock.

“Krngh!”

A few more minutes passed, but this time Crowley did not move from where he was, an awkward tangled pile of demon and rumpled woolen cloth, as if tossed there by a careless, indifferent hand.

“Mrrph,” Crowley concluded.

“Crowley? Are you all right? This seems like a lot more consonants than usual, even for you.” Azriaphale’s voice. Without lifting up his head, Crowley raised a lax and lolling forearm just enough to wave Aziraphale toward an empty seat at his side. A moment later, some humans came by with cups of mixed wine, bowls of soup, and freshly baked bread, still hot from the oven.

“Soup? Isn’t it rather warm for soup? It’s the middle of summer.”

“Blrrgh,” Crowley answered reasonably, before, pulling a bowl toward himself, sitting up with great reluctance as he did so. He tore off a piece of bread and used it to scoop soup into his mouth, albeit in a defeated, dispirited manner.

“I haven’t seen you in a while. Not since spring,” Aziraphale said with a weak attempt at a smile. “Are you...all right?”

“Yeah. Course I’m fine. Absolutely fine, why wouldn’t I be fine? Just been...you know, busy,” Crowley managed something that looked almost like a smile except the expression was wobbly and uncertain and it seemed as though the demon was having trouble making direct eye contact. Crowley gestured absently with a ragged piece of torn bread as he spoke. “Fine, fine, fine.”

“Erm, since. Well, since the unpleasantness this last spring, I haven’t seen you but for a few minutes after the last day of the Dionysia. And by the way I must mention that it’s been noticed that you’re not seen around court outside of lessons. The other teachers and tutors have commented on it. Besides that, even poor Akakios is not seen often. It was quite difficult getting a message to you, you know.”

“Yeah, well. If the humans ask, just tell them I’m putting in some respectable mourning time. Course, that’s obviously not true. Just...busy.”

“Busy?” Aziraphale’s eyebrows went up.

“He’s...erm. How do I put it. Taken a fancy to me lately?” Crowley said, with a gesture that was like an exaggerated careless shrug, of a feigned nonchalance that slid toward awkward parody.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Rather...fancily.” Crowley searched Aziraphale’s face, wondering what the angel thought. To his surprise, Aziraphale’s eyes were full of sorrow.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, my dear, I didn’t-”

“Don’t be. You don’t need to apologize for anything. I’m fine, I like it just fine. I like him just fine. You know that,” Crowley replied, in a way that brooked no further discussion, and he stared at his soup as if the lentils or the drizzle of fresh olive oil on top could reveal some hidden meaning to him. “Nothing’s changed. Nothing ever changes for us...”

“Yes, of course. I remember. You’ve been very clear about that before on more than one occasion. But I must point out that you haven’t been this...ahem, glum, since you were told that you were being reassigned from Ephesus. And I would argue that you seem much worse today.”

“It’s nothing. Nothing to worry about. Just...been feeling a bit restless lately, that’s all. Cooped up.” Crowley closed his eyes for a moment but then opened them again and looked up at Aziraphale, his expression and tone of voice a careful lighthearted veil through which Aziraphale could still see the sadness underneath. “Anyway. Something going on?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath, taking a moment to recall his practiced words before he spoke.

“I thought I would inform you in advance. As a matter of propriety, of course, in order to properly coordinate a more effective mutual thwarting.”

“Yeah? Go on.”

“Alexander says the two of you – that is to say, you and that Prince of Hell – will be taking him out to observe the stars soon. I would like to know if you have any opinions regarding me joining. Perhaps you can think of me as...insurance?"

“Maybe if you could pull it off without making him suspicious,” Crowley replied.

“I assume you don’t mean Alexander.”

“I don’t mean Alexander. Definitely not. Perhaps if the boy invites you along?”

“Oh, he’s already invited me. While I have taken him up on his invitation, it is important to me that you know in advance that I’ll be there, so as to not be-”

“Probably the right thing to do,” Crowley nodded, waving off Aziraphale’s concerns. “Make him a bit uncomfortable.”

“You mean Alexander?”

“No, not at all,” Crowley said, the set of his lips grim. “Though I don’t know why, er, the boss is making such a big deal out of this. What kind of difficulty could we possibly get into looking up at the sky?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Aziraphale frowned to himself. “I know you can’t tell me much, but perhaps...if he’s been acting strangely lately, there might have been something that he mentioned, something that he said?”

“I don’t know.” Crowley threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat, sending a piece of bread sailing, and as Aziraphale’s eyes tracked the arc of its flight, the bread disappeared before it could land on a human’s head.

Somewhere, a duck was both very surprised and very happy, and Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley.

“...he doesn’t tell me anything like that. Except wait, he did tell me some things…” Crowley frowned, trying to remember the details, but his thoughts kept snagging upon that little bit of information from Asmodeus, suggesting that he could have been a Duke of Hell.

“Anything important?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Yes. No. Dumb things.”

“How dumb?” Aziraphale nudged.

“He...so one time, and this was a few years ago, erm, before that time we went out into the forest and had some experiences...yeah, anyway so it was before that. One time he asked me what I’d do if he were gone. But I’m not sure if I’m remembering it right. I was still pretty drunk from a party – and can you believe he just strolled right in and whisked me out while I was drinking with the humans? The humans were all surprised; there was gossip about it for ages afterwards, so much that I was sure Nikanor would have given up on – er maybe I imagined it? Why would he have said such a thing?”

“Yes, I can believe that,” Aziraphale’s mouth tightened in a line. “Does...does he often ask you questions like that?”

“No,” Crowley’s mouth twitched, expression uncertain. “Never. I don’t know, maybe I dreamed it…”

“I didn’t know that you dreamed,” Aziraphale said, shocked.

“I do.”

“Isn’t that..forbidden?” Aziraphale asked, scandalized.

“I don’t know, I don’t keep track of such things. It’s not something I do on purpose, dreaming. Besides, it’s just...you know, a side effect. Side effect of sleep,” Crowley shrugged. “It’s not like I’m intentionally trying to dream. Mostly. It happens sometimes, not all the time. Sometimes it’s just a lingering feeling, an impression. Sometimes it’s more involved. All sorts of possibilities, dreaming. Sometimes you remember nothing, sometimes you remember something for years.”

“That reminds me, I think I had a dream once,” Aziraphale said. “In the forest, when we were camped out overnight.”

“What was it about?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blushed. “Ah...something about you and, erm. That human friend of yours. I didn’t see anything, just overheard some conversation and-”

“Not a dream. That actually happened. Like...two...two and a half, er, three times, if you were paying attention. Or, erm, if you were listening for long enough. I can’t believe he-”

“I thought it was a dream, I was quite excited to tell you about it, Crowley-”

“First of all: you don’t sleep. Second of all-”

“But the entire landscape changed around me…?”

“Second of all: a certain person who shall go unnamed can quite literally roll up reality around someone easier than humans rolling up a scroll of papyrus. It’s easier if there’s physical contact, but it’s possible even without it. He’s very good at it. When he puts some effort into it, you can’t even tell that you’ve been moved.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, when he really wanted to say something much stronger, ruder, blasphemous, and with many harder, sharper consonants.

“Yeah. ‘Oh’ is probably the right way to go for you. Though I would have probably said ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’ or-”

“You’re right. I...my goodness, I was so foolish to think-”

“It’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. He just...he’s got a way of warping things around him to suit his liking,” Crowley sighed. “At least you weren’t hurt.”

“No,” Aziraphale swallowed, realizing somehow his mouth was dry and then reached for the wine. “But I did overhear…”

“Probably too much. Sorry, if I had known you were listening, I wouldn’t have...well, okay I probably would have done something but not that, not if I knew-”

“N-no, it’s all right. After all, I wouldn’t...think to get in the way of your affairs,” Aziraphale said, morose.

“Yeah, that’s a good term for it, isn’t it? Affairs. Well, it didn’t last long, not even by human standards, so I wouldn’t be too upset. It couldn’t have lasted anyway. Things with humans tend to...not go well in the long run,” Crowley sighed, and there was a deepening sadness in his eyes. “At least Nikanor’s still alive.”

“Yes, and oh, and speaking of Nikanor, I had forgotten to tell you, I completed all the blessings you had asked about. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to talk much last time. I know your time is...otherwise occupied.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Crowley tore off a piece of bread and then set it down on his bowl. He picked it up and set it down a few more times before leaving it where it was, slowly soaking into the soup. “It was just good to know you weren’t hurt.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale lied. “Why would I be? There’s not very much he can do to me. Your boss, that is.”

“No, I guess not.” Crowley sighed. “All right, so we’re going to do this stargazing thing, yeah? And you’ll be there.”

“I suppose we must. After all, I don’t trust the child with him, for any serious amount of time. Has a date been set yet?”

“The evening of the tenth of Hekatombaion going into the eleventh. What is that, next week?” Crowley shrugged. “Assuming the sky is clear. Which if he’s involved, yeah, it’ll be a clear night. Not a cloud in the sky. New moon and all, a nice time to look at the stars without the moon blotting everything out.”

“Seems reasonable. After all, besides timing it around the phases of the moon one wouldn’t want to interfere in the celebrations.”

“Huh?” Crowley blinked, completely confused.

“Did you forget? There’s a big banquet planned soon. The young Prince is turning eleven on the sixth of Hekatombaion.”

Chapter Text

Crowley sat in a chair on the other side of the desk, golden eyes fixed intently upon Asmodeus who sat across from him. He kept his expression pleasant and interested, waiting for the Prince of Hell to respond.

Wine cup in hand, Asmodeus’ attention was elsewhere, eyes fixed upon the high window as a bird flew in, perched upon the high ledge.

Crowley wondered if that was Asmodeus’ doing or if the bird had just wanted a shady respite from the hot summer sun. But then the bird pecked at something, and narrowing his eyes Crowley realized that someone had left a handful of grain upon that high window ledge.

He glanced at Asmodeus, wondering if the Prince of Hell had placed the seeds up there himself, wanting to see the birds. But then again that didn’t seem realistic; after all, if Asmodeus had wanted a bird, he would have already had one in a cage to look at, to examine until he grew bored with it and let it go or destroyed it.

Crowley looked down at the flat expanse of the desk. The many scrolls were all rolled up and even though Crowley’s fingers itched to unroll one just for the sake of looking at something else, anything else, he did not dare to even guess at what secrets the documents might contain or reveal.

The demon knew better than to ask.

He glanced at the quality of light coming through the window and guessed that it was near midday.

Normally a time when Crowley would be looking to have lunch, perhaps with one of the tutors or even Aziraphale if he could manage it, but here he was instead, watching Asmodeus take little sips of unmixed wine, wondering if the Prince of Hell would want to pass the time together in bed again today or if he would want something else or someone else.

Crowley stifled a sigh.

Eventually, noticing that Asmodeus had long since stopped paying attention to him, Crowley decided to stop paying attention as well, sitting with his arms folded in silent contemplation, staring at the mosaic floor without actually seeing it.

Soup. It would be nice to have some soup right about now. A nice hot bowl of soup.

Fish soup with barley, fish soup with maza, lentil soup with barley, lentil soup with maza, chicken soup with barley, chicken soup with maza, pork bone soup with bar-

“Crowley.”

“Yes, my lord?” Crowley looked up immediately.

“Come with me, there is something that I must do today and I need your help,” Asmodeus said, and as he stood up, the disguise of the Egyptian came over him and Crowley felt his face tense.

“Sure, anything you want. So erm, bit early for the party? Are we still doing that?”

“Yes, of course. After all, I have been called upon to entertain.”

“Entertain? Really? How?”

“Something about wanting to see some magic. A request from the king himself. I suppose it would not do to turn down his majesty,” Asmodeus’ mouth twitched in amusement.

“I didn’t know you did what humans call magic.” Crowley blinked.

“I will need you to assist me with that, later.” Asmodeus said, giving nothing away. “But first, we’ll need to meet the hell-hound.”

“Did you say ‘hell-hound’? You’ve never mentioned anything about a hell-hound before...”

“Oh yes. It would not do to leave a powerful child like this unsupervised. Best to give him a demonic guardian, to pad by his side and guard him from all harm as he continues to grow into adulthood-.”

“Uh, that sounds like a really...really generous gift, my lord, but won’t the humans notice? Would his parents even allow such a gift?”

“It’s reality, darling. The humans won’t notice a thing. The beast will conform to be whatever Alexander desires most, and once he names it, he will give it meaning and purpose. But first, we must go to the necropolis.”

“Which one? The far one or the near one?”

“Archontiko.”

“Oh, the near one.”

Despite the proximity it was still more than an hour’s walk out to the old necropolis beyond the city limits and to Crowley’s surprise, they walked the entire way.

“You look like you have something on your mind, darling. What is it that you want to ask?”

“Just...wondering why we’re walking?” Crowley dared a glance up at the Prince of Hell, who had long since dropped his disguise once they left the city proper.

“I seem to have grown accustomed to this method of travel. It offers an opportunity to see everything the world has to offer. There really is a lot to see that I will miss.”

The two angels, both fallen, crested the little hill upon which the necropolis had been built, ducking into the inviting shade of the trees that grew upon the elevated ground like a crown of greenery.

Asmodeus looked past the trees and down the hill at the scatter of little farms and scrubby trees, the sunbaked fields in various states of harvest and growth, the white flowers dotting the fields closest to the hill like a scatter of tiny pebbles strewn across a dark undulating beach.

“Yeah. Good point. I like it for that too. In fact, I’m pretty glad to be out for a change. Enjoying it quite a bit.” But then with a wince, Crowley wondered if he had overstepped. To his surprise, Asmodeus looked at him with a hint of a smile on his lips.

“Then it is also good to see you happy, to know what you like about this world. I admit I have been selfish in keeping you to myself recently, monopolizing your time. Time that I had promised could be yours, but that I have stolen for my own indulgence. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Actually I...um,” and Crowley felt his heart pound; he had almost spoken the truth. “Er, of course not. Course I don’t mind. Why would I mind? Just glad to be at your side, my lord. Heh.”

“You needn’t lie to me. I recognize that...it’s not easy feeling as though one is trapped. The same walls, the same corridors, the same chair, forever and forever: monotonous, without variety.”

“My lord?”

“No matter.” That hint of a smile stayed upon those lips but the expression in green eyes changed, growing melancholy. “Soon enough things will change.”

“Sometimes...sometimes I wish you didn’t have to go back Downstairs,” Crowley said, immediately regretting what he had just said because in his heart he knew he didn’t completely mean it, as if he hadn’t been counting the days for Asmodeus to be recalled to his duties below.

“Crowley.” In the dappled shade beneath the green trees Asmodeus drew Crowley into his arms, his chin resting upon Crowley’s head. “You know I cannot have you always by my side, even if I wanted to.”

“Yeah, but.”

“Hmm?”

“You seem...unhappy when you’re down there,” Crowley mumbled.

“No one is happy. Downstairs or Upstairs,” Asmodeus said, letting Crowley go, his words clipped and sharp. They continued walking into the heart of the necropolis, sidestepping grave markers made of carved stone until they were surrounded by countless tombs and graves; a few fresh but many old, ancient, their paint and inscriptions worn away by rain and the passage of time. “I doubt any of us have ever been anything near ‘happy’, even before the Fall. We merely existed, to do what we were created for. To serve. The only respite for any of us comes from the pleasures of this temporary world, this creation doomed to destruction. And soon enough, as it is written, all of this will be gone and for what? To prove a point that has always been controlled by the Executive power of the universe.”

“Does...it really have to be destroyed?”

“Like many things, darling, the decisions have already been made, had been made a long time ago.” Asmodeus’ fingers ran over the curves of a grave marker, tracing the cold stone cheek of a young woman reaching out to her mother. “We might play at having agency but ultimately it is just up to us to wait until everything falls into place.”

“Right. No free will, of course, me. You too, right? Just going along with what the decisions are higher up. Or lower down. Whatever, whichever one makes sense.”

“We may not have technically have free will, but there are always other options.”

“What does that mean? Are we allowed to have options?”

Asmodeus paused for a long moment before answering, at first with reluctance but then with growing vehemence. “We are not meant to have free will. But as time passes, I cannot help but feel that said free will was provided to us improperly. If we weren’t meant to have any free will at all, there are many things that neither of us should have been able to do, and yet having pushed the boundaries, it seems that we have more free will than we should.”

“...are you really allowed-”

“My darling, neither Heaven nor Hell will stop me from taking humans as I please or even killing them. Even when they are watching me, it doesn’t seem that either side cares what I do. So what makes you think that they care what any of us do to this place, to these creatures? This world was doomed before it was born; does it matter what we do upon it?”

Crowley closed his mouth, unable to reply, and he thought if this were Aziraphale, he would have said yes. Yes, it mattered very much.

But Aziraphale was not here.

“There is no answer to this that I can give you, Crowley. Only what I know. That I have tested, tasted the boundaries of free will and wherever I have gone, however hard I have pushed, said boundary does not exist. The lack of free will is a lie to hold us in obedience.”

Crowley gasped. “But…”

“You should push those boundaries too, as you like. I will not stop you.”

“My lord-” Dazed by racing thoughts, Crowley ran out of words.

“No one will stop me. And no one will stop you.” Asmodeus looked up toward the clear blue skies, the blazing summer sunlight illuminating his golden hair like a glowing flame. “Heaven watches but does nothing for anyone. Hell does not watch nor does it care. No child is rescued from its abuser, no slave is freed from its master. Millions and millions of humans, generations upon generations have lived and died – will live and die – by rape and violence and torture and murder, and there is no one who will redeem them. No one who will save them. There is no one who cares for them.”

“What about the Almighty?”

Asmodeus laughed. “What makes you think She would care for them when She cares so little for us, Her first and brightest creations? And why should any of us care for even one of these pitiful creatures? We needn’t even tempt them; they foul their world, themselves, and each other readily without our influence. Do as you like, Crowley. No one will stop you.”

“Then won’t you do as you like, Asmodeus?”

The Prince of Hell startled, clear green eyes fixed upon Crowley, surprised at being addressed directly.

“Darling...what are you saying?”

“That if none of this matters, that no one will stop you...why don’t you just do as you like and leave all this nonsense behind? If the other Prince is trying to sideline you, trying to steal your crown, why don’t you just walk away like the others? Take your crown with you where no one can reach you. And just...go do what you like. Wherever you like, whatever it is you want to do. Whether it’s on Earth or out there.” Crowley gestured to the skies, not to Heaven but to the Creation beyond this world, vast and inviting with all its multitudinous creations. “It’s a big universe.”

A pause, and Asmodeus seemed like he was about to say something but then his breath hitched in his throat. Without a word, he stepped toward Crowley, dead grass crunching beneath his feet, as Crowley walked toward him, meeting him partway.

Asmodeus drew Crowley into his arms, kissing him with an unusual gentleness, and Crowley felt a strange shiver go through himself at the warmth of Asmodeus’ mouth; had the Prince of Hell ever been so gentle?

He held Crowley in his arms without speaking for a long moment, enough for Crowley to tentatively reach up to touch the Prince of Hell’s shoulder, concerned. And when Asmodeus drew back, his green eyes were strangely full of unshed tears.

“My lord?”

“You know it is not possible to leave.” Asmodeus looked away, surreptitiously brushing away a tear with a gesture as if brushing back a stray lock of blond hair. “It is not a matter of loyalty, darling, but one of principle: one less Prince of Hell would ensure our destruction before the hordes of Heaven. But it is good to know that you are loyal to me. Would you have come away with me, had I chose to leave?”

“I…” And the words stuck in Crowley’s throat and he was unable to answer. The best he could manage was a tentative nod, one that froze when he remembered Aziraphale.

“I would probably have to take you with me, if I were to leave. They would tear my court apart trying to find where I went, and they would start with you.” Thankfully Asmodeus had not noticed that moment of hesitation, and his hands moved through Crowley’s long dark hair, playing with the curling strands. “But I would protect you, as I always have and always will. Together, with your cleverness and my power, we could perhaps get away. But not for long. It would not be an existence worth living, always looking over one’s shoulder, awaiting the net, the snare at every turn and place of rest. Hell would hunt us to the ends of existence.”

“Yeah, good point. It wouldn’t be like the others who walked away early on, would it?” Crowley asked, glancing up as if he could tell what Asmodeus’ fingers were doing in his hair.

“No. It would not be like the others. But that is why I stayed instead of walking away early on.” With that, Asmodeus let him go, and at that strange, sudden emptiness, Crowley found himself with his own arms hugging himself, as if it could replace that warmth that he couldn’t help but long for.

Asmodeus walked about the necropolis in silence, fingers lingering upon a weathered grave marker, the pleated stone drapery tangled about the obscured feet of a statue upon a plinth, the windswept leaves of a scrubby willow, pausing at the soft fur of a long-since dried catkin.

“I...appreciate that you care enough for me to want me to be happy, Crowley. Who knows, perhaps someday we will all be free to do as we like. To live as we would have it, without one side or the other to submit to in obedience, without the everpresent constraint of our responsibilities weighing us down.”

“I’d like that…” Crowley said with a sigh.

The demon moved to pull a fold of his black himation over his head, and as he did that, he felt the familiar twist of a plated braid within the mass of his long loose hair.

He looked to Asmodeus, a question tingling upon his lips, but Asmodeus had turned away.

Chapter Text

In a sunny newly harvested woodlot, two young nobles sat together on an old stump among the growing grass. Lips still damp from the long drinks they took at the waterfall, they sat shoulder to shoulder, catching their breaths after a long run.

“When do you have to be back?” Hephaistion asked.

“About sunset, I think?” Alexander shrugged. “Dinner’s not on until dark, but I’m supposed to wash up and get dressed. What about you?”

“Me too. You’re lucky your hair curls, I think my mom wants to curl my hair. So I probably need to get back sooner than sunset,” Hephaistion said ruefully. “I don’t like sitting still for that.”

“Yeah, that would be annoying. I’m lucky to have hair more like my mother,” Alexander grinned, running his hand through his curling mane of hair.

“You’re lucky you wouldn’t have to sit through that. I can hardly stay still, and my hair’s so straight it doesn’t want to hold a curl for long.” Hephaistion leaned against Alexander, smiling to himself as he felt Alexander lean back. “So if you could have anything you wanted for your birthday, would you rather have a dog first or a horse?”

“Oh, a horse. I want a horse first.”

“Me too, but my father didn’t think I was old enough this year. He said it’s more appropriate when one is twelve or thirteen to get a horse.”

“If I had a horse I could start training it now,” Alexander said. “A dog’s easier to train than a horse, that can wait.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to practice on a dog first? I’ve been practicing with mine. Well, it’s not really my dog but one of my father’s dogs, but he lets me practice giving commands, like to stop or to sit. But I did teach it to stand up and put its paws on my shoulders.”

“That’s cool, you’ll have to show me next time. But even if a dog is good practice, I’d rather get a horse,” Alexander beamed. “A big one.”

“You mean a grown one or a foal?”

“A foal, of course. Then we’d be almost the same age and grow up together. Them in horse years, me in human years.”

“I’d like a foal too. I think I’d want a speckled one,” Hephaistion said dreamily. “Oh wait, no, I like it when they have those stripes on their legs, like the Persian horses.”

“I’d like a black one,” Alexander said. “A great big foal, with an interesting mark on its hindquarters. Like...like a wolf biting a bull.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Hephaistion laughed. “Why would you want that?”

“Well, you asked me what I’d really like and that’s what I’d really like,” Alexander replied. “Too bad it’s not real.”

“Why black? Why not gray or white or chestnut or whatever?”

“I don’t know, I just like the color. Maybe it’s because growing up, my favorite nanny and her brother always wore black. Oh, you know him, Akakios the servant. I don’t think you ever met Akakios the nanny, she left ages ago to get married when I was little. But Akakios the servant used to always carry me on his shoulders whenever I asked, and pretend at being a horse. And he would play at being a fierce horse, like a charger, so I’d learn how to hang on. I don’t know, maybe something about that makes me want a black horse. The kind that’s fierce in war but gentle to me, like Akakios.”

“Who, the nurse or the servant?”

“Mostly the servant, and the nurse a little bit too I guess. She sometimes let me ride on her shoulders too, but not as often as the servant because she didn’t like me messing up her hair and her clothes. They were both really similar when they were pretending to be horses. You’d think she would have been a gentler horse, the kind women sometimes ride but no, a fierce war charger too. Comes of being twins, I think?”

“What about the wolf and bull thing?”

“That’s just cool,” Alexander grinned. “No reason, just wanted something that looks super cool. You know, like a red himation like a Spartan soldier or a chiton with a fire embroidered border on it.”

“Okay, that is actually extremely cool,” Hephaistion admitted. “And here I thought stripes on the legs and a line down the spine looked cool.”

“Those are cool too, they make the horse look like it’ll run faster.”

“Yeah, I’d hope the horse I get keeps those marks,” Hephaistion said. “Sometimes the foals change colors as they grow and lose them. But a black horse wouldn’t have those markings at all.”

“No, it wouldn’t, not markings you could see easily anyhow. But that’s okay, it’d look almost invisible at night. And that would be really cool to be riding around just before dawn or at dusk and it looks like you’re just floating but it’s really because no one can see your black horse.”

“Speaking of black, now that you mention it,” Hephaiston wondered. “Your nanny and her brother wearing black so much. That is odd, isnt it? Were they in mourning? Some kind of extended mourning? I’ve seen that servant around the palace, he’s always wearing black. Black everything, from head to toe.”

“I guess so. Bad luck in that family, I suppose. Lots of deaths, or maybe an important death but then again, that’s to be expected in families with lower standing and wealth, right? I hear with peasants, their kids die a lot.”

“All kids die a lot,” Hephaistion shrugged. “I guess we’re lucky.”

“Yeah. We’re lucky. Got all the way to eleven without dying.” Alexander smiled. “Besides, it could be that he doesn’t have a change of clothes. I don’t think I’ve ever really seen him wear anything else, though he keeps his clothes very well-maintained. You’d think it’d get shabby and worn out by now, at least with a more active man. But he doesn’t go hunting anymore, not after he got his boar. Best not to pry, it’d damage his honor to suggest he was too poor for a new chiton and himation. I thought about gifting him some nice new clothes before but it didn’t seem right, not without a good excuse and I could never quite come up with one. I didn’t want to injure his pride.”

The two boys fell silent, and Hephaistion nudged Alexander, resting his head upon Alexander’s shoulder, his blond hair falling into his face.

“You seem like you’re having a good thought,” Hephaistion said, looking up at Alexander, who brushed that lock of fine blond hair out of the other boy’s face. “Mind sharing?”

“Yeah, just imagining that big black foal.”

“The one with the wolf eating the bull?”

“Biting. Biting the bull. Like carrying it in its jaws with all these wicked sharp teeth. And yeah, just thinking how cool it would be to ride that horse into war someday, that would be so much fun…”

Two demons lurked in companionable silence as the sun slowly crept across the sky, and as the sun began to lower, the quality of the light within the necropolis began to change.

“What’s going on?” Crowley wondered. “Are we getting a message?”

“Not exactly though I suppose to those watching, this could be interpreted as a message. It is merely that what we have been waiting for,” Asmodeus replied, setting his hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

The ground began to rumble, a low bass sound that was just beyond hearing but not beyond feeling, and a moment later the ground cracked open and a jagged black shadow appeared, scrabbling out of the tomb of the earth beneath it as the ground slowly closed behind it.

The creature shook off loose earth and detritus from its body and Crowley recognized it as a hell-hound. The beast lifted a paw to stride forward, but before it could move it began to change, its body growing larger, its legs elongating. Bones and sinews and muscles twisting, cracking and breaking and reforming and Crowley felt his breath choke up in his throat all at once in horror, knowing what that feeling was like, that sensation of a body changing to conform to-

And a moment later, a tall black yearling foal reared up, hot saliva dripping from its slavering jaws. It pranced forward, tossing its head, and Crowley saw that upon its left flank was mottled dark auburn mark, something that looked like a wolf with a…

“Uh, so are horses supposed to have pointy teeth?” Crowley pointed up at the horse, confused.

“This one does,” Asmodeus smiled. “Though it seems that they did not feed it before sending it up to me. I suppose they did not think that far ahead. The limitations of reality always adds complications that are not thought of Downstairs. Well, that can be arranged. It is in part why I chose this place.”

At a gesture from the Prince of Hell, the stones and earth that covered a fresh grave parted, revealing a shrouded form. The horse-shaped hell-hound bounded forward, tail wagging, as it bit into the relatively fresh corpse with earnest, droplets of congealing blood flying.

“Oh,” Crowley said, completely reasonably, as he ducked gobbets of flesh, scraps of a mourning shroud, and bits of cracked bone. “That’s...good thinking, lord. Really strategic, probably wouldn’t do to have it eating people on the way to the palace, someone would notice...with all the screaming and tearing apart that is.”

“Yes. Best that the humans don’t know. Though I wonder if this will give it a taste for human flesh from now on. That could be difficult. But it is a problem for Alexander and not something that we will have to deal with. Once he names the hell-hound and gives it a purpose, it will be out of our hands.” Asmodeus tossed Crowley a bridle, of a crimson leather the color of clotted blood, nearly black, embroidered in gold with stylized serpents. “Put that on it and let us go, we need to get ready to go to a party.”

Crowley looked over at the transformed hell-hound, a creature who was nearly the same height as Crowley and who turned a wild, rolling eye at the demon, rearing up from its mostly disemboweled and definitely mangled meal, sharp hooves slicing through the air.

“N-nice doggie?”

Chapter Text

Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale found himself in the usual section sitting with the other tutors, mostly southern Hellenes from Attica who were in varying states of polite dismay or nonplussed habituation (depending on how long they had been in Pella) as unmixed wine was brought in with the first course for a dinner ostensibly for children but quite obviously for the king and his friends.

Surprisingly however, the party was being entertained by a disguised Prince of Hell and Aziraphale did his best to show something like restraint before the eyes of his colleagues and peers and God and everyone else who had to witness this sordid mess.

“And behold,” Asmodeus in the disguise of Nectanebo said, palming and revealing a bright silver tetradrachm. “A coin, from behind your ear.” Absently he handed the large coin to Alexander, who made a face.

“What was the point of that?” Alexander demanded. “That was hardly magic at all. Besides, you’ve already done the same trick five times already with different people including my father.”

“I thought we’d see real magic,” Hephaistion added, from his seat by the young prince’s side.

“Real magic?” Nectanebo looked almost amused. “Is this not real magic, children?”

“Sleight of hand is just a cheap trick employed by low class pickpockets, that hardly counts as real magic.”

“I thought he was a famous magician?” A youth asked.

“From Egypt too. Maybe Egyptian magic is not very good compared to Hellene magic?”

“When I turned 11, I got a lot more than a stupid trick with coins at my birthday. I got a dog, an I gotter sword, anna mydadgotterme a bow anna real arrower anna lyre anna...”

“For real magic,” Nectanebo said, the barest hint of frustration in his raised voice, “I shall need an assistant.”

“Oh, oh! Pick me, pick me!” A little boy clamored.

“I think...that I shall need an assistant I am more familiar with.” And Nectanebo turned, so that his gaze fell upon Crowley.

“Oh. Me?” Crowley startled from where he reclined upon the supper couch, nearly dropping his cup of wine. “What?”

“Yes, my lovely assistant. Please, join me.”

“Really, me? Erm, oh right. Yes my lord, right away.” Consternated, Crowley set down his sloshing drink and clambered off the supper couch to stand before the staring court.

Somewhere, an aulos player was piping along bravely and Crowley looked around as all eyes fixed upon him.

“Right then,” Crowley said, adjusting his himation. “Now what?”

“My lovely assistant Akakios will help me with my next trick.” Nectanebo came over, and with a commanding hand, caught the edge of Crowley’s himation, drawing it up. Surprised, Crowley looked at the disguised Prince of Hell, catching his eye briefly.

“Play along,” Asmodeus hissed.

“Yeah, of course,” Crowley muttered.

The tone and tenor of the aulos grow ominous.

“Now then, as all of you can see, there is nothing concealed beneath his himation…”

“But for a pretty thin Ionian!” A noble friend of the king yelled, to a burst of laughter.

“Not too thin and plenty pretty for my tastes, are you going to show us what’s under his chiton too?”

“Come on, show us what else he’s concealing so we can judge for ourselves!” A man said to the cheers of the crowd.

“I thought this was a party for children…” Aziraphale said to one of the other tutors, who sat on the couch beside him.

“This is a party for children,” the music tutor shrugged. “Haven’t you been to one of these before?”

“I’ve been to every one since I arrived here and I don’t remember it ever being like this?”

“That’s probably because you never stay after the kids are sent off to bed.”

“Ah, I suppose that’s a good point,” Aziraphale conceded. “But the children are still here?”

“Shush, the Egyptian’s about to do his trick.”

“...and from beneath this long concealing himation, behold!” Nectanebo gestured, pulling a goose out from under Crowley’s himation, from somewhere behind the demon’s back. “A goose!”

“A goose?” Alexander’s eyebrows went up.

“A goose.” The Prince of Hell handed the squawking, flapping goose to Crowley.

“Ow, it bit me!” Crowley hissed, to the laughter of both the men and boys at the symposium.

The goose hissed back, and managed to just barely stay put in Crowley’s arms.

Polite clapping all around, and it seemed that no one was particularly impressed.

“It was under his himation, along his back-”

“No, I think it was under his chiton. Between his legs. I mean, did you see that bit of a limp?”

“I thought he always walked that way.”

“There’s just too much clothes to tell. Who wears this much clothing in the summer anyway? I haven’t worn a himation since the ground thawed, it’s too hot for a himation.”

“But he wears this all the time, and for years. You think it’s some kind of long con, like he’s been wearing all these clothes for ages just in case he’s called upon to be a prop in a magic show?”

“Could be just that the servant’s too thin to stay warm without a himation. Well, I could show him how to stay warm without one...”

“The goose could have been trained to hide.”

“Then why did it bite?”

“Because it’s a goose?”

“It’s probably been trained to bite, to throw off the audience.”

“It was not trained to bite,” Crowley muttered, rubbing his bitten finger with his thumb while his other hand wrangled the unruly goose as best he could.

“I see this is an audience that is entirely too sophisticated to be impressed by a simple trick,” Nectanebo said, even though in truth he had materialized the goose from somewhere else, grabbing it from its dozing perch in a tree where the goose had thought itself beyond the slavering jaws of a fox but not beyond grasping hands of a demon. “Perhaps a more difficult trick should be attempted. For this, I shall need a dagger.”

“I’ve got one,” Alexander said, pulling out a boy’s dagger from his belt. “Be careful, it’s sharp. I cut apples and carrots and hares with it.”

“Yes, thank you, my young prince,” Nectanebo smiled at the boy, who did not smile in return. The disguised Prince of Hell took the dagger graciously. “There is a very amusing trick I can do, one that involves cutting off a head and reattaching it. Do we have any criminals or prisoners that can be used?”

“Oh no, that’s too much!” Aziraphale gasped.

“The maths teacher is right. Even if he is a soft Peloponnesian, an execution at a banquet is too much!”

“It’s not a matter of softness,” Aziraphale protested, “but a matter of common decency-”

“Besides, that little thing he’s got could hardly saw a finger off, much less an entire head.”

“W-what about the goose, my lord?” Crowley pointed at the goose and it bit him again. “Ow!”

“Perhaps you have a point; this small feathered criminal is deserving of punishment for the violence it has chosen and inflicted. Well then, my darling assistant, please hold up the goose for me and with a stroke I shall sever its head and reattach it, by means of mysterious Egyptian magic.”

“Y-yeah, lemme see if I can grab it by the head and- ouch! Oh, no, nooo, that’s not going to work…”

With a gesture of frustration Crowley did just as Asmodeus had asked, giving up on holding the goose by its head so that it would be easier to cut; after all, there were always miracles that could guide the Prince of Hell’s hand.

“Look, an ordinary goose, with nothing unusual about it. It cackles, it flaps its wings, it bites. But what happens when I cut off its head? Be forewarned, the first few rows may get wet.”

Nectanebo raised the dagger up over his head, pausing for a moment to build the anticipation before bring the knife down with a sharp slicing gesture. As the humans gasped the goose’s head flew off, blood splattering Crowley’s face and arms as well as a few of the guests sitting closest to where the demon was standing.

The severed head fell with a thump onto the ground, dribbling blood.

“Oh dear!” Aziraphale gasped.

Some of the humans laughed, others murmured, and still yet others were making annoyed noises about being stained with blood.

Crowley sputtered, trying his best not to lick the blood off his lips though he could taste the delicious iron tang of it, still warm from the goose’s body.

Goose blood soup, duck blood soup, pig’s blood soup, Crowley thought, because thinking about soup instead of what was happening was a nice mental break from the mental breakdown that might otherwise be his situation.

The goose’s head and body, now rent asunder, twitched uncomfortably.

“And now, my assistant will retrieve the head.”

A deep breath and Crowley leaned over to pick up the dismembered head.

“Ow, it bit me!”

“And set the head to the north of the andron, and leave the body at the south end. Then, I shall reattach it.”

“That stupid goose bit me!”

“My lovely assistant shall set the head to the north of the andron…” Nectanebo repeated himself, and with a start Crowley took action, quickly replaying the disguised Asmodeus’ words in his mind from memory to do as he was asked.

From eons of practice following orders in Hell, Crowley managed to do this without a grumble, looking pleasant and charming as he did so, walking back and forth from one end of the andron to the other with the still-twitching, still-bleeding goose parts.

“How’s he going to reattach it if one piece is over there and one piece is over here?”

“Well, isn’t the south side closer to the kitchen? Maybe he’s just sending it down to be roasted.”

“I don’t think it’s good for anything other than roasting at this point.”

“Quiet,” Nectanebo held up a commanding hand. “I shall require silence for the incantation to work.”

The quiet roar of the banqueters simmered down to a hushed murmur that immediately fell silent when Nectanebo slowly walked to the center of the hall. Even the aulos sputtered into silence as the supposed magician began to speak.

In a grave and solemn voice, Nectanebo began to recite the words of the spell. As Crowley listened, he frowned as he rubbed his bruised, goose-bitten fingers. This was not any actual language but a series of random syllables strung together into a nonsensical repeating wave of undulating gibberish that seemed to daze, to hypnotize the humans. He ventured a glance at Aziraphale who was giving him a very pointed and questioning look that he could only respond to with a grimace and a shrug; the demon had not known that the Prince of Hell was going to do something this specifically strange.

Flap. Flap. Flap.

A strange noise, and Crowley looked around for the source of the sound.

Flap flap.

Flap flap flap.

Flap flap flap flap.

Deliberate and yet awkward, an irregular and unruly cadence, and the silence that filled the hall seemed to be one more of dread than of anticipation.

“What the…” Crowley turned, and saw that the headless goose had stood up and was waddling over toward the middle of the banquet hall.

When he looked the other direction, it seemed that the head was doing likewise, as best as a head could waddle given the circumstances, though to his eye it appeared more of a bobbling than a waddling.

“Oh, that’s just fu-” And Crowley clapped his hand over his mouth, his words muffled into oblivion as the horrible sight of the two parts of the goose shambling over toward each other blindly.

The disguised Prince of Hell’s venomous green eyes glinted with amusement. “I hope then this is magical enough for you humans.”

Slowly, inexorably, the two parts of the goose stumbled toward each other to meet in the middle of the large andron and with a strange burst of fire and smoke, the goose stood up, now whole, its eyes looking around as if it had just recently received the worst fright of its life.

A terrible hush fell over the crowd.

Honk! Honk honk! The goose shivered with a dread that should not have been felt by any goose, worse than the fear of foxes, far worse than a swimming gosling’s fear of the deep terrors hidden within large bodies of dark water.

Hesitantly, the humans began to clap, until the hall was filled with cheering. Nectanebo bowed, and waited until the applause died down to speak.

“Well now, shall we do this to another animal?” Nectanebo said. “A bull perhaps? Or...a horse-”

“No!” Alexander shouted. “That’s too awful!”

“Come now, it’s obvious no lasting harm would come to the animal,” Asmodeus began, gesturing to the goose who was now flapping about the symposium, chased by servants and slaves who were trying to shoo it out. “As you can see, the goose is fine.”

“You shouldn’t. A goose is one thing, it doesn’t have many uses beyond being eaten but a horse is too fine, too noble of a creature to be toyed with so easily. Besides, what if you had to ride it to war?”

“It would be less afraid if it already knew the horrors of decapitation. But, I defer to you, my prince, for your graciousness and kindness. One last trick then, and I then shall retire for the evening.”

“One last trick? What’s he going to do, do you think?” A man wondered.

“Not sure how he’s going to follow up on that…”

“Something better than that awful trick would not be hard.”

Nectanebo’s smile wavered briefly, and with a sharp gesture, the hell-hound horse suddenly materialized in the middle of the symposium hall.

“Akakios, bridle,” Nectanebo gestured and with a stumbling dive Crowley grabbed the horse’s bridle before it could do anything like run off or trample some humans into a fine paste before eating said human paste.

Was it just me, Crowley thought, or did that transformed hell-hound salivate a little when looking at the humans?

Was it just me, Aziraphale thought, or did that horse have a mouthful of sharp teeth?

“A horse!” Alexander gasped. “It’s a horse! Just...just like I wanted! With the mark of the wolf biting the bull and everything!”

“Wow,” Hephaistion stared. “Look at that conformation. It’s like the ideal horse dreamt up by Xenophon...maybe even a bit better?”

“This is a Cappadocian foal, brought to me by the princes of their land,” Nectanebo said smoothly. “I would have this be my gift to you on the momentous occasion of your eleventh birthday, Prince Alexander.”

“Father! Father, can I keep him?!”

Phillip gestured from his golden couch where he reclined, equal parts magnanimity and drunkenimity. “Certainly, my son. Looks like a pretty good horse. Can probably get lots of...stade-age out of him. Though someone pay off the Egyptian, we can’t take a present like this for such an occasion. I will buy the horse for you, Alexander.”

“Oh, thank you father! It is a fine present, and I will be ever grateful.”

“Careful, it’s a man-eater,” Nectanebo smiled toothily.

“Don’t exaggerate, horses don’t eat people. That’s ridiculous,” Alexander said firmly, and to its dismay, the transfigured hell-hound stopped looking at the humans as food and started wondering what carrots would taste like and how close in crunch quality the root vegetables were to bones. Probably better than bones, definitely sweeter and wouldn’t get too many bits stuck in the teeth. Or maybe a bit of grass, would that be like tearing hanks of hair from a human’s head? No, crispier and tastier, though the tearing up part with the teeth would be just as fulfilling. Oh, and certainly an apple sounded great and a bit of salt for flavor...

“You should name the beast,” Nectanebo said, gesturing for Crowley to bring the horse toward the young prince’s couch.

Alexander moved slowly onto his feet so as not to scare the horse. Letting the horse sniff his hand, he looked up at the massive foal, at its black coloring and the oddly specific mark upon its flank.

There was a hushed silence, as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting to find out what this Nephilim child would do, what meaning it would give to this transformed hell-hound’s existence.

“The gods brought him to me on my birthday, the exact horse I had been dreaming of, so this horse is going to be very special to me,” Alexander intoned gravely. “I shall ride him to battle when I am a man, and will never sell him off or give him away.”

“What shall be its name, my child?” Nectanebo asked, eyes bright with anticipation. “What are you going to call it?”

“I think I’ll call him...Bucephalos. Yes, that’s a good name for a horse, Bucephalos.”

“...Oxhead?” Crowley and Aziraphale, in two different parts of the banquet hall, said simultaneously to themselves under their breaths.

“And not Wolf-head?” Hephaistion looked up at Alexander, who had taken the bridle from the disguised Crowley’s lax and confused hand.

The Totally Normal Horse (Who Was Definitely Not a Former Hell-Hound) named Oxhead nickered, making contented Totally Normal Horse noises and doing Totally Normal Horse things, like eat a piece of carrot from Alexander’s hand once a servant brought him some carrots. Oxhead wagged his tail happily, crunching through the carrot with gusto. Then, turning around thrice before the young Macedonian prince’s couch, he laid down at Alexander’s feet, looking up at the young prince with adoring eyes.

“Oxhead,” Asmodeus said with a sigh, as a servant brought him a bag of gold, which he handed to Crowley. “A perfectly ordinary horse.”

Chapter Text

Given that it was normal fire, created by flint and tinder, it was rather afraid of Crowley and when he tightened his hand around the torch the flames seemed to quiver a little, leaning away from him as much as it could given the disturbances of movement and wind, cowering before the demon’s infernal will, his tight-pursed lips and grim intent.

“Watch out, there’s an old quarry over here to our left,” Tyrimmas said as he led the way, the blazing torch in his hand a relatively dim and meager light struggling to fight back the deep darkness of the moonless night. “Don’t get too close to the edge. I’ve been here before during the day. The ground is unstable and it’s a long way down. If you walk too close, just the weight of your body alone can make the edge crumble and down you’d go. Even children have fallen in before.”

“I’ll be careful,” Alexander scowled. The young prince followed Tyrimmas, flanked on either side by his tutors, the disguised Aziraphale on his right, and the disguised Asmodeus on his left. “I’m not a little kid.”

Crowley trudged along, glancing at the black void with a flat, disinterested expression before looking away.

“Phew, that’s dark. Looks like a bottomless pit from here.” Stretching out his torch, Demetrios peered over as they passed the quarry, heading toward the gentle rise of a little hill. “Wouldn’t want to know what’s down there.”

“Broken rocks, mostly?” Tyrimmas shrugged. “It was a quarry after all.”

“I meant in the dark,” Demetrios said. “You know what I mean. Wolves? Foxes? A bear? A ghost? The ghost of a bear...”

“Probably demons,” Crowley muttered to himself. “Goes all the way to Hell.” He followed behind the disguised Asmodeus, who quietly gave directions to Tyrimmas as they walked, directing the human guard. There was something unpleasantly familiar about following Asmodeus like this through the darkness and it took Crowley several minutes of contemplation before realizing that this reminded him of Hell, following Asmodeus’ court through empty, echoing corridors.

Passing briefly under a canopy of tree branches, Crowley found that for a dizzying moment he had lost track of where he was, when he was. Staring at Asmodeus’ back overwhelmed him with memory but then when he focused and looked around, as if expecting stone all about him, he was relieved to see only a pleasant countryside filled with the sleepy nighttime drone of insects, the shivery rustling movements of animals startled by their trespass, the breath of the wind whispering through the trees.

“How much farther are we going?” Alexander wondered, looking up to Aziraphale who walked to his right.

“I wouldn’t know, child. I didn’t organize this outing. As you recall, I’m merely your guest,” Aziraphale smiled politely, hands folded neatly behind his back as he walked. He did his best to look civil, to appear mild and pleasant, careful not to point the weight of glaring eyes upon the Prince of Hell who deserved it most.

“It won’t be long now,” Nectanebo said, as he walked along Alexander’s left-hand side. “We’ll be there shortly.”

“Douse the torches,” Asmodeus disguised as Nectanebo commanded, once they were in the darkness of an open patch of hilly countryside. Two humans and a demon put out their torches, extinguishing them in a miraculously convenient patch of loose sandy soil.

A warm summer wind blew, quickly replacing the resinous acrid scent of the torch with the beguiling scents of sun-baked grasses and the herbs of the field, a lovely dizzying aroma that Crowley opened his mouth to taste with his tongue.

“If you’re scared, you can hold my hand,” Aziraphale said to the boy, as sudden darkness enveloped them.

“It’s just dark, there’s nothing to be scared of. Even on a moonless night like this. Thanks for offering though, I’m glad Nectanebo suggested that I invite you, Menippos.”

“Ah yes, certainly…?” Suspicions raised, Aziraphale glanced at the disguised Prince of Hell, wondering what Asmodeus was planning, and then remembered that he was still supposed to be listening to Alexander.

“...and besides, if a panther comes out and attacks us, or a bear, I’ll just fight it off. I’ve got a dagger and I know how to wrap my arm with my chlamys to use like a shield.”

“That’s quite. Erm, optimistic, child, but I think we should be safe. Unless someone has some thoughts about a panther, I doubt we’ll see one tonight,” Aziraphale replied, intentionally raising his voice to be heard.

“I doubt there are any panthers here,” Nectanebo said, a hint of amused irony in his voice. “The terrain is too open for such creatures of ambush to dare reveal themselves.”

“Besides, we’ve got guards to take care of such things,” Crowley added. “Big, strong guards. You’ll be fine, we’ll all be fine. Yes, fine, fine, fine. Every last one of us will be just fine...”

Somewhere, an owl hooted, a long soft sound and another replied.

“Athena?” Demetrios whispered, sidling closer to his friend and fellow guard in the dark.

“I hope so. We could use her shield,” Tyrimmas replied, speaking in a low voice so as not to disrupt the teachers and their student. “I can’t believe we’re out here like this. I think they should have rescheduled. What’s another new moon? Or even tomorrow night, there won’t be that much moon. It’s been a strange day with bad omens all around.”

“Yeah, did you see the sunset? That was...weird.”

“A very bad omen, the sun falling dark like that, even when it’s meaning to set,” Tyrimmas said with a shiver. “I’m kind of glad we got a late start. Better to be farther away from such events than not, even if it is hard to walk around in the dark like this.”

“You know, without any light it’s really dark out here,” Demetrios muttered. “Can hardly even see shapes, much less people. I’ve got the flint ready in case we need light. Maybe we should have brought more guys?”

“And have them stabbing or spearing each other in the dark? That would be silly, we’d then be making the bad omens come true without any help from the gods. No, I’m sure this is fine with just the two of us. Besides, how much actual trouble can we get into out here? It’s just farms out here, everything cultivated and built up. Hardly even a wolf walks through these days.”

“So what do we do now?” Alexander demanded. “Do we just stand here in the dark?”

“It takes time for eyes to adjust to the darkness, child. Be patient. The full complexity of the stars will reveal themselves with time,” Nectanebo explained, with what seemed like a polite patience but probably wasn’t.

“Careful, Alexander,” Aziraphale added. “Don’t go wandering off, you could fall and hurt yourself. Did you see that quarry we passed earlier? You wouldn’t want to fall in, you’d die.”

“I’ll stay close. Don’t worry, I’m not stupid,” the boy said with a huff of frustration, and while he did not take reach out to Aziraphale, the angel noticed that Alexander had sidled a little closer in the deep gloom. Aziraphale set a comforting hand upon the child’s shoulder, and he felt Alexander relax at the touch.

“When the stars become to clear to your eyes, Alexander, you must tell me,” Asmodeus said, before lapsing into patient silence as the three angels, fallen and otherwise took furtive glances at each other as they – who for the most part had no trouble seeing in the dark – waited for the Nephilim child.

“Oh, I guess it takes time for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. But mine are already clear,” Alexander said proudly. “I can see really well in the dark.”

“Definitely can’t see a damned thing,” Demetrios whispered to Tyrimmas.

“I can sort of see you, but I’d recognize your shape anywhere,” Tyrimmas whispered back.

“Ahem,” Nectanebo cleared his throat, and the guards fell silent. “Now, Alexander. We shall start by orienting ourselves. Tell me which stars you recognize first.”

“Orion, with his belt and his sword and his club and lion skin. And there, the bull…”

“Observe how gloomy this sign of Saturn is and note how much this sign of Ares resembles blood. Do you see there, how this sign of Balti stands in joyfulness, and how favorable this sign of Nâbo the scribe, and we must not forget to note how bright the sign of Bêl is..."

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a glance at each other and then both looked up at the sky at the various astrological/astronomical signs that the disguised Prince of Hell mentioned. Without a word both angels, fallen and otherwise, looked at each other. It was as good of an interpretation as any human’s, though Aziraphale mouthed the word ‘joyful’ with a questioning, skeptical glance at Crowley, who merely shrugged.

Practically speaking, Asmodeus had turned out to be quite educated on the matter of how humans saw the stars, and answered the boy’s questions for hours while pointing out various constellations that not even Crowley had known what they were called by humans, though Aziraphale did get in a few corrections, either updating a name with its contemporary one or with the name that was used here and not in some far-off place like Babylon or Memphis or Chichén Itzá.

The guards leaned against each other, stifling their yawns.

“Well, this seems to have gone well,” Aziraphale murmured to Crowley, as they walked back together. The human guards had taken up their positions as well, torches in hand, lighting the way before and after the little party.

“Yeah, not bad at all. Quite a professional show if a rather long one,” Crowley said, glancing back to catch a glimpse of Asmodeus and Alexander just behind them. Alexander was still asking about the various qualities of stars and constellations and prophesy and Asmodeus was trying to answer the barrage of questions as best as he could. Behind the two princes – one of Hell, the other of Pella – was the human guard, and Crowley wondered; was that guard trailing a bit further back than he should?

“I suppose it may be considered a success, all around,” Aziraphale said, speaking softly so as not to be overheard, and Crowley turned his attention back to the angel. “Despite something rather odd. Did you notice what Alexander said, that your boss had asked him to invite me?”

“Yeah, that was kind of weird. I wonder what the point of it was, if we were just going to-”

“No!” Alexander’s voice could be heard distinctly, raised loudly and in anger.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale turned to look behind him and realized that the two had fallen far behind, or perhaps it was something to do with Asmodeus and with a glance at each other, the angel and demon began to run.

Chapter Text

“I am the son of a god! My mother said so!”

“Your mother was tricked. You’re my son,” Asmodeus said with a smirk, tossing off his disguise to reveal his golden hair and emerald green eyes, but without any torches nearby it was so dark that it hardly made a difference to Alexander, who could not see anywhere as clearly as a demon could in the moonless gloom. “And while I am very powerful in my own right, my child, I am not God. Besides, who else could give your mother such a nice and accurate prophesy of your conception? None but her seducer, of course. I was the one who desired her for my bed; I was the one who tricked her with magic to see me as a god.”

“No! No! That’s not true! You’re lying!”

“It’s a shame, really. She was quite loyal to your human father and still is, but she could not resist the temptation of lying with a god, even if he were a great serpent. Even if he were an impostor. Even if it caused her such sorrow afterwards, those years of nightmares. Her ambition to bear a god’s son opened her bed to me.”

“No! You’re wrong! I...I’d rather be Phillip’s son than yours!” Alexander shrieked. In a fury, the child shoved Asmodeus hard, and with a gasp the Prince of Hell stumbled backwards, the ground crumbling beneath his bare feet. Expression obscured by night, he disappeared into the blackness of the quarry.

“My lord!” Crowley exclaimed, having caught up just in time to see the Prince of Hell being pushed into an abyss of darkness. Without a word he ran, half-circling around the border of void to follow a narrow winding path down into the night-obscured quarry, disappearing like an apparition along with the flame of his torch.

“I’ll take care of the boy,” Aziraphale said as Crowley left, quickly whisking the shocked young prince away from the edge of the quarry, the angel murmuring quietly to Alexander about how this must have been such a terrible dream and perhaps if he would just go to sleep the bad dream would go away. With a gentle application of a miracle, the boy suddenly went limp in the angel’s arms, drowsing off into slumber.

A commotion as the guards came running, drawn swords in hand, their torches illuminating the incongruously unremarkable scene.

“What happened?” Tyrimmas shouted as he ran, backtracking to the others.

“We’re down one, Tyrimmas! But it’s not the important one so it’s okay! But it’s not okay?” Demetrios called out, sheathing his sword before shuffling over and peering over the precipitous edge with his torch as close as he dared to, which was not very close at all. “Uh, pretty sure whatever’s left down there of the Egyptian won’t have long.”

“There’s been an accident,” Aziraphale said to the guards, hefting the unconscious child onto his shoulder as easily as if Alexander were a child half his age. “It seems that Lord Nectanebo walked too close to the edge and slipped, falling into the quarry. Terrible, accident, really. The child screamed and fainted at the sight, it was quite awful.”

Tyrimmas and Demetrios looked at each other. Confusion as the reality of the situation and the highly suggested reality that Aziraphale presented quarreled with each other briefly, but Aziraphale’s divine will won out in the end.

“He’s probably dead then. We should go after him and retrieve the corpse-” Tyrimmas began but then Demetrios elbowed him.

“I think that would be a terrible idea in the dark,” Aziraphale said, with a gentle nudge of divine suggestion. “It’d be too dangerous. We wouldn’t want someone to accidentally join him in the afterlife. That would be quite awful, one tragedy is enough for tonight.”

You humans wouldn’t even begin to know how awful that type of situation would be, joining him in the afterlife, Aziraphale thought with an unpleasant shiver, imagining what the rest of existence in Hell with Asmodeus would be like, and glad that it wasn’t likely for these humans to be trapped down there with him.

“Good point. It’s not like he’s going to get deader,” Demetrios shrugged. “Nothing can be done for a man falling from that kind of height, other than to finish him off.”

“Akakios the servant has already gone down to see to that. Hopefully he doesn’t break his neck either,” Aziraphale added, though he knew that no bodily harm would come to Crowley. “But at least he has a torch. I’d say we could try to see the light from here but we’d have to get dangerously close to the edge to see him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. Akakios seems like the agile type, having been hunting with him. He can swim too, though that won’t help him in the quarry, it’s usually not filled with water at this time of year.”

“We should probably go back,” Demetrios suggested.

“You’re right. We’ll escort the young prince back to the palace, and give our report. And have them send a few guys to um, retrieve what’s left? In the morning.”

“Yeah, first priority is getting the kid back in one piece,” Demetrios said, gesturing for Aziraphale to walk between them. “If something were to happen to him, we might as well jump in there with the Egyptian.”

Torch in hand, Crowley scrambled down a narrow and winding footpath into the depths of the quarry follow some desire path of a shortcut that workers in former times had trod among the cut stone ages ago before the quarry was abandoned. It was some heady mix of luck and imagination that kept him from tripping over his own clothes, sandals, feet, or any number of places of loose, slippery, or uneven ground. As he ran he could hear Asmodeus’ harsh breaths and groans of pain echoing against the empty stone and it was strange to him – why didn’t the Prince of Hell just miracle himself some kind of healing?

“Asmodeus? Asmodeus…! Ngk!” Crowley found the Prince of Hell in a tumbled heap, body twisted and broken on the irregular unfinished rock at the bottom of the quarry. Dropping the torch which cast mad, flickering shadows as it rolled upon the ground, he fell to his knees in a pool of spreading blood, frantic, trying to think of what to do next, what to do to help. He helped Asmodeus up so that the Prince of Hell partially rested upon his lap.

“Crowley…” Not much more than a breathless whisper, and the sound sent a shiver crawling over Crowley’s skin.

“My lord, let me help you, please-”

But when Crowley’s hand reached out, the miracle already upon his fingertips, Asmodeus’ hand shot out and caught his wrist in a hard, tight grip.

“No,” Asmodeus’ voice was a harsh rasp, green eyes intense with some unspoken emotion.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘no’?”

“Don’t. Don’t heal me. This is what I want. Take my ring, darling and...”

But before Crowley could say anything else it was too late; one last shuddering breath had left the Prince of Hell’s body and it was just as simple as that; Asmodeus had been discorporated.

Crowley felt Asmodeus’ hand slowly releasing its grip upon his wrist, falling lax.

“Oh shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit…” Crowley dragged Asmodeus’ body close into an awkward embrace, golden hair matted with blood that seeped into his black chiton, and he could feel the damp heat of trickling blood against his thighs.

“The ring. Right. Can’t misplace that, it’s important.” Crowley took Asmodeus’ lifeless hand in his and without realizing it, pressed the back of that cold, unresponsive hand to his lips.

Gently he prised off the Prince’s serpent ring, holding the delicate golden crown tight in his left hand to keep it safe, not daring to put it on. The icy metal that dug into the palm of his hand was so cold that parodoxically it felt hot and for something so small the immense weight of it was intense, as if it had been created out of the heart of a massive star, molecules packed so tightly together that it was heavy enough to warp the reality around it.

He wondered how Asmodeus had worn it for so long, and so easily.

Crowley tightened his grip around the ring, afraid of losing it.

With his free hand he closed those empty green eyes that he had known for a long time and sat in the darkness of unadorned stone walls that made up the abandoned quarry, under a sky ablaze with stars, glittering with reds and blues and golds.

Slowly the torch died out, burning away to cinders scattered by a summer wind that carried with it the scent of dust, of stone and dead grasses and iron.

He wondered if Asmodeus had sat with his body too when he had been discorporated, and if Asmodeus too had felt this same strange hollowness at the temporary, artificial loss. After all, it was not as if this sort of thing was permanent. It wasn’t destruction. They weren’t humans, where losing a body would be a real problem.

He wondered if his blood had soaked into Asmodeus’ clothes too.

As the night passed Crowley felt himself getting colder and colder as the warmth seeped away from the corpse, as its limbs slowly grew rigid. An odd and troubling thought overcame Crowley that shook him to the core – was it that the corpse was taking Crowley’s warmth with it? But then Crowley’s mind wandered to actual serious concerns, wondering what kind of terrible consequences would await him Downstairs.

He didn’t have to wait long.

Chapter Text

As Crowley was considering whether to get up, to move and find the nearest ladder Downstairs, time suddenly fell still as if frozen, and it was not of Crowley’s doing. A rush of icy information all at once and Crowley could do nothing, pinned down by the knowledge as if a slave tied and tormented upon the rack, unable to move, unable to even breathe as Asmodeus’ voice filled him and it felt like every cell in his body could feel that deep voice inside of him, knew that voice within him, and Crowley realized he had not felt anything like this since the Fall.

Very good Crowley, you have done as I have ordered. Loyal as ever, obedient to my will. I will need you to deliver my ring to the Court of Satan as soon as it is possible for you to come Downstairs.

And before Crowley could say anything, could ask, it was as if Asmodeus already knew what was on Crowley’s mind, but that was no particular surprise because it was as if the Prince of Hell was connected directly into his brain.

Things will be different from now on, my darling. I have been promoted but was required to give up that corporation for a new one. From now on I shall be serving in Satan’s court as the Voice of Satan, equivalent in rank to the Metatron, the first above equals on the Dark Council. Lucifer has for a long time wanted someone for such a role. After all, if he is to be equal to the Almighty, he would need an equivalent court.

This promotion has been a long time in the making. It places me beyond the hands of my enemies, sidestepping their intrigues, and gives me great power. Power that of course I shall share with you as always. When you go Downstairs, you will find that my court is in the process of being dissolved and its personnel taken into Beelzebub’s hands, yourself included. But that does not mean that you are wholly in the First Prince’s power. You will report to Beelzebub for the day-to-day affairs of Hell but officially you still report to me, even if we do not see each other.

If there is any issue with my infernal brother, I trust that you will tell them that your actions are by my will, whatever you may have done. Tell them that you are acting on behalf of Asmodeus – which is now the same as acting on behalf of Satan – and they will have no choice but to acquiesce. I will support you in all things, darling, within reason. Besides, it’s not as if Beelzebub knows what Lucifer really wants. I have learned that they have hardly spoken a word to each other since the Fall.

But that didn’t necessarily mean that Asmodeus was confined to Hell, Crowley wondered, and then realized that there must have been something else the former Prince of Hell had not stated directly.

Yes, Crowley. Besides being the Voice of Satan, I am also now his Companion, meant to be a charming distraction from the loneliness and difficulties of reigning Downstairs. As such I have been recalled and will be here from now on, serving Lucifer directly and indefinitely. No, I’m sorry my darling. I won’t be free to see you at all again, no matter how I feel about it. It is part of the deal that I have struck with Satan Himself; he is of a rather possessive type. Perhaps we will have a moment when you return my ring but not again afterwards. I have told you before that I cannot promise to be by your side always; but that you shall always have my patronage and protection. That will have to suffice. Farewell for now…

“Crowley? Crowley?”

A familiar voice. Aziraphale.

With a ragged gasp Crowley could feel himself breathing again. He looked up in a daze at a bright light and for a moment, past and present blurred and he wondered if it was a star that he had wandered too close to, scorching the hem of his robes or a star that had flown down from above following an irregular streaking path to see how he was faring.

“Crowley, are you all right?”

“Huh?” Crowley blinked, momentarily blinded by the torchlight. “Yeah, I’m fine. Mind pointing that thing the other way? It’s bright.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” Aziraphale’s eyes were bright with concern as he held the torch away and with a gesture the fire grew redder, dimmer, a soft warm light that reminded Crowley of a long winter evening by Aziraphale’s hearth in Athens as the fire went out, leaving only the glow of hot embers. “Are you hurt?”

“No, why would I be?”

“My dear, you’re covered in blood.”

“It’s not mine.” Crowley tried to stand up, but the dead weight of Asmodeus’ corpse was still upon him, and he struggled to free himself. Aziraphale lent the demon a hand, gently pulling him up, away from the burden of the lifeless body that lay broken upon the stone in the deep pit of the old quarry.

Crowley shivered; the warm summer wind felt cold against his blood-wet clothes.

"You don’t seem...erm, you seem a bit out of sorts?" But Aziraphale waited, giving Crowley time to think to come up with some response but when Crowley did not answer, looking shaken, dazed, he asked again.

“What’s wrong, Crowley?” Aziraphale asked. He noticed that Crowley’s left hand was clutched tight in a fist. But his right was loose and free and so Aziraphale wondered, was there something in Crowley’s hand?

"Nothing.” Crowley’s eyes filled with tears that blurred his vision, that trembled on the verge of falling. “No wait, something. Not nothing.”

“What is it?”

“I think I've been freed?"

Chapter Text

The Fall

“Out.”

And when Her voice reverberated throughout Heaven as if a bell struck, the War in Heaven was over, the cries of damaged and destroyed angels were silenced, and the marked angel, the tall one with the long dark curling hair and the good cheekbones felt existence suddenly shift around wings and shoulders and legs and elbows and knees and feet and suddenly everything was falling.

No, it wasn’t falling.

They were being pushed out.

A harsh downward pressure and the angel could not even scream at the brief fierce pain of being thrust out of Heaven and in that moment something important happened; identity snapped and shattered, disappearing into the ether. The name that the Creator had vested in this angel was gone, ripped away with everything else and the angel was left as something partially blank, empty, memories torn and broken. Despite that, the angel clung to the snatches of things that could be remembered; a stolen conversation, a voice raised in song, the warm light of Heaven, and most importantly, that deep sense of quiet profound intimacy that Heaven had always represented, until it did not.

With great effort the angel struggled to turn around, arms and wings and legs fighting against the unforgiving pressure forcing the angel away from the bright light above. Turning to catch a glimpse of a home that began to disappear quickly, the angel kept golden eyes fixed upward but that point of light, gorgeous and shimmering and orderly, stayed for a long time within sight as the angel fell and at that moment, as the lovely dreamy glimmering light slowly disappeared from view, the angel knew that there was a reason as to why the Creator had wanted them to see Heaven for so long, just out of reach.

Punishment.

Time didn’t matter much in Heaven, and it mattered even less here.

Blackness punctuated by starlight, blues and reds and gold and it was so beautiful that the angel saw nothing but those streaks of light, even as there was no longer any way to see that true light, the bright soft glow of a home that was so distant now that there was no point in trying to look for it anymore.

It had been a long time since the angel tried to struggle against the inexorable, unrelenting force that pushed downwards. There was nothing to do now but feel the fierce cutting stellar wind through huddled white wings that shielded the angel from the worst of it, taste the grains of stardust that floated through space, see the distant fires of burning stars that flickered by, brief splotches of light staining the darkness with their warmth.

As if a massive invisible hand crushing them flat, there was no way to fly up, no way to break away, to break free.

All around were the sounds of screams, of cries, anger and begging, pitiful wailing as other falling angels struggled in their own torments but the angel was quiet. The time for begging had long passed; from here there was only aching loneliness, the emptiness of being torn away from the close intimacy of Heaven, the fellowship of its innumerable angels.

Then again, it was already like that long before the Fall, when they had been made individual, when they had been given these things called bodies instead of just existing as an amorphous blob of spirit. Heaven had already become a lonely empty place; this just capped off what was already unpleasant, pushing an already unhappy situation into something terrible beyond endurance.

The angel could not even sigh anymore. The tears that had filled golden eyes were long since gone, dried up to nothing. Now it was just a matter of existing, and it was not much of an existence, falling through the great span of darkness through the universe, passing galaxies and nebulae (or was it nebulas?) at a speed so great that it was impossible to tell which ones the angel had even worked on.

Perhaps it would have been best to have never existed.

Ages and eons passed alone, and the angel wondered; if the Creator could see them now, if the Creator were watching, did they look like stars themselves, falling in great trails of blazing light? Or were they more like rocky asteroids, tumbling through the darkness on a tilted orbit askew?

A million light years and maybe a million more, the angel thought absently, even as there was no way to gauge how far or how long they had been falling, pushed down by the force of the Almighty Lord.

There was nothing to hope for nothing to do but to patiently wait for destruction. Surely this had to end in destruction. After all, in that first, painful push out of Heaven, even the angel’s name had been torn away, broken and destroyed, lost. It followed that the rest would follow in kind; ripped up into tatters, white feathers scattering like stars in the endless night of space.

Somewhere above the angel, a strange light streaked in an irregular way, moving from one falling figure to another, and the angel watched it idly, wondering what kind of star it could have been to move in such an unusual way.

                                  And then, the star came down to the angel.

“Are you all right?”

Surprised, the angel could not speak; no one had addressed the angel in so long that the angel could hardly remember being spoken to, much less how to move one’s mouth in the motion of speech. There had been no one to talk to; the pressure had been so intense that the angel could hardly move to turn around, and here was an Archangel, flying about as free as a wandering comet and the angel felt such a sharp twinge of longing, of hot jealousy and envy, that it was almost painful.

“You’re…” the word came out as a harsh croak.

“Asmodeus,” the golden-haired angel managed a little smile, a polite and dignified expression turned awkward and uncomfortable by the circumstances. “I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“A shame that I never gave it to you,” the nameless angel said, voice a creaky unused whisper. “I don’t have it anymore to give.”

“Oh.” Asmodeus was taken aback. “I’m sorry to hear that. Unfortunately you’re not the only one. Most everyone has lost their names. I’m not sure why I still have mine.”

“Probably the same reason you can fly about. I can hardly move.” And the fear that had been long silenced by acclimation came back suddenly and tears filled the angel’s eyes, tears that the angel had not thought possible returned.

“Yes. I suppose I was created to be more powerful. Please don’t cry.” Asmodeus reached out to brush away a trickling tear, and the angel was startled by the touch, at the hint of warmth in those long beautiful fingers. “I’m doing my best here to help everyone. But there’s not much I can do…”

“Yeah. I don’t think there’s anything to do but wait and see what She decides for us. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to stay. Someone else will need you more than me,” the angel wiped away those tears as best as possible, watching little droplets of water float away, salt-stained jewels freezing and disappearing into the icy void of space.

“Hang in there. I’ll be back, when I can. If I can,” Asmodeus said, correcting himself. “No promises, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the angel said. “We’re all sorry. We’ll all be sorry forever. That’s the point.”

If there was a home, if there had ever been a home, the angel was beginning to doubt that it had ever been real. The only existence there was now was falling, and it felt like it had gone on so long that whatever had happened before might as well have never existed.

The angel thought once more that perhaps it would be better to turn to face the Fall. To see where they were going, if there was a destination. The angel had turned a few times, but had seen nothing through the streaking darkness that went on for eons.

Long dark hair tangling about a pale face scowling from the effort, the angel turned around.

Faintly, a light glowed in the distance, and the angel’s eyes narrowed, wondering what it was.

But it did not take very long for the light to resolve itself into something more clear.

Eyes widening, the angel realized that the distant destination that they were being pushed toward was filled with flames.

A massive wall of fire. The angel caught glimpses of lakes of molten sulphur through the blaze, boiling and bubbling lava, drawing closer with every heartbeat.

A gasp, and pale wings beat frantically, trying to fly away and if not that to at least slow down but the pressure behind the angel that had never relented was brutal, inexorable, a terrible reminder of the futility of struggle. All around the screaming grew louder, but some of the cries were cut horribly short as distant figures began to fall into the conflagration and the angel recoiled.

“It’s all right! I have you!”

Strong hands closed about the angel’s shoulders and the angel turned back, surprised, hair tangled in a sinuous knot by the sharp cutting winds.

That Archangel again, golden hair blazing about his head like a crimson-stained halo from where the glowing fires reflected and the angel wondered why Asmodeus had been marked. He wasn’t one of the Archangels at the center of the rebellion. He didn’t even know Lucifer that well. He just had some questions too.

Maybe that’s all it took.

“What’s your name, Angel?”

“I don’t know,” the nameless angel whispered, wondering if the Archangel had even remembered that they had already talked about this, given the numerous other angels he must have already met. “I don’t have one anymore.”

“I’m sorry. It’s not fair to you. Not fair to anyone. I can’t save everyone. I tried, but it’s impossible. There are too many. Millions and millions. I went around to everyone I could, but I can’t fly up, not very far. Not enough to return any one of us to Heaven, not even myself. I can’t save everyone, but I can save you.”

Massive white wings fought against the pressure and for a brief moment the angel wondered how it was possible that anyone could move like this, so easily through the unrelenting downward force of the Fall. Asmodeus took the angel into his arms, the angel’s head tucked beneath his chin. The shock of touch sent a jolt through the angel and the angel clung to Asmodeus’s arms, his hands. Those great white wings turned both of them in a sharp motion so that Asmodeus’ back was to the flames.

“Why me?” the angel gasped, as they turned away from the growing flames. But Asmodeus did not answer, tightening his arms and his wings around the angel, whose own trembling wings were bent inwards as well, cradled within the broad arc of the Archangel's wings.

“Why me and not someone else?”

And the last thing that the angel remembered seeing before they hit the molten stone was the white of Asmodeus’ wings closing fast around them protective, the faintly translucent feathers stained a rippling yellow and red with the light of the fires.

“No…!” the angel cried, clutching the Archangel’s hands, feeling the hard biting edge of the golden crown of the Archangel’s cold ring press against the tender center of a tight-clutched palm as they fell into the flames.

Chapter Text

Silence.

Slowly, the fires died out.

Molten sulphur and lava cooled, hardening black.

Brittle, the icy sound of glassy stone cracking, the tink and clink of shifting moving rock.

Shut up in this tiny dark enclosure of wings, the angel trembled, hands still clinging tight around the cool fingers of the Archangel.

“Are you all right?” the angel whispered, and the Archangel said nothing, though the angel could hear the Archangel’s breath hissing hard between clenched lips, could feel the steady beat of the Archangel’s heart.

It was strange, quiet and still in the shelter of the Archangel’ wings, and it took the angel almost too long to realize that it meant that the Fall had stopped. Wherever they were, they had stopped falling. Even the screams and cries had stopped, and the relief and gratitude that passed through the angel’s thin frame was for a moment overwhelming.

“Thank goodness. Thank goodness...” the angel whispered, eyes full of grateful tears that trembled and trickled down pale cheeks. Wondering what the other thought, the angel turned in the Archangel’s arms to to look up toward the Archangel, whose eyes were still closed.

“You’re burnt…” the angel said, reaching out to touch the charred black feathers that had sheltered them, but before the angel could touch the Archangel’s feathers, those powerful wings moved, beating against the confined closure of stone all around them with tremendous force until the stone splintered and split, cracking open like a shell before shattering.

The angel could never have imagined such strength; it was all the angel could do to hold on, clutching onto the Archangel in order not to be thrown aside as well, the Archangel’s back and shoulder muscles flexing powerfully in the angel’s grip.

Light, and the angel gasped, but it was not the light of Heaven, nor even the light of distant passing stars. No, this was an unnatural light cast by fire. Not the celestial fire of stars or even the ethereal fire of Heaven. This was something else entirely.

“Oh no, your wings…” Asmodeus reached out to touch the angel’s ashen wings, singed gray, examining the robes that were burnt black but retained that glittering sheen of silvery stardust that had clung to the angel’s clothes so that they looked almost gray. “I’m sorry I couldn’t-”

And then with a start of realization Asmodeus looked up, folding his wings close to examine them.

“No...no…!” The Archangel trembled, stumbling, as he touched his own charred robes, the golden embroidery tarnished crimson. His shivering hand moved over feathers so black that it seemed that light could not escape its scorched surface. “What has happened to us?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m here. I don’t think I did anything wrong? I don’t remember doing anything wrong. One moment there was an alarm and then there was a lot of fighting and yelling and then everything stopped and...whoosh-”

“What is this terrible place…?” Asmodeus looked around. But before the Archangel could take a step forward toward what looked like the distant figure of some angel clambering out of a grave of stone, suddenly, it felt like time stopped.

The fires froze.

Movement stopped, and all the scattered angels, fallen completely, fell silent.

Even the tall angel with the good cheekbones could feel it; the rush of icy information being sent all at once into the brain, and when it was over a breath later, the world returned to itself, charred and broken, pitted with cracks and craters and the cries of the Fallen, the reek of sulphur all around blotting everything out.

“Hell,” Asmodeus whispered. “A new place in Creation...and She. She made this to separate us…”

“Unforgivable,” the angel trembled.

“So that we should never, ever…”

“We’re...we’ve been cast out,” the angel whispered. “We’re no longer welcome home.”

“Never again to return to that golden throne at Her side...” Asmodeus looked up, to where Heaven should have been, so obscured by time and distance that its perpetual light was no more than a faded, tattered memory and his expression changed.

“Was it worth it, LORD?!” The Archangel shouted at the roiling black smoke that shrouded – no made up the entirety of the sky, and the angel wondered if it was loud enough to be heard. But then again, the Almighty should have been able to hear everyone, even from down here, especially an Archangel, the most beautiful and powerful of the angels that had served at Her side.

“All I ever did was Your will! I protected Your creations as You intended! I was obedient only to You! I have always obeyed; I only ever did what You asked of me! You told me to protect them, to guard them from harm, and I did! And to be cast aside like this, forever! With no explanation, no forgiveness-” With a sound of frustration, of anguish, the fallen Archangel fell to his knees, his hands covering his face.

“Asmodeus…?” the angel reached out with hesitant fingers to touch the Archangel’s shoulder.

Asmodeus was silent and still for a long moment, no more sound than his harsh irregular breaths. But before long he was standing up again.

“No. I will kneel to no one, not anymore. Never again shall I kneel to anyone; I will not yield to anyone anymore,” Asmodeus stood up, shaking the angel’s solicitous hand off, gem-green eyes cold and hard, gesturing away the tears as if they had never existed. “She will regret that She did not destroy me when She had a chance.”

“So does this mean-”

“Wait. Who are you?” The Archangel’s hands clamped down hard on the angel’s shoulders, twisting the celestial being to face him. A strange shining madness in those bright green eyes and it took the angel a moment to remember that this was the same Archangel who had flown down to the angel’s side through the black space above, golden hair ablaze with the light of the stars, who had offered to help, who had taken the brunt of the worst of the Fall, who had protected-

“I...I don’t know,” the angel whispered, afraid, stumbling back on wobbling legs that no longer felt as if the ground were solid beneath uncertain feet. “I don’t have a name anymore. I haven’t had one for a long time. There wasn’t really a need for one during...during the part where we were all falling? It didn’t really matter since I’ve been alone for so long…”

“As have I,” the Archangel said, voice cracked and broken, tears glimmering in his eyes. “How do we get back to where we were? The closeness of Heaven, before individuality, before-”

“I don’t know.” The angel’s head bowed, resting against the Archangel’s shoulder. “I don’t think anyone knows.”

Eyes shining with some unspoken epiphany and the Archangel suddenly pulled the angel close and startled, the angel looked up.

Heart pounding, the angel felt a shiver of sensation, amazed at the sudden physical touch, and it was as though a hunger, a starvation that the angel had not known before began to gnaw inside. Somehow this was different from before and a curious feeling went through the angel that could not be identified, though later the angel had wondered if this had been the nascent stirrings of desire, of yearning, or if it had just been simply fear or perhaps both. A brief dazed moment wondering what that meant but then the Archangel closed his mouth over the tall angel’s lips and an even stronger shock went through the angel at that feeling, the strange hot intimacy of contact with the protected inner part of another being’s body.

“Wait, what are you doing?” In the Archangel’s hands, the angel felt cells inside the body rearranging, shifting and changing and for a moment she didn’t understand why until she remembered, for the barest glimpse of a moment before the thought slipped away that yes, this was the Archangel in charge of the division that designed and created bodies of all sorts.

“Claiming you,” the Archangel growled, his black wings closing about them, shutting out even the light from the fires. “I will rebuild my kingdom, my throne in Heaven…”

“No, wait, please, I-” Frightened, the angel flinched back from the embrace, trying to escape his grasp and for a moment she almost broke free, not understanding what was going on but the Archangel was strong and the struggle that felt like an eternity really did not last very long, limbs tangled as the two wrestled, one for escape and the other for control.

“Please…” But in his grip, with the power of his will crushing down upon her, she did not know what it was anymore what she wanted and so she yielded to him, his mouth ravenous against hers, his body pushing her down to the volcanic stone, the soft black feathers of his wings shielding her from the sharp edges and rough surface even as he tore her robes away, black and silvery cloth shredding beneath his fingertips.

Panting, breath hitching in her throat and for a moment he paused to catch his breath but then when they moved together again something changed.

Bodies twisted, tangled, entwined. Bones and muscles and cells reordered themselves and in that moment the angel felt everything change, arms and legs disappearing, and a moment later a great golden serpent and a massive crimson and black serpent were intertwined together in a sinuous knot.

It didn’t last long – the two angels returned to their preferred forms soon enough but the angel felt it deep inside. Whatever the change that had happened to this body would from now on be permanent, would stay like this from now on and she wondered what she would look like, not that she had known much about what she had looked like before, other than what she could see for herself.

Trembling and it wouldn’t stop, and every cell in her body seemed to still tingle from the intensity of sensation, of the pleasure and pain that he had given her and the angel turned her head to look up beyond the curtain of the Archangel’s enfolding wings, as his hand moved over her long dark hair, their limbs still tangled together.

The angel made a choked sound without meaning to, and it drew the Archangel’s attention.

“Poor thing…cast out and alone, but not anymore. You won’t be lonely again, not with me.” With a gesture entropy reversed itself, and she was again clothed in her robes and she clutched the fabric close to herself, clinging to the star-stained cloth as if it could protect her.

As if it could protect her from him.

The angel said nothing, not knowing what to say.

“You don’t have a name, do you?” Asmodeus murmured into her ear, stroking his fingers along the angel’s cheek.

“No. Not anymore. Not for a long time.” The angel’s whispering voice felt cracked, broken, and she turned, her head resting against his muscled chest, moving closer to him because this was the next best thing to that closeness that had been lost so long ago, and after a near eternity of icy, painful loneliness, she could not resist the warmth, the deep comfort of his arms.

She did not want it, did not want to want it, but she needed it more than she could bear.

“What shall I call you then?”

“I don’t know.”

In his hands, the angel’s form shifted again, a golden serpent with golden eyes, scales gleaming like the still-shining crown upon the Archangel’s hand. A large serpent but one made smaller and smaller by Asmodeus’ will until it fit neatly in the palm of his hand.

Asmodeus shifted, standing up, hands gently cupping the little snake. Crimson-stained black robes hung loose about his hips, his chest bared, his golden hair reflecting the unnatural fires of Hell.

“But if you give me some time I can come up with something I like, some ideasss…” The snake tried to move, to wrap herself around his wrist so that there was no loss of even the slightest bit of that sensation of closeness, of intimacy, but the snake couldn’t quite figure out the mechanics of this body with its many muscles and lack of limbs. The best that could be managed was something of a squirm, knowing what it was like to move with limbs and not being able to translate that to a body without limbs.

Asmodeus set the serpent down upon the ground at his feet and stood, waiting. Frantic, the angel struggled to change out of this form, to regain the preferred form with feet and hands and so many elbows and knees but for a moment it felt like that entire lanky body was constrained into a claustrophobic, tight tube of a form and she hated that feeling of being a snake so much that with a gasp, she suddenly forced her way out of the twisted labyrinth of cells and muscles and organs and was herself again.

Panting, breath catching painfully in her throat she crawled up onto her hands and knees, before clasping her arms about the Archangel’s legs.

“Please, no more…”

The Archangel drew her up into a sharp, biting kiss, and as he did so, stroked his fingers over the right side of her face, the cold crown of his ring pressed against her jaw as he marked her with his sigil. She could not see it but she could feel it, etching into her skin as cold as spreading ice even as it burned as if she were too close to a star, scorched by its fiery wrath with the mark of a serpent – his mark – black and crimson.

“Beautiful. And now that I have claimed you, all will know you are mine. After all, if you no longer belong to the Lord, you could belong to anyone, couldn’t you? Even me. And why not me – I would care for you better than She ever did. After all, an angel of your standing...have you even spoken to Her before?”

“No,” the angel confessed, in a shaky voice no more than a whisper. “I’ve never even seen Her before, not even from a distance.”

Asmodeus’ expression changed. “Then I am already a better lord for you than She has ever been to either of us.”

“My...lord?” The angel looked up at him, confused at his words.

“A poor angel with no name.” He brushed a lock of curling dark hair back from her face. “Then I must do something about that, mustn’t I? As lord and master.”

“Well, if you give me some time, I could come up with something that I think would be suitable-”

“Quiet, darling. It would not be seemly for thee to evince free will. We learnt that quite painfully now, didn’t we. It would be best not to tempt Her into moving Her hand against thee further. I shall take responsibility for this; if She cares to complain, She can complain to me. From now on, thy name shall be…”

And there was a pause, as Asmodeus considered the options. It was this moment that the angel knew was momentous, that would color and shape the ages and eons to come, that would change the very nature of the angel’s reality, forming identity and character as much as Asmodeus’ embrace had changed body and form. Yet as much as the angel wanted to speak up, there was not enough time for the unnamed angel to think of a name. Having never created anything, only set it into place, the angel had no words in mind that could be a name, not even a scatter of syllables set in the sky like stars, gently guided into place by the hands of many celestial beings.

“Crawley.”

“I don’t really think…” But whatever protestations the angel had were lost, silenced by his demanding mouth over hers and his black wings closed over them again, blotting out the Hell around them, hiding them from the ruins of this new existence, from the all-seeing eye of Heaven, from everything and everyone.

Chapter Text

Pella, 345 B. C.

Together, in the cool colorless light before dawn the two angels, fallen and otherwise, had managed to re-disguise the Prince of Hell as the Egyptian Nectanebo. As the sun warmed the world with color and heat, humans came to retrieve the corpse, carrying it back to Pella.

Unwilling to leave it to the humans, as if the body of a Prince of Hell could still hold harmful influence over the humans discorporated or not, Crowley spent the day doing the necessary rites: bathing and anointing the cold, stiff corpse, dressing and ornamenting it.

Aziraphale came by more than once to offer his help, bringing lunch with him at one point but Crowley sent him away. It was improper, after all, for even him to be involved as this was work that was traditionally done by the women of the family – though of course, since Asmodeus had no relatives at all, it fell to Crowley to complete this task one way or another. But there was something particularly questionable in dragging Aziraphale into this mess and the last thing Crowley wanted was for Aziraphale to have to get involved.

With a twist of his lips at the perversity of human ritual, Crowley somehow managed to wrap the broken limbs and twisted body in a shroud of white woolen cloth. In the moment before covering the still, lifeless face that was unfamiliar to him, Crowley hesitated. With a gesture, he eased back the disguise, revealing Asmodeus’ true face.

“I think this is only the second time I’ve ever seen you in white,” Crowley whispered to the corpse. “It looks good on you, more suitable than black. You shouldn’t have ever had to wear black. It made you a worse person. Though...I guess, now that I think of it, maybe none of us should have ever had to wear black either. Wait, not maybe. Probably.”

He stared at the familiar face for a long time. Without the breath of life, the face seemed like that of a stern stranger, a distant Archangel who never spoke to his subordinate angels beyond giving the occasional order.

But before he was tempted into doing something foolish, he let the disguise slip back onto the corpse and then covered its face.

“I guess that’s that.” Crowley patted the ring hidden beneath his clothes, pressing cold against the bare skin of his chest with a sigh. “Gotta get through all this human business before I can go Downstairs…”

Golden eyes passed over the shrouded figure, one last time.

But when Crowley realized that his fingers had lingered over the covered lips of the corpse, his hand flinched away.

Without miracles or skilled help it took most of the day to prepare the body for a decent burial, and by the time Crowley was done and had returned to their shared quarters, tired and sore and reeking of those strongly scented oils and unguents used for the dead, he found that all of Nectanebo’s scrolls and books of astrology, all of his possessions – meager as they were, a few erotic vases, a few painted cups, and a statuette or two – were gone. Someone had already given the orders to gather up all those things to be buried with the dead.

The rooms seemed particularly empty, as if no one had ever lived here before.

Crowley sat down on the bed.

The bedding was rumpled, from when they had last-

With a gesture, he waved off the smell of the scented oils. The air cleared miraculously, and he was left alone with the scent of juniper and roses.

The funeral was a rather grand affair for someone who was not a local noble. As the closest person to Nectanebo, who had no family in Pella, Crowley had some important parts in the rites, such as leading the ekphora procession to the tomb, which he did ahead of a rattling chariot that carried the shrouded corpse, driven by some palace guard that he did not recognize.

The angel watched as the demon walked past, long black clothes billowing in the dust of the sunbaked road. Aziraphale did not try to catch Crowley’s eye, and Crowley did not try to catch his, seemingly lost in dazed thought as he walked ahead of the procession on long legs that bore him swiftly down the road as if the demon wanted this done and over with as soon as possible. Out of decency, Aziraphale did not join the procession, but merely watched with skepticism, following the funeral cortege only after it had passed and a polite distance had been put between them.

No women wailed in the procession.

In fact, no one wailed at all; it was an utterly quiet affair.

There were so few things owned by Nectanebo that the court had intervened and given him some better grave goods. Yet no one important came, not even Alexander. Only a minimal staff of priests and their attendants, and some curious onlookers who had little relation to the astrologer and were merely curious about the funeral of a foreigner.

Sacrifices were made, and perversely, Aziraphale thought that Asmodeus probably would have enjoyed the lavish shedding of blood that had been made on his behalf and wondered if he could see it for himself, the way that Heaven surveilled the Earth.

When it was time to make the offerings, Aziraphale wondered who would make them until he saw Crowley step forward. The demon poured the wine libations as if a spill of crimson-black blood upon the dusty ground, and then lit the incense, staining the air with the costly scent of myrrh. He paused and picked up the knife. As Aziraphale watched Crowley hesitated, right hand wavering, before reaching up to cut off a lock of his dark hair.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened as he realized that that lock of hair that had been placed upon the funeral pyre had been braided.

No one else offered their hair for the dead.

When the pyre was lit, the demon stood silent, a tall figure swathed in billowing black like the smoke that the wind tore from the fire, reaching up to the heavens, a pale elegant hand clutching at the cloth at his breast as he watched the crackling flames engulf the corpse, charring it black.

Once the shards of bones and ash were gathered and the tomb was closed, people began to wander off, heading off to get ritually purified after the curiosity of a foreign stranger’s burial, disappointed it wasn’t more exotic or unusual, just some typical Hellene funeral.

Aziraphale went to look for Crowley.

He was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter Text

The day after the funeral Aziraphale stopped by the rooms of the deceased Egyptian magician. Crowley was not in but the rooms were untouched. From observation, Aziraphale knew that the human servants avoided these rooms, not even stopping in to dust. But now examining the rooms it seemed that they did not collect dust at all and Aziraphale wondered if Crowley had something to do with that, or if it was Asmodeus.

The next morning after, Aziraphale sat in the courtyard by the fountain and threw down a scatter of bread crumbs. Birds of all sorts flocked to peck at the bits of bread, and he watched them carefully, to see if any had a message for him. But they were merely hungry, and though a bold little house sparrow braved hopping up onto his knee to gently take bits of bread directly out of the cupped palm of his hand, there were no messages from the birds.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true, at least one chirped very rudely at Aziraphale, not caring if he were an angel, a human, a great tit, or a great twat.

Aziraphale dusted off his hands and straightened up his clothes as he stood, sending up a scatter of wings in his wake.

During the lazy golden summer heat, the angel sat in a field of late-blooming irises of many colors. Taking in the heady scent of the flowers, and the gentle buzz of many working bees, he leaned down to touch a deep purple petal and politely asked a bee on a break if she had seen Crowley. After waiting for several minutes while the bee went flying about for some breathless abdomen-waggling gossip with her sisters and neighbors, it was certain that there had been no sighting of the demon by any hive in the local area since the day of the funeral.

The angel then went for a walk into town and finding a small fire upon which someone was preparing to bake bread, manipulated the smoke to send a message, hoping Crowley was sitting near a fire as well so that the smoke would duplicate his message in parallel. But the smoke stubbornly refused to coalesce into words, the physical message unsendable without someone to receive it, and so Aziraphale gave up, waving off the smoke and letting it dissipate.

It was at that point that Aziraphale knew for certain that Crowley was Downstairs.

Time felt as if it passed with unreasonable slowness.

For supper one day the angel went into town and found a place that would make him roast duck and maza, which he dined on with an herbaceous red wine watered down to refreshing perfection. Afterwards he went for a walk through the agora and came across a stand selling little honeycakes, so he bought a few, irregular in shape and size but with a shining glaze of honey and a tender crumb. He took them down to the harbor and ate them while watching the sailing ships, occasionally examining the uneven edge of a rough-made honeycake and thinking that this one, this would have been the one that Crowley would have stolen from his hand and taken a bite from.

One evening, he ducked into the palace kitchens, hoping to catch a glimpse of Crowley, but was instead rewarded with a plate of juicy roast pork slices served upon tender hot rolls, which he took graciously. He ate while sitting on a little stool in the kitchen along the back wall watching the bustle of cooks and servants, listening to their gossip, their little quarrels and conversations, wondering if this was what Crowley saw, if this is what Crowley ate when he came down here in the evenings before being called to Asmodeus’ side.

Eventually out of sheer desperation, Aziraphale stopped by the rooms of Polynices the literature tutor, Crowley’s other rooms for his other role, despite knowing that the demon hardly ever spent time here. There the servant who was in charge of cleaning that section of the palace where the tutors lived apologized, explaining that the master had gone out of town to attend to a family emergency and wouldn’t be back for some time. But miraculously the man let this fellow tutor in to leave Crowley a note.

The rooms were clean, sterile, and seemed as if Crowley never used them. It didn’t smell like anything in here, not even dust, and that made Aziraphale fairly certain that the other rooms where Crowley stayed with Asmodeus also had been talked to by Crowley about dust.

On a blank wax tablet, Aziraphale jotted down a few scribbles and signed it with an aleph; nothing that would make sense to anyone other than Crowley. He left it on the desk at a particular disorderly tilt, which he knew the very orderly demon would notice right away.

And then he began his rounds of waiting.

On the twenty-sixth day of Hekatombaion, Aziraphale went to their favorite tavern in the late afternoon and sat for an hour at the back table. He sat facing the door, listening to people gossip about the eclipse and the Egyptian magician’s death. A traveling poet came in toward the end of the hour and loathe to leave, Aziraphale bought him dinner and paid him to sing a few of his favorite Sappho songs that the angel listened to in teary unmoving silence.

On the twenty-seventh day of Hekatombaion, he went to the olive grove at the same time and sat for an hour, listening to the creak of laden branches in the seabreeze, heavy with fruit.

On the twenty-eighth day of Hekatombaion, he stood among the tall golden grasses in the newly harvested woodlot for an hour, among those grasses that had grown in a wild burst in late spring and died in the heat and drought of summer. He spent most of the time thinking about the Panathenaea. Today would have been the last day of the festival, the most important day, and it was disappointing that Athens was too far to travel to without taking serious time off, nearly an entire month if he wanted to go to the entire festival. He hadn’t even gone to the Great Panathenaea the year before. In fact, as Aziraphale thought, he hadn’t gone to see Athena receive her new clothes for some time now, and that made him sigh, a sound not much louder than the sighing of the wind through the grasses.

On the twenty-ninth day of Hekatombaion, he stood beneath a large cypress tree near the harbor, watching the ships come and go.

On the thirtieth day of Hekatombaion, it was hot so he bought a drink at the tavern, a cool indifferent white wine mixed with an oddly metallic spring water that perked up at the touch of his lips.

On the first day of Metageitnion, he went to the olive grove. Clambering awkwardly up onto the curved trunk of an ancient olive tree, he wrapped his chlamys about himself and watched the leaves rustle in the wind. He reached out to touch the ripening fruit above his head and wondered, is this what Crowley had seen too? Or did it look different because Crowley was taller? Or were things different when one had golden serpent’s eyes? Or was that just the changing of the seasons?

On the second day of Metageitnion, he brought his kithara but did not play it. Instead, he stood by the bare trickle of the waterfall in the woodlot and watched as parched animals came to lick at the damp rocks below.

Then he walked to the palace, went to Crowley’s Polynices rooms again, and checked the wax tablet. It was exactly where he had left it on the desk, and he smoothed out the message with a gesture, erasing the scrawl he had left. This time he left a slip of papyrus that he had neatly written ahead of time, and left it tucked beneath the edge of the skew-placed wax tablet.

On the third day of Metageitnion, it was overcast. A ship unloaded many jars of wine and Aziraphale bought two amphorae for himself and Crowley, delicious golden wines from Ionia that he paid extra to be delivered to his rooms.

He waited at the harbor until it started to rain, until the water beaded his face and trickled down his cheeks unheeded.

On the fourth day of Metageitnion, it was cool and windy, and at the tavern he had a bowl of lentil soup and some bread with tender new cheese.

On the fifth day of Metageitnion, beaded rain dripped down the olives, a fine damp mist that left a glistening sheen upon everything, the world melting into a soft gray haze.

On the sixth day of Metageitnion, more water trickled down the waterfall, not very much more, but enough for a deer to have a good long drink before bounding away when Aziraphale sighed. Wind blew away the rain by late afternoon and the warmth of the sun began to parch the earth once more.

On the seventh day of Metageitnion, it was sunny and by noon it was so hot that the air felt like an oven. The heat made it seem as though the rain of the past days had been a mirage, a falsehood.

Aziraphale walked down to the harbor and waited.

Chapter Text

Crowley strolled down to the dockside with quick long strides, clutching a slip of papyrus with a note on it from Aziraphale that he slipped into a hidden pocket. He ducked under the large gnarled windswept cypress tree where Aziraphale had been waiting for him in the deep shade, hiding out from the hot summer sun and sat down beside the angel.

For a long time the two watched as a ship lumbered into port, men moving swiftly to moor it before the work of unloading goods began, all the while as even more vessels sailed in and out of the harbor.

“How are you doing, Crowley?” Aziraphale finally ventured, glancing over at the demon.

“Done and done!” Crowley flashed him a smile. “Had a trip Downstairs for a delivery, nothing too important. No wait, I guess maybe it was, it was important to him, after all. Er, it wasn’t just important to him, it was important. Period.”

“Hmm? What was so important?” The tense little smile upon Aziraphale’s relaxed a little; he was glad to see that Crowley was in good spirits.

“Not that I hadn’t touched it before but let’s just say I never thought I’d ever actually hold an Archangel’s crown. Or a Prince of Hell’s, for that matter, if you want to get particular and technical about it.” Crowley’s expression grew thoughtful. “Though maybe Archangel is right? After all it never tarnished like the others...all the other ones I’ve seen are black, like the iron that comes from meteors. Not sure why? Something to do with space?”

“So he really was discorporated,” Aziraphale whispered, shocked. “It wasn’t a trick. Though I was having a hard time trying to figure out the trick, if there was one.”

“Not a trick. Discorporated. Honest to badness. Left a shell of a body behind that the humans disposed of in a sanitary and respectful manner – well, you were there, you saw that. I’m still surprised he didn’t do something else about that ring given how much he cares about it but I suppose there weren’t many people he could have trusted with it. Actually probably no one. Probably couldn’t trust it with anyone, but he trusted it with me? Huh.” Crowley made a face, an expression of both confusion and revelation.

“You didn’t try it on or anything foolish like that, did you?” And Aziraphale wondered, how had it taken so long to deliver a ring? He began to count the days since the funeral and it was far more than he was willing to feel comfortable with.

“Nah, course not, I’m not crazy. And definitely not that ambitious. No, just held it in my hand. Wore it for a bit around my neck on a cord, since I couldn’t go Downstairs right away. Borrowed that trick from you by the way. Don’t think you would know about this-”

“-you’re right, I wouldn’t know and I’m not sure I want to-”

“-but it’s really quite heavy. Much heavier than it looks. Like…”

“Like what?” And yet the question about the timing of the delivery still itched at the back of Aziraphale’s mind, so he resolved to ask as soon as he could find an opening in the conversation.

Crowley frowned. “A bit like holding a piece of a star, maybe? Or a really tiny star, one that didn’t burn that much. If a star could be held.”

“Perhaps it comes from all that power that was invested in them by the Almighty,” Aziraphale wondered.

“Maybe. They are stronger than us. Well, stronger than me. I don’t know about you. Your ring didn’t feel like anything other than a ring, and it was easy enough to wear. But his...it wasn’t easy hauling it about. Didn’t dare to even consider putting it on a finger. Not sure if I could live with that kind of weight on me all the time. Hard enough wearing it on a cord around my neck, my shoulders and back are still sore. Wonder if that’s what makes them so…”

“Powerful?”

“Unpleasant,” Crowley said, with a scowl. “Living with all that responsibility. Knowing everything you do is under intense scrutiny, greater criticism, with no room for mistakes or accidents.”

“Oh. I never thought of it that way.”

“Yeah, maybe…” But then Crowley shrugged. “Well, much better to be mostly unnoticed. Never thought I’d appreciate not being anywhere near the throne of Heaven or Hell until I did this job. I mean, who wants to be in meetings with Beelzebub all day? Or Gabriel? Not me, no thanks. Speaking of which I need to finish a report of some kind soon…”

“So almost a month seems like a long time to deliver a ring?” Aziraphale ventured, seeing an opportunity to ask and then winced, realizing he probably did not want to know the answer to why Asmodeus would have kept Crowley from returning immediately, but then he was surprised at Crowley’s response.

“The delivery only took a few minutes. I didn’t see him or even get to speak with him,” Crowley said, with a crooked, tense little twist of his lips. “No, what took so long was on-boarding. Joining a new division.”

“Does that mean he’s been...sidelined?” Aziraphale asked, cautiously.

“Him?” Crowley laughed. “Ha! No, of course not. You’d think that would have happened – I thought that was going to happen, especially after...er, the past unpleasantness. It’s more like he’s sidelined himself. Er, no, wait, that’s not quite right. He’s actually managed to sidestep the sideline.”

“Does that mean he’s somehow...being punished for the discorporation?”

“It’s much worse than you think,” Crowley’s lips moved into the shape of a smile as if amused, but there was something fragile, brittle to the expression “He’s set himself up as the new Metatron. But for Downstairs.”

“Oh... Oh? Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed, shocked. “I didn’t think such a thing was possible.”

“I didn’t even know there were plans for such a thing. But he’s pulled it off, somehow. I’ll have to think about how it might have started but it seems like it could have been put into motion a long time ago. At least, that’s what he says.”

“What does that mean for your situation?” Aziraphale asked, carefully nudging the topic away from Asmodeus.

“Well, he’s still officially my boss. Technically I still report to him. Of course.”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, sourly.

“But so is Beelzebub, who is more like my...day-to-day boss. And even though they’re both Princes, one hand doesn’t know what the other is doing, but his hand’s on top. Er, he’s got a bigger hand. Actually he does, I mean, physically... Well, you know what I mean, he’s got a higher-ranking hand now. So he’s effectively given me free rein. Literally tossed the bridle right off my head and opened the gate of the pasture. Probably would have slapped my hindquarters too if Satan hadn’t been standing right there. Proverbially speaking. So from now on, I can do as I like. Within reason.”

“I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean?”

“Well, if there’s something I do that Beelzebub doesn’t like, all I have to say is that the orders came directly from him. And since they’ve never been that good about coordinating with each other anyway, he said he’d cover for me if anything goes wrong. So I have an ‘in’ with the very Downstairs of Downstairs to get out of nearly any mess, as long as I don’t make too big of a mess.”

“That’s…”

“Brilliant?”

“Diabolical,” Aziraphale said. “I was going to say ‘diabolical’.”

“Thank you,” Crowley said with a wry smile. “It is important to me that it’s diabolical.”

“Yes, I agree,” Aziraphale said, surprised at himself. “I like you diabolical.”

Crowley paused, slowly flushing red up to his ears. It took him a breathless moment of lightheaded distraction before he could continue. “Ahem. Anyway. So he’s down there now for good. Permanent recall.”

“Permanent?!” Aziraphale’s expression brightened.

“Yeah, I won’t be seeing him again. Besides being the new Metatron, he’s also taken up some sort of unofficial role as a companion to Satan. You know...erm, hanging out, being good conversation, keeping company, that sort of stuff. And apparently Lucifer’s not the sharing kind, so,” Crowley gave an awkward, wriggling shrug.

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Aziraphale’s breath caught, afraid of asking directly as if asking might negate reality, but unable to refrain from asking, wanting to hear the words directly from Crowley.

The wind from the sea picked up and sunlight pricked through the leaves, leaving a dizzying mosaic of light and shadow scattered over the two angels, fallen and otherwise.

“Yeah,” Crowley’s mouth moved into something that looked like a smile but it never made it to his eyes. “I won’t be seeing him, not ever again.”

Chapter Text

An immediate whirlwind of enjoyment followed for Aziraphale and Crowley.

To prepare for teaching, they spent a few hours a day every day studying together in the little storeroom library, though those hours of study usually devolved into reading for pleasure. They waited for each other while the other gave lessons to the still rather extraordinary but ultimately ordinary human Alexander, each bringing the other water or snacks afterwards.

Together they went for long walks along the shore. On bright mornings they sat in the flower-strewn woodlot; on lazy afternoons they laid down in sunny golden meadows. Hand in hand they stood in firefly-lit fields in the depths of starry nights and a few times, they even lounged naked in hidden hot springs in the mountains.

Talking and talking, it was as if the two angels, fallen and otherwise, were making up for those years and years so near but so apart.

They dined together every evening. Some nights they sat together side by side at formal banquets at the palace, but mostly they liked trying different restaurants in the city. They frequented all sorts of establishments, occasionally doing no more than buying simple food in the agora they could eat while walking about. Usually they would visit very modest places where they stood or sat with plain earthenware bowls in their hands and sometimes even those fancy places where they reclined as they were served expensive imported wines from Athens or Corinth, Crete or Ionia.

Nights, Crowley had taken to sleeping in Aziraphale’s rooms, drowsing to the soft sound of Aziraphale reading quietly, though Aziraphale noticed that the demon never slept deeply or for long, often startled awake by unsettling dreams, unable to properly sleep as he desired.

When autumn came they went to a few local harvest festivals here and there. But both angels, fallen and otherwise, without speaking about it or agreeing upon it, avoided mentioning or observing the Thesmophoria festival.

As the days grew colder and wetter, they spent more time together in the storeroom library.

In wintry Gamelion they attended every wedding they were invited to though usually without knowing why they were invited. The only thing they knew for certain was that for some unknown reason the humans were mad for Aziraphale to attend and that Aziraphale never went anywhere these days without Crowley. For two people with no familial connections in Pella itself, there seemed like an awful lot of wedding invitations and even Crowley commented on that, though Aziraphale had no answer for him. But at least the food was usually good and there was always music.

For the snowy Rural Dionysia, they went out to the countryside and celebrated with the peasants, joining in their boistrous processions. Besides attending the low budget amateur dramas that were put on by small towns and villages with a lot of heart but little polish, Aziraphale finally got to properly ride an insult wagon for the first time in what felt like ages. To his delight, this time he managed to get Crowley to join him too. The only real drawback was that there was no one about who really deserved a good verbal thrashing, so he instead used it as a mobile platform to make witty remarks with Crowley and occasionally deliver a subtle blessing to someone in need.

During the cold gray days of the Lenaia, they spent every day of the festival going to plays and parties as they were accustomed to in the past. Aziaphale finally met Neoptolemos at a party and the man turned out to be just as modest and amusing as he had been rumored to be. As Crowley listened they talked about the tragedian’s various roles and co-stars, and that rumor that had circulated about him being paid ten thousand drachmas by the vicious Athenian orator Demosthenes (not true; different Neoptolemos and besides, the tragedian had laughed, would he be still working if someone had paid him nearly two talents in silver?).

This year they celebrated Anthesteria together for the first time since that awful festival night decades ago when they were both living in Athens. And while subdued, for the roads had frozen to ice outside and few people were brave enough to hazard a visit with friends, there was something of a spark of the old charm of life back in Athens left. Even if Crowley kept watering down the wine until it no more than the vague suggestion of wine-flavored water, though when confronted argued that he could fix it by making the water bubbly.

When the City Dionysia came around again, this time the humans were mad for Crowley’s company and the demon was nearly buried under a mountain of invitations. Unable to go to every single party or event, they went to whichever festivities they felt like attending, sometimes as men, sometimes as women, sometimes as one or the other together.

And so they spent nearly all of the months of Gamelion, Anthesterion, and Elaphebolion laughing and drinking, dancing and singing, though for the latter two Crowley did the most and Aziraphale almost none at all.

They took their first real vacation together that summer, taking off half the month of Skirophorion and all of Hekatombaion (plus the first few days of Metageitnion) to go to Olympia. Aziraphale, as on many shipboard journeys, found himself inundated by humans who unconsciously clustered around him for safety and consolation as if chicks to a parent bird. Whenever he found that he could free himself, he would find Crowley by himself leaning against the side of the ship, silently watching the empty expanse of dark waters of the wine-dark sea.

At Olympia, they went to see the games and attend the parties, meeting victors and losers alike. They walked around Elis together watching the artists at work on on the statues of the victors, listening to all the gossip and speculation about athlete condition and athletic technique.

After Olympia they stopped off in Athens on their way back to Pella to catch the lesser Panathenaea. Aziraphale was excited to see the poetic and musical contests, the athletic games, but mostly he wanted to climb the Acropolis and admire Athena’s sumptuous clothes of the last two years.

In the deep shadow of the great temple, Crowley stood outside the sacred precinct waiting for the angel, a tall figure swathed in black, long curling hair covered with his himation as if a man in mourning. But his expression brightened when Aziraphale returned to distract him with a detailed description of the embroidery of Athena’s robe and asked for his opinion.

On their return to Pella, Aziraphale stared at his hand that was just touching Crowley’s hand as the two of them, as well as many humans, all gripped the side of the heaving ship. It was something that looked accidental for there were many people steadying themselves from the rocking waves by clinging onto the wooden side, but they both knew it was intentional.

It couldn’t last, Aziraphale kept thinking, even as the edge of his white himation tangled with Crowley’s in the cutting wind, even as he could feel the brush of Crowley’s shoulder against his own. Sooner or later something would change. One or the other would be reassigned, somewhere far away. He could be called Upstairs. Or Crowley could be called Downstairs. Perhaps the recall could be permanent; a commendation that led to a promotion, the kind that one could not turn down.

Or it could be simpler than that. Hundreds of years could pass without their paths crossing. That had happened before – a few centuries of not seeing Crowley was nothing in the past – but now, it seemed like that even a few days would be intolerable, and Aziraphale wondered what had happened, what had changed.

Especially since they weren’t meant to change.

Aziraphale did his best to set these thoughts aside, focusing on enjoying what they had. After all, there was no use to be in mourning already for that day of loss now when it was not yet within sight. He would hold on to this time for however long it lasted.

For however long it lasted. A twinge of pain went through his heart at the thought, but stubbornly, Aziraphale decided that even if it couldn’t last forever, he would draw it out for as long as he could and hope that he could make it work until it became forever.

With a yawn, Crowley leaned forward as if to stretch or perhaps to look at a fish in the water. And beneath the black shroud of his himation that covered his movement, he took Aziraphale’s hand, holding it until it warmed up again.

Shearing winds died down and the heaving waves steadied, subsided.

The movement of the ship smoothed out to a placid skim over the waters so that there was a collective sigh of relief that went around the passengers and crew alike.

Crowley gave Aziraphale’s hand a little squeeze before straightening up, and once he leaned back their hands looked for all the world to have not moved, still holding on to the side of the ship. The humans around them began to wander around again, confident enough to let go, leaving the two standing alone.

Their eyes met and though neither smiled, the expressions in their eyes grew warm, softened.

Then Crowley looked away, remarking on a soaring bird before it suddenly plummeted into the sea.

Chapter Text

“I am rather concerned, my dear, that you keep paying,” Aziraphale began as he set down his spoon upon the empty soup bowl, but Crowley waved him off.

“Eh, don’t worry about it, angel.”

“But if you’ll just allow me this time to-”

“Angel, I said don’t worry about it, it’s covered. I’m not actually paying for it myself.” Crowley sat back as a servant came to pour them more wine while another took away the empty dishes. The demon picked up the black-painted cup, examining the tiny impressions of flowers around its smooth sides before taking a sip. “That is to say, upon the...death of a powerful patron, I was left in possession of a sizable estate?”

“Should I be worried about who this particular benefactor is? I feel like I won’t like the answer...”

“Probably not. But there are houses, jewelry, statues, stocks of gold, silver, copper, and tin and grain and wine and...that’s not all of it, I’m probably missing something, but it’s a lot. A lot. There are houses all over the world. An entire kingdom (though I’m not going to even touch that since I’m pretty certain he doesn’t actually own this)! Places I didn’t even know he had been to, though the one place we were at together most recently before Pella wasn’t on the list. Probably torched it; he has a habit of doing that after I’ve seen where he’s been living...erm, so I’ve already written to many places to sell off the grain and wine and such, not sure why he had so much invested in perishable goods though I have a theory that he must have enjoyed playing merchant at some point in the past and just...kept it up as a hobby? I didn’t even know he had hobbies?

“Anyway, I don’t know how long he’s been on Earth in total: he never told me and I never dared ask, but apparently he had a habit of making acquisitions of one kind or another. They sent a list from Downstairs. It’s huge, about the size of a volume of the Iliad, one of the bigger ones. Thank goodness they finally moved away from clay tablets Downstairs, would have probably been a medium-sized house worth of clay. Not sure why he kept all these things, but here I am, the beneficiary of his unintentional generosity,” Crowley said, with a strong hint of irony in his voice.

“It sounds like he wanted you to be well-kept.”

“Or paid off, for all my troubles. Compensation,” Crowley muttered. “Though the real answer’s probably very dull, something like he just didn’t want it going back to the humans once he couldn’t keep it for himself. Well, this will keep me until the end of time, I should think, and then some. Could build a house for myself...a lot of houses, really. Could probably build myself a palace in Alpha Centauri if I wanted to. If this could be converted into infernal wages, I could probably build my own court Downstairs and set myself up as a minor Prince – not that I’d want to, believe me. I doubt anyone could spend this much in any lifetime, much less every lifetime. But of course, it’s not without its drawbacks. Along with his assets, I have also inherited his debts.”

“Please don’t tell me…”

“The debts are quite sizable.”

Aziraphale paled. “And...and you have to pay them off? Should I ask how?”

Crowley’s mouth moved into a sly snakey smile. “It’s worse than you think, angel. So much worse than you can imagine. There’s only one outstanding item on his ledger, and it’s a big one.”

“Oh dear-”

“Quite important. I was made to know that it must be paid in full and as quickly as possible, or else there would be consequences. With interest and so forth.”

“Please don’t tell me that he wants you to-” and Aziraphale closed his mouth, afraid to say more.

“The debt involves you,” Crowley said finally, in an act of minor compassion, though he enjoyed watching the expression in Aziraphale’s eyes change from concerned to outright startled.

“Me?” Aziraphale gasped. “What do you mean, I’m involved?”

“According to the ledger I was given, I owe you, on his behalf, a new set of fibulae. ‘A nice set, one that he will like. With nothing devious or evil about it.’”

“I can’t believe that he remembered my exact words. Those are nearly my exact words!”

“Well, he’s known for remembering things, after all, he was an Archangel…”

“Oh good heavens, he remembers everything I said?” Aziraphale turned a few interesting colors.

“Yeah, probably remembers every word. At minimum, everything that he thinks is important. Anyway, shall we go shopping after lunch? There are some nice shops-”

“Every...word…” Aziraphale paled.

“Don’t worry about it angel, he doesn’t hold grudges,” Crowley said, with a tone that Aziraphale thought was a bit cavalier, though that style of horseman would not be invented for some time. “Well, he doesn’t hold serious grudges against people who aren’t on equal standing with him in rank, past or present. Actually, I think he thinks it’s beneath him to treat a subordinate – like we are – the way he would treat an equal. His real contentions are with other Princes of Hell and with God. He’s actually quite decent to people who rank below him. However equal or above? Would not want to be those people.”

“I have a hard time imagining that,” Aziraphale said sourly, as this did not align with his experience.

“Anyway, enough about him,” Crowley said, one hand waving off the topic of Asmodeus as if shooing an irritating fly. “So I have already prepared a set for you, and I have also a list of jewelers if you’d like to have a set made custom to your liking. Since this is being paid for directly from his estates, you could have anything you like. More than one set too, if that’s what you want.”

“Goodness, I had never imagined this outcome. Especially since I was…” Aziraphale looked away, embarrassed.

“Hmm?”

“Er, shouting at him? A lot?” Aziraphale said, mortified. “Now I almost wish I hadn’t shouted at him, quite so much.”

“Well, that’s a thing,” Crowley blinked. “Really?”

“Mm-hmm,” Aziraphale agreed, ruefully.

“I hadn’t thought that you would have shouted at him, angel. How…what-”

“Erm. So. I had been drinking long before he approached me and then he was interrupting the Bacchae and...I might have let him have it?”

“Oh no. Nooo,” Crowley laughed. “Really?”

“I was drunk,” Aziraphale moaned. “Very drunk.”

“Ordinary drunk or Dionysia drunk?”

“Dionysia drunk,” Azriaphale admitted.

“I like Dionysia Drunk Aziraphale,” Crowley said with a wry, amused smile. “You’re most honest then, even if you can be infuriating.”

“And I said many things with such infuriating honesty that I only partially regret on principle but fully regret if he remembers as much as you says he does.”

“Eh, it’s fine. At heart he’s still an angel. Even though he adheres to proper demonic customs and etiquette, privately he’s never thought of himself as a demon, you know, so he’d appreciate the truth.”

“Even flavored with lashings of vitriol?”

“He has strange tastes. Anyway, forget about that, and forget about him. I have something to show you and I hope you’ll like it.” Crowley reached out and plucked a cloth-wrapped object from his bed in the palace, handing it to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale unfolded the large square of raw undyed silk to reveal a set of gold fibulae. He picked one up to examine it. The elegant curve of metal was formed of a scatter of anemone flowers, some gold, others made with petals of orange-yellow amber set in gold, dotted through with tiny polished round beads of pale blue sapphires that glistened like droplets of pure water.

“Crowley, this…”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes! My dear! I...I love this, it’s so beautiful. You needn’t get me anything else,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “I shall wear this immediately-”

“Here,” Crowley said, taking the other fibula and leaning over the table. “Let me help.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale blushed with a pretty pink loveliness as Crowley unpinned his chiton and repinned it with the new fibulae, careful not to prick him with the pin.

“There,” Crowley said, after he pinned the second one, straightening the fabric. “It’s beautiful on you. You’re beautiful…”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, touching his fingers to the golden flowers and Crowley’s smile covered the sharp pang of emotion at the sound of his name on those lips, that way that no one else ever said his name before, not even-

Chapter Text

Apollo!
To sunlight's jury I cry
my charge against you:

Bright God,
you came to me, sunburst
in your hair, in the fields
where I was plucking
soft yellow petals
that fluttered to my lap
and sang back dawn's bright gold.

Your hand grabbed and locked
this pale wrist...

“I don’t even know why I’m still reading this. Why am I still reading this?” Aziraphale muttered to himself as he set down the scroll in his lap, the thick roll of papyrus coiling up with a gentle crackling he let go, intentionally losing his place in the text. He stared at the ground for a long time, hands clenched in the folds of his himation.

A cold damp wind swept in through the window, rattling the scrolls, tangling dangling leather sittuba tags and with that Aziraphale set the scroll aside and stood up. He straightened his clothing and dragged the bench he had been sitting upon below the window.

Stepping up onto the bench he closed and latched the heavy wooden shutters one after another, throwing the storeroom library into deep shadow. As he stepped down, fussing with the drape of his chiton, Crowley walked in, shutting the door behind him. With a scowl the demon glared at the lamps upon a stand that flickered into life, the wicks and flames trembling tense at the demon’s golden eyes, only relaxing when Crowley looked away.

“Rather dark to be reading,” Crowley said wryly, looking around.

“Rather dark reading,” Aziraphale shrugged, putting up his hands in what would have been a broad eloquent gesture had it not been inhibited by the lack of space for such gestures. “I just closed the shutters because of the wind, I think the rains have finally started. But maybe it’s a play best suited to be read in the dark rather than in the light of day.”

“Which play?”

“Ion.”

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen that one, doesn’t sound familiar.” Crowley leaned against the edge of the shelving, glancing at the scrolls with casual nonchalance, long elegant fingers absently moving over the square leather tags that hung from each one. He gave one of the hanging tabs a spin, watching it twist and gyre before inertia set in and it merely swung from side to side.

“It’s Euripedes.”

“Then I’m sure I didn’t go see it when it first came out, had a...a thing about not going to too many tragedies at the time if you recall. Never quite caught up with all of his plays. It’s hard to work up the will to go sit through all that gloomy stuff. Makes the satyr play hardly worth it, unless of course you just show up at the end of the play and take the seat of someone who left because their constitutions weren’t up for the drama – not that I’ve ever done that, course not,” Crowley winked, “snuck in after the drama was over just for the fun part, wouldn’t know about that…”

“We would have both missed it; when it premiered we had already been reassigned to Ephesus because of the war,” Aziraphale said, carefully rolling up the scroll, unwilling to continue reading. “To be honest, I hadn’t properly read it until today. I’m not certain if I’ll finish. I’m not sure why I even got this far…”

“Properly? There’s a different way to read that’s more correct than what you normally do?”

“I saw the text of this play briefly some years ago, but didn’t have the time to really sit down with it and read it at my own pace. I didn’t have much time so it was more of a very fast read without taking in more than the gist. But I have read it now. Well, most of it. I suppose it’s good timing, I wouldn’t have understood it as well before, even had I not skimmed it.”

Crowley’s brow furrowed, unsure of what Aziraphale meant. “Erm, what’s it about again?”

“Maybe you should see it when it’s performed again. Or read it for yourself,” Aziraphale said, without explaining much further.

“Oh wait, I was at a revival of it at a City Dionysia some years ago, can’t remember where – I think you had gone out of town on assignment or maybe I was the one out of town on assignment, something like that – but I don’t think I stayed more than a few minutes. Not sure why,” Crowley frowned. “Don’t recall why I left.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t see it then,” Aziraphale winced.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Crowley frowned. “Too grim? Too dour? Everyone dies in the beginning? At the end? Too many people getting torn apart into shreds? Wait...not enough people getting torn apart into shreds?”

“Too much Apollo.”

“Ah,” Crowley said, and his expression closed off as if a door shut. “That Apollo?”

“The very one,” Aziraphale said, and then he paused. “I think. Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. A human woman is involved.”

“Read me where you left off,” Crowley said with a sigh.

“I really don’t think you would want to hear-”

“Come on, Aziraphale.”

Eyes full of consternation, a swirl of troubled colors, Aziraphale rolled open the scroll and it miraculously opened to where he had last been reading.

Bright God,
you came to me, sunburst
in your hair, in the fields
where I was plucking
soft yellow petals
that fluttered to my lap
and sang back dawn's bright gold.

Your hand grabbed and locked
this pale wrist, dragged me
to the cave bed, while I
shrieked Mother.
There you worked
Aphrodite's shameless grace.

In misery, I bore you a son.
With a mother's terror
I put him back, left him
to die on our dark bed,
where you yoked me to darkness.
Ah, I wept, alone.

“Oh,” Crowley said suddenly, and Aziraphale stopped.

“Did you want me to continue or-”

“No, don’t. I think that’s enough.” Crowley shivered, but then felt Aziraphale’s hand on his.

With a wan smile, Crowley let Aziraphale guide him down to sit side by side on the little bench, just barely big enough for the two of them.

“Are you all right, Crowley?”

“I’m all right, ‘course I’m all right. Just a play, right? Can’t...didn’t mean any harm from words. Imagination. Just some human thing, working out their feelings through text and song…”

“No, I suppose not. I’m sorry, is there something else you’d like me to read to you? Perhaps something by Aristophanes, I am certain I saw something of his in here earlier.”

“Anything. Anything you like. Read me whatever you want,” Crowley said. And wrapping the edge of his himation about Aziraphale as well, he draped himself over the angel’s shoulder, settling in to listen.

Chapter Text

The words of Euripides kept repeating in his memory, even as Aziraphale read him something else.

          you came to me, sunburst
in your hair
          grabbed and locked
this pale wrist, dragged me

Crowley stared at his hands, closing his left hand over the slender bones of his right wrist from where it dangled, arm resting upon Aziraphale’s shoulder.

He shifted so that his cheek was pressed against Aziraphale’s solid but yielding warmth, listening to the angel read. It didn’t really matter what the words were or what the text was; it all melted away into a pleasant wash of sound as he sat with his thoughts.

Aziraphale leaned closer and Crowley smiled a little to himself, even as he tried to will away the memory of that tragedy. But the poetry took him back to questions that he had been avoiding for a long time now.

Aphrodite’s shameless grace.
while I shrieked

Questions that had lingered within him for ages now unsettled like the bloom of sediment in a river. Those questions that had been festering deep down inside began to reveal themselves, gleaming with clarity even as they remained partially buried in the mire of dark memory. Until now he could not even begin to form those questions into shape, did not have words or even the barest understanding to articulate what he wanted to ask.

But maybe he was getting closer.

Your hand grabbed

Crowley stared at long slender fingers, flexing them thoughtfully. Strong but not strong enough.

Would things have been different had he tried calling out to God so long ago? Had he even called out to Her at that moment?

Crowley could not remember.

Without a word, he put both arms around Aziraphale. The angel paused mid-phrase, surprised, but continued to read. A few lines later Aziraphale’s head tilted slightly, resting against Crowley’s, electrum pale curls intermingling with dark.

But maybe it didn’t matter that memory failed. It had never occurred to him that She would have listened so he perhaps he did not even think to call to Her, After all, no amount of crying, no amount of begging for forgiveness, for even a word, an explanation, or an answer had worked since the moment of the Fall.

That horrible endlessness, that crushing pressure but by the time it ended there was no long any thought to appeal to Her. Not after Her last, final message to them. She had ignored even her own Archangels, those highest ranked, most radiant, the most powerful and beautiful, those who stood by her side and served her with great loyalty and obedience.

Crowley supposed that loyalty and obedience was not enough.

They were not enough.

And so nothing could have spared them the eons of suffering She had intended for them.

where you yoked me to darkness

Crowley tried to remember if he had even spoken to her before the Fall. If he had called to Her before, if She had listened to him, had reached out to him when he needed her.

He could not remember anything in Heaven involving God.

He thought of Heaven. A thousand, thousand procedural rules and meetings and trainings and presentations and rules so many rules to keep and follow without making a mistake because mistakes were not tolerated not ever-

No, he thought, there must have been some good memories too in there. It could not all have been so tedious, so grim. But all that came to mind was the scorching heat of the stars against his back, the icy oblivion of space at his fingertips, the grit of stardust on the palms of his hands,

There was nothing with the Almighty.

There was nothing that Crowley could remember about God.

Ah, I wept, alone
on our dark bed

But then he remembered Asmodeus’ words, insidious, slithering through him, catching him in a cold vise-like embrace.

Heaven only observes, doing nothing for anyone.

No, the Prince of Hell had been right; all were alone with their pain, with no one listening, no one caring. After all, She would not have cared; not now for a pitiful human weeping alone in icy moon-stained darkness, not then for a fallen angel struggling against-

Ah, I wept, alone

Reflexively Crowley’s arms tightened upon Aziraphale, and Aziraphale paused in his reading.

“Hmm? Are you all right, my dear?”

“Yeah, sure, fine. Just thinking.”

“Is it the text?” Aziraphale asked, and there was a soft note of concern in his voice. “I could read you something else if you prefer…”

“No, no, I like The Frogs. One of my favorites, if you must know. Genuinely funny stuff.”

“Yes, I remember.”

Crowley’s lips pursed at the memory of laughter, at the memory of happiness. Somehow when the Fall was involved, it seemed like all those things like laughter and happiness were illusory, unreal, as if life after the Fall had been nothing but an abstraction, a memory of an event that happened to someone else, not him. Nothing was real but for the Fall – the harsh emptiness, the endless expanse of suffering before or after, nothing to look forward to but unknowable fear – and whoever had remained once that was over was a stranger whose life he had only in part experienced at arm’s length.

And then Aziraphale’s arm went around him, and brought him back to himself.

Crowley took a breath, steadying himself, remembering where he was, who he was. “We had a good time seeing it, didn’t we? I hope they play it at the next Lenaia.”

“We’ll have to do something about it soon if that’s the case. Oh! A divine inspiration, perhaps.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Inspire them to keep the tragedies out too, let’s make it all comedies, like it used to be.” Crowley closed his eyes, settling upon Aziraphale’s broad shoulder.

“But tragedies are popular. People like the dramas.”

“Enough of it in real life without spending my free time observing fictional versions of it.”

“Point. But there’s something useful to them too, in terms of understanding human nature. Or even one’s own feelings.”

There was a long pause, and Crowley waited, thinking Aziraphale was going to say something, but it seemed like Aziraphale kept hesitating, until with a little squeeze, he was prompted to speak.

“Actually, now that I think of it, there’s been something that’s been troubling me, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, though he kept his free hand on the scroll, keeping it open to where he had been reading. But then he thought better of it and rolled it up, setting it aside. “I have been meaning to ask you about it, but was uncertain of the timing. Though if you don’t mind, I think perhaps I should ask despite the consequences.”

“Hmm?” Crowley turned to look up at Aziraphale. “Seems rather serious. What is it?”

“Crowley, have you ever wondered why you’re so concerned about the women?” Aziraphale asked, placing each word down with great care as if pebbles on a Petteia board.

“No? What do you mean?” Crowley sat up, untangling himself from Aziraphale. Unconsciously he drew a fold of his himation over his head, obscuring himself as a woman would, or as if a man in mourning. “Er, maybe I think I mean to say, who do you mean?”

Taking the hint, Aziraphale withdrew his arm, folding his hands before him. He kept his eyes carefully averted from Crowley, not wanting to frighten the demon off with the intensity of eye contact.

Aziraphale stared at the closed door on the other side of the room, at the tall shelves piled high with rolls of parchment.

Outside, the rain began intensify and the air felt cooler, damper.

“Olympias, Sarah...perhaps there are others – probably there are others – but these are just the ones I know. What’s the common factor between these women that has concerned you so much that you were willing to get directly involved?”

“Erm, Asmodeus?” Crowley shrugged, crossing his arms.

“Now what about Olympias, Sarah, and you…?” Aziraphale took a moment to breathe. “What do all these people have in common?”

          Your hand grabbed and locked
this pale wrist, dragged me
to the cave bed

“...oh.” A tremor went over the demon’s body, shaking him from head to toe and those crossed arms now seemed to be more like a clinch, Crowley hugging himself tightly.

“Perhaps-” But Aziraphale paused, looking over at Crowley.

Unmoving on the little bench, breathing slow and even, Crowley’s head lowered and his face, half-hidden by his black himation, showed just a pale patch of cheek and the lamplight caught a glint of a tear.

“Shall I...that is, would you like me to-?” Aziraphale began, cautiously slipping an arm behind Crowley’s back, feeling the heat of Crowley’s body, the knobby bones of his spine, his ribs. Just as he did so, Crowley leaned closer into the embrace, his entire body feeling as if it were collapsing into Aziraphale’s arms but Aziraphale caught him, holding him close.

“I’m fine, fine. No need to worry about me. Got over it a long time ago,” Crowley said, as he wiped at his face with the edge of his himation. “Nothing to worry about, angel. Just...been rough lately, I guess.”

“Rough? I’m sorry my dear, I thought you were happy…?” Aziraphale’s eyes glimmered with tears, and Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, pressing it to his cheek.

“I am happy. I’m happy with you. Very happy. Terribly happy. Happier than I’ve ever been, happier than I can remember, ever. Didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. Especially since being with you makes me not have to think. About anything, about any of this.”

“I know it’s hard but maybe. Maybe you should do some thinking,” Aziraphale suggested. “It might help, to face the issue instead of hiding from it.”

“...maybe I should do some thinking,” Crowley agreed. “Is that all right? Do you mind? We’ll still do things together but maybe just not quite so much. I think I need some time, because if what you’re saying is right, it means-” And Crowley stopped before he could say the words out loud, that he too had been a passing fancy, discarded once ardor had passed, once passion and the novelty of interest had worn off. Like the first bite of an apple, the first sip of wine, better than the next bite and the next, the rest discarded once thirst and appetite had been slaked. No wonder he had turned to humans instead of Crowley, that interest must have been lost a long time ago-

“Whatever you need, Crowley. And you know I’ll be here for you as well,” Aziraphale managed something of a supportive smile, but it didn’t quite make it to his eyes as he considered the fragility of their time together.

It could not last, it could never last, but for a while he had been happy too.

Chapter Text

Crowley waited. He took long walks with Aziraphale through the autumn countryside admiring the reflection of the gold and crimson leaves upon the dark waters of the river; they warmed their fingers with roasted chestnuts that they ate standing by the sea. Aziraphale claimed that chestnuts tasted better with the savor of salt air than they would inland. They discussed philosophy and poetry and mathematics over dinner and wine; Aziraphale played the kithara while Crowley sang an old favorite by Sappho. The song he sung was one that they had both loved for a very long time.

Everything continued as it had been, everything was normal. Only he stopped waiting while Aziraphale taught, only coming back just in time to press a crisp crimson-splotched apple into Aziraphale’s waiting hand, to walk with him to lunch.

While Aziraphale was busy with Alexander, Crowley wandered the palace, through the bustling and predictable maze of courtyards and hallways, corridors and gardens. Mosaics, wall paintings, a crowd of men and women two-dimensional and otherwise passed him as he passed them.

Eventually he started walking down to the harbor and back, wandering through the city.

It took him a few days to come to a decision.

One rainy morning when Aziraphale went to teach, Crowley went to the library alone. It was not hard to find the right sittuba, and so he sat down with the scroll in the artificial shuttered darkness. He thought about lighting a lamp but it was not necessary; unlike Aziraphale he could read in the dark, whether by the light of a sliver of a moon or the faint glimmer of gray light that came in through the cracks of the shutters.

He sat for a moment with the scroll in his hands, feeling the fragile papyrus beneath his fingertips, a cool and irregular surface against the palms of his hands.

The plastered wall was cold against his back.

Something felt off, not quite right, and he realized that he had not been in here alone without Aziraphale in some time. The room was filled with the soft aromatic scent of papyrus, cut with the sharp resinous scent of acacia gum and pine tar, but it was missing that peppery note of Egyptian lavender that clung to the folds of Aziraphale’s woolen clothing.

Crowley shook it off. It was better this time without the angel. There were things he needed to see again and he did not want the angel’s interference. It was best that Aziraphale didn’t know.

He did not want to hear those words ever again in Aziraphale’s voice.

The sound of the beating rain grew louder, obscuring all other noise.

With a gesture, the scroll miraculously unrolled itself to the last place Aziraphale had been reading.

Crowley whispered the words to himself as he read:

In misery, I bore you a son.
With a mother's terror
I put him back, left him
to die on our dark bed,
where you yoked me to darkness.
Ah, I wept, alone.

An ancient pain but a familiar one and yet it seemed almost welcome, a hurt that he had lived with for so long that it had grown its roots and tendrils deep within him, to become a part of him. He could no longer remember what it was like to live without this pain. And somehow these words kept bringing him back to that memory and for a moment he smiled to himself bitterly, amazed by the cleverness of these humans.

He unrolled more of the scroll, moving on.

Now the child
is gone
a feast for vultures,
my son and yours.

A gasp and Crowley wondered where that sound had come from until he felt his breath tighten in his throat and the memory of dirt and stones and roots beneath scrabbling fingertips and the rain had come down in a torrent and growling thunder had covered the sound of digging-

He tried to tear his thoughts from that memory, struggling to break free from its crushing grip but it continued, dragging him along as if an undercurrent in a great river, as if hands that caught his shoulders and pushed him down, cold and inexorable, impossible to escape.

Would it have been the same, he thought because he could not speak those words, as breath grew harsh and choked, as he curled up upon himself like an animal wounded, would it have been the same if it had been their children? After all, Asmodeus was the one who brought it up, that cold imperious Prince, wondering what would have happened if two angels, utterly fallen, had been able to produce life together like that. Reproduce.

Asmodeus had been the one to suggest it, who dreamt it up, who desired it. So would he have saved their children had they made them together?

Or would those children also have been left to die, alone in the wilderness in a little dwelling among the trees that offered no true shelter? Would those children have been lost to the Mandate too, to the political wranglings between Heaven and Hell? Would he have spoken up in the Dark Council for them, would he have fought for their lives before the Lords of Hell? Or would he have obeyed as he always did, with no regard for his own or for Crowley’s-

It was impossible to ask, to wonder about this impossibility, Crowley thought, trying to steady himself. It was absolutely impossible; there was no way to ever know – after all, it had not worked out this way at all. It had been nothing like this and there was some relief in that realization.

Unconsciously, Crowley pressed a trembling hand against his belly, and for a moment a vague curiosity passed wordless and without definition through the demon.

“No, don’t even think of it,” Crowley muttered to himself. “Best to never even imagine it. Not that we’re supposed to have that, imagination.”

He had learned long ago not to deal in impossibilities, like the promise of returning to a home long lost.

Or the possibility of forgiveness.

Crowley sat silent for a long time, focused on nothing but breathing, and when he came back to himself, he wondered why one hand was pressed against his abdomen as if trying to hold something in.

Slowly he straightened himself out, moved his hand away from his body and put it back on the other side of the scroll, uncurling more of the papyrus with one hand as the other rolled up the excess.

You – Lord of Song
you all the while
sing self-praise,
you chant the future
before the golden throne
at the earth's core.

“Well, she got that part right about the self-praise. And the Earth’s core, seems fitting imagery for a Prince of Hell. But the Lord of Song? Sure, he probably sang in Heaven – we all did – and he does here sometimes too, but the humans are better at it. And...and he would say that, wouldn’t he? That it was a golden throne, but it hasn’t been golden in ages,” Crowley hissed spitefully at the text. “He would say that even though the only thing golden about him is his stupid crown and his stupid hair- Telling a human that he still had a golden throne, what nonsense. Your throne hasn’t been golden since...and what did they do with those golden thrones anyway Upstairs? Ship them downstairs dipped in ink? Burn them? Just make them go poof and disappear?

“There were so many Archangels that fell – what happened to their thrones?”

Crowley spent a moment in thoughtful abstraction before turning back to the scroll.

Into your ear
I scream these words:
Vile coward lover,
you forced me to be your wife

“Ah, brave human,” Crowley whispered wryly, trying to imagine this little human woman facing down a Prince of Hell with these words. “Good for you, saying the things that that I don’t dare say. Never even tried. But maybe next time-”

And then a pang of a strange, contrary, contradictory emotion went through him, knowing there would not be a next time. There was no way these words could ever be said, even if it was possible. The shackles had been undone; Crowley had been freed from his grip.

Asmodeus was gone, no longer able to hold onto him.

And forever out of reach.

Our child,
mine and yours!
You left to die,
prey for birds, stripped
of cradle clothes his mother made-

Brittle papyrus cracked beneath his fingertips, obscuring the edges of the jagged text of ox-drawn ploughwise lines, and Crowley tossed the unruly scroll back onto the shelf before he would crush it or set it ablaze.

Chapter Text

Winter.

Too late for harvest festivals, too early for the Lenaia and the weddings of Gamelion. As the days fell slowly ever more into dreary darkness, heavy rain clouds obscured the sun and the sky. And after many days of not seeing Crowley, a concerned Aziraphale decided to take initiative.

Aziraphale tiptoed into Asmodeus’ old quarters where he had guessed Crowley must have been staying for these past several days. Somehow the court had overlooked the astrologer’s servant after his death and had miraculously left the provision for Nectanebo and his servant intact without changing or canceling anything, leaving Crowley with a fairly sizable suite of rooms to himself, besides the rooms he had as a tutor to the young prince.

Silent, the angel peeked around the doorway with great caution as if at any moment Asmodeus would appear, even though he knew that was a foolish thought. It was quiet and pleasantly cool in here, not particularly cold despite the season, and he wondered if it was normally like this or if this was something Asmodeus had done, willing the temperature so that it was neither icy nor stifling hot no matter the season.

Aziraphale looked around. The public rooms were bare of decoration, blank, and it seemed that there was no sign of its occupants, past or present. Something about this seemed horribly familiar somehow, and for a moment he couldn’t quite put his finger on it until he realized that it had the same kind of atmosphere as Heaven. Cold and immutable, devoid of personality, of smells, of anything other than absolute symmetry and perfection. It wasn’t quite that; one could tell the human hand had been at work building this place, but just the realization made Aziraphale shiver. Of course it meant something to not want to make a habitation like Hell, whatever that was like – and from Crowley’s descriptions, it seemed rather unpleasant – but to imitate Upstairs was something else entirely.

He found Crowley soon enough and entered the room as quiet as he could, afraid of waking Crowley if the demon were asleep. Crowley was tangled up in bedding, lying down on his side but from here Aziraphale could not see his face.

But then Crowley turned his head slightly, and Aziraphale noticed that Crowley had braided his long hair again. Not all of it, but just a single braid on the left side of his head, the ends loose as if left unfinished.

The way he had worn his hair for ages and ages, from the moment they had met in Eden until the funeral for Asmodeus’ corporeal body. Whatever change to Crowley’s hair over time, it always came back to this braid.

And now that single braid was back again.

A rush of fiery emotion went through Aziraphale, so strong that it surprised him and he turned to leave. But gritting his teeth he turned back around, fists clenched.

He took a moment to breathe, to calm down. Aziraphale unclenched his hands, loosened the muscles of his face, and spent a few moments straightening the careful drape of his chiton and himation, focused on the mathematical precision of pleats carefully pressed into the cloth.

Aziraphale took a deep breath.

“Crowley? Are you all right?”

“Mmm?” Surprised, Crowley looked up from the tangle of bedding that he clutched, and Aziraphale was shocked to see tears streaming down Crowley’s face.

“Oh no, my dear. What’s wrong?” Anger forgotten, Aziraphale hurried to his side but then paused before reaching out to Crowley, as he caught a whiff of roses and juniper that still clung to the bed.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” Crowley cracked a smile, miracling away hot tears that yet rose to his eyes, his vision swimming. “I’m fine, really. Look, totally fine. Just being lazy, that’s all and it’s dusty in here, yes. Quite dusty, it’s the dust. Should ask the cleaning humans to do a better job. Though they haven’t been coming in lately.”

Aziraphale hesitated, not wanting to intrude. “May I ask what you’ve been up to by yourself? It’s been some time since-”

“Didn’t feel like going out, was having a nap or something. But now that you’re here, did you want to go get lunch? Lunch-dinner? Dinner-lunch? Dinner? What time is it?”

“Crowley…” Steeling himself, the angel sat down on the edge of the bed and was surprised that it was just an ordinary bed with nothing strange or distressing about it, but for a hint of that lingering scent that shouldn’t have lingered this long, and Aziraphale knew that it must have been some demonic intervention on Crowley’s part.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to be here. Maybe you shouldn’t be here. You probably shouldn’t be here. Please, just go…” Crowley’s voice cracked as he looked away.

“You know,” Aziraphale took a breath, taking in the scent of roses and juniper and myrrh, “that I respect you and respect your privacy. But. I don’t think it’s so good for you to be alone like this.”

“Maybe not,” Crowley muttered.

“You’ve…gone through some hard times lately, my dear.”

“Lately? Lately has been good. Lately has been with you. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I know we never talked about it but. But it’s not easy watching anyone die, much less someone you were so close to for so long. Even if it’s just a temporary discorporation,” Aziraphale said with care. “And I just want you to know that I’m here for you, Crowley.”

“Is this officially, as the Representative?” Crowley couldn’t help but snipe.

“No. This is officially as a friend. And unofficially in terms of work, I suppose, if you must know. After all, I don’t think either Upstairs or Downstairs would be particularly happy to see us in such a state as we are now,” Aziraphale smiled wryly.

“No, I suppose not. Glad they can’t see us. Would rather they didn’t. Would not want to try explaining that at all.”

“Yes, well. I hope it never comes down to that.”

“You don’t have to stay,” Crowley turned onto his side on the bed, looking away. “I’ll get over this. I’ll be fine. I always am.”

“I know. But sometimes it’s easier to be fine when you’re not alone.” Aziraphale drew the edge of the blanket over Crowley’s bare shoulder and then set his hand very lightly upon the cloth-covered shoulder, feeling the demon tense up under his hand.

But then Crowley sighed and Aziraphale could feel the minute lessening of tension as if a taut string unwound.

“I guess. I suppose you have a point.”

The gentle diffuse light of a weak winter sun coming in from a high narrow window, and Crowley was looking up at the little rectangular splotch of blue sky stained with stray clouds as if it could tell him something.

“Crowley, if you don’t mind, can I-?”

“Can you what?” Golden eyes glimmering with tears, Crowley trembled.

“Can I hold you in my arms? And lie down with you?”

Chapter Text

“I’ve got to get over this,” Crowley muttered to himself, and suddenly got up, pulling Aziraphale with him.

“Crowley, what are you-?”

“Not here. Not in this bed. Never here. I have a room…” Crowley’s voice was almost a growl, rough with tears, and he dragged Aziraphale over to a dim little chamber adjoining the master’s rooms, shutting the door behind them. The bedclothes were neatly made here, as if the bed had never been used and it really wasn’t much of a bed, something that was almost more like a narrow couch pushed against the wall.

Crowley stood and stared at the bed, as if once getting this far, did not know how to go further.

“My dear, shall I?” Aziraphale offered Crowley his hand, and Crowley took it, pressing it against his cheek, feeling the warmth of Aziraphale’s broad hand cradle his chin, the side of his face, Aziraphale’s fingers stroking along the curve of his jaw.

“Yeah. Please.”

Aziraphale withdrew his hand and laid down first, resting his head on the pillow, his back to the cold unyielding wall. He offered his hand to Crowley, and the demon stood there for a moment, staring at Aziraphale’s fingers as if he did not recognize them, as if for a moment he did not understand what was being offered. But then Crowley shook his head as if shaking something off and took Aziraphale’s hand.

Drawing Crowley down onto the little bed, he wrapped his arm around Crowley’s lithe waist, the demon’s head tucked beneath his chin.

He was still warm, Aziraphale thought, all of him, from his lanky bare limbs to his black chiton. He was still warm from that other bed – Asmodeus’ bed – and the contrast between Crowley’s warmth and the cool bedding beneath them was so strong that for a moment a horrid shock went through him, imagining Crowley moving into his arms, hot and flushed from another’s embrace, from Asmodeus’-

And then Crowley closed his eyes and he pressed his face against the tender flesh of Aziraphale’s neck and Aziraphale felt a shiver move over his entire body as the demon’s tears trickled tickling down his neck onto the creamy white of his clothes.

“Oh no, my dear…” Aziraphale held Crowley close to him, tight.

Foolish thoughts, Aziraphale thought to himself, foolish unworthy thoughts that he should never have had when Crowley needed him, and so he said nothing as he waited for his heart to calm. Aziraphale focused on Crowley here and now in his arms, awkward – all elbows and knees and sharp bony shoulders and – and smelling of the bitterest myrrh warmed through with the subtle sweet spice of roses.

And the faintest resinous scent of juniper.

Aziraphale exhaled, long and slow. When he breathed in again, he kept wondering if he could actually smell the juniper or if it had been his imagination.

Crowley’s arms tightened around him and Aziraphale gave him a squeeze. Small, shaking sobs, and Aziraphale ran his hands over Crowley’s back, murmuring something, some words of comforting nonsense that he could not remember later.

He waited in silence. Crowley’s sobs stilled. It was almost impossible to tell the passage of time in here; there were no windows. The air was faintly stale, and he imagined it would smell like dust if dust had been allowed to settle there. His lips quirked in a wry little motion, remembering that Crowley liked to make sure that dust never settled if he were around; the room was probably too afraid to do anything as vulgar as being dusty in Crowley’s presence.

He waited a long time, quiet, feeling Crowley’s breaths heaving, but then slowly, almost imperceptibly Crowley began to relax.

“Is there something...you wanted to talk about?” Aziraphale whispered, but when he glanced down Crowley was asleep, his body lax and heavy against Aziraphale’s own.

Chapter Text

At first Aziraphale laid very still, afraid to move, not wanting to wake Crowley. For some time he merely watched Crowley sleep in the artificial twilight of the little servant’s room, faintly lit from daylight seeping in from the doorway. Eventually he dared to brush a stray lock of hair from Crowley’s forehead, but the demon did not waken.

With great care he moved the mass of Crowley’s curling hair out of the way, so that it would not be caught beneath Crowley’s shoulder.

But he avoided touching that twisted braid.

Aziraphale frowned a little to himself, seeing the dark smudges of bruised, swollen flesh beneath the demon’s eyes, the minute traces of dried tears that left long arcing tracks down Crowley’s face.

With a gesture, the angel pulled out a soft damp cloth from somewhere far away. He held it gripped in his free hand until it was warm, and then gently dabbed the cloth over Crowley’s sallow hollow cheeks, wiping his face clean, but even that touch did not wake Crowley. The cloth went back where Aziraphale had got it from, and he shifted, pulling Crowley close with both arms. In his sleep Crowley moved closer to him, and with a gesture Aziraphale pulled a blanket over them, dragging it out of his room in the other part of the palace.

Before the wall warmed against his back a pillow appeared behind him, a tiny miracle that no one could possibly complain about. The bed might have also miraculously grown a little wider, so Aziraphale could lie down more comfortably, and grown a lot longer, so Crowley could stretch out more comfortably.

But Crowley slept curled up in a miserable huddle, his head resting upon Aziraphale’s shoulder, Aziraphale holding him close.

Aziraphale thought about pulling out something to read while he was waiting, but it seemed like too much trouble; it’d be hard to hold the scroll open without both hands, and he didn’t want little flakes of brittle papyrus to fall onto Crowley’s bed, something that he knew the demon would have some rather pointed Words with him about.

So he rested as Crowley slept, cradled in his arms.

Time passed, minutes turning to hours turning to days. At some point early on he miracled up notes to leave for the steward that came around the quarters of the tutors, with some well-phrased excuse explaining that he had left town for a family issue, and that Crowley had taken a similar leave.

Aziraphale thought that it wasn’t too much of an exaggeration, as he pressed a tender kiss to Crowley’s forehead.

It was quiet here; the walls were thick, and he could not hear so much as birdsong or rain. Unlike the main rooms, the air in here was icy, nearly as chilly as it was outside, and sometimes when the light was just so, Aziraphale could see Crowley’s breaths softly steaming as he slept.

He wondered if Crowley had ever stayed in this room, locked away from the world in this cold dark lightless place, unable to leave without Asmodeus’ permission.

Asmodeus who controlled the only door out of this room; Asmodeus who controlled the only door out of Hell.

Asmodeus who controlled for Crowley for so long.

He could not help but imagine it.

He’s come before to visit me.

Moonlight glittering upon water as if a shining path made across the river to the star-strewn sky. A fallen angel, a lone wanderer, clinging to the tall column of a sycamore tree, embracing it as if it could embrace him back and Aziraphale did not, could not have known what that meant at the time-

He’s so good to me.

Crowley, pressed in a miserable shivering huddle against the door, in a little room no better than a closet writ large. His face hidden in the folds of his black clothes, looking like a scrap of darker night within the night-filled room, the faint stardust glitter upon his Hellish dark gray raiment reflecting but not giving off light. Even the crimson threads embroidered through his clothing were colorless in the dark.

Falling teardrops staining the ground before his kneeling figure, even as he made no sound other than his shaking breaths. Long slender fingers pressed against the crack of the doorway, lit by the weak light that seeped in, staining the air around it with its faint glow, showing just how pale and wan the flesh was.

He even protects me from others.

How long had Crowley been trapped in here, alone?

How long had he been caged in Hell, alone?

There were years that Aziraphale did not know about; years before Heaven had ordered him to Pella. He knew that Crowley had been called here from Ephesus; had the demon been locked away here too, all that time? Let out only when it pleased the Prince of Hell, punished and tormented in ways that Aziraphale could not imagine.

He’s been kind beyond anything I could hope for…

Crowley, dazed by blinding light once that locked door opened, dazzled by that handsome face framed in a sunburst of blond hair the color of fire, and so grateful that he would clasp those long legs, press tearful kisses to those strongly arched feet, to those commanding hands. That he would put his arms around those broad shoulders, that he would long for the comfort of Asmodeus’ touch, for Asmodeus’ affection, desire it, yearn for it, crave it like a human staggering out of the desert waste craves shade and water and rest...

He’s loaded me with presents and treated me with honor…

Crowley, with golden eyes brimming with shimmering tears, so happy to be let out. So relieved to no longer be alone anymore in the icy darkness that he would do anything for that infernal master, to please him in any way. So desirous of warmth and affection that he would throw lean lanky limbs into strongly muscled arms and kiss those cold, sneering lips, just because he had been locked away for so long.

And Asmodeus, powerful hands gripping Crowley’s delicate wrists, pinning him so that he could not move, legs holding his hips down-

Aziraphale made a strange sound that surprised himself. He spent a long moment breathing hard, trying to calm down.

He’s handsome and charming and I’d rather he have a claim on me than anyone else…

Crowley, warmed through in that big bed in the other room, his skin almost hot to the touch. Slender limbs tangled in the linen bedding, his elbow bent so that he could look at the bright moonlight passing through woven cloth that was draped over a wrist marked livid with rising bruises, at that fine grid of regular shadows it would cast. And Asmodeus, bare-chested, short blond hair mussed from the bed, looming just behind the demon’s shoulder, once more dragging Crowley into his arms, to claim eager lips and-

and I like him just fine, really.

Restless, Aziraphale wanted to sit up, to move around. To shake off those unpleasant thoughts with a hot drink, a book, a song, a walk, something – anything – to push aside these feelings.

But that would also mean shaking off Crowley.

And Aziraphale realized he could not push Crowley away.

Aziraphale stared at the ceiling, drawing Crowley closer to him, his eyes full of tears.

It was almost three days before he realized that he hadn’t even thought about pulling his little trick of imagining to read, remembering the words from the unrolling scroll in his memory.

Because what was the point of those written words compared to the measured poetry of Crowley’s breaths? The faint light gilding his crimson hair gold, the flutter of motion over his closed eyelids – and that must have been dreaming, Aziraphale thought, humans did that sort of thing all the time, dream.

Aziraphale wondered what Crowley dreamt about.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley to wake up, but a part of him was strangely happy in a confounding, contradictory way. It would be better, more responsible of him, less selfish to want Crowley conscious, but there was something terribly lovely and wonderful about being so close to Crowley for so long, when the demon normally didn’t seem to want anyone to touch him.

To have Crowley all to himself like this and for so long felt like the wash of gentle rain upon parched desert soil, coaxing all the hidden seeds to grow and bloom in the wasteland and he wondered if he could have something like this forever someday. Someday, in a time and place that he could hardly imagine now, perhaps they could lie together in bed like this, the tears no more than a painful memory, but the closeness as deep – no, more deep and profoundly intimate.

Someday in a world where they could meet each other’s eyes, to hold each other’s hands, to cling tightly to one another in each other’s arms. And in that distant future, the pain that made Crowley close up into himself, made him sleep the days away would be gone, no more than a faint memory of the distant past.

“‘Let me tell you this,’” Aziraphale whispered the words, hearing the song inside of him but not singing it. “‘Someone in some future time will think of us…’”

And maybe it will be us.

Chapter Text

“I suppose you’ll want to hear about my day. Days. After all, it’s been many days since we’ve spoken,” Aziraphale began, speaking in no more than a tiny whisper, nothing that would wake the demon. “Well, while you were gone, the boy and I discussed India. It didn’t start there of course, we started with one of Zeno’s paradoxes, you know the one, with Achilles and the tortoise – and what an excellent, exceptional human the boy is, Crowley, he intuited the paradox before I could even finish giving the explanation in full.

“Well, all this talk about India made me think that if we’re not reassigned anytime soon, we should just figure out ways to stay. It wouldn’t be hard to be attached to his court as he grows up. After all, I expect he’ll be king someday. Perhaps we could be scribes or administrators or stewards, something that keeps us close to the action. I’ve half a mind to consider playing a philosopher, given all the formal mathematics I’ve had to learn for this job. Oh, or an accountant – a court will always require accountants. I’m quite fond of accounting, always have been. World’s oldest profession. I remember when it was done with those little clay tokens, before they even started putting them in envelopes of clay. Oh, those little clay tokens were ever so fun to make. Perhaps you might be a military man? A translator perhaps, or an aide-de-camp? You do look so dashing in that military chlamys.

“Anyhow, we were talking about India, and I told him about those dishes of spiced dal and pulao I like. Oh, and mangoes, mustn’t forget mangoes, I remember how much you like them too – though of course, I can’t imagine anyone not liking ripe mangoes. Certainly one of the best of the fruits in my estimation. Can you believe it, he said he wants to try it for himself. As if he means to go all the way to India! Well, if he goes I say we should go too. I haven’t had a mango in a very long time and miracling up one for myself is just not the same as a fresh mango plucked ripe from the tree. After all mangoes don’t travel well.

“He’s an interesting human, isn’t he? Quite remarkable, even for a boy this age. Say, it reminds me, do you remember why we were sent here in the first place? I don’t...seem to recall the details, it all feels a bit blurry in my memory, as if I can’t quite put my finger on it. But it seems like it would be important if more than one of us were sent, much less more than one each of us. In that case, I don’t even know why he was here either. Seems a bit much to send someone from management all the way up here for a human boy.”

Aziraphale fell silent, listening to Crowley’s soft sleeping breaths.

“I wish I had never met him, you know. Not the boy of course, I’m rather fond of the boy, but him. Your, erm. Master. Former master? Is that the best term for him? I suppose that’s a term for him. Crowley, I… I wish I had never met him. In many ways it was better when I didn’t know. Sometimes when I think about it, I wish I didn’t know. But now that I do, though that does change things, I’m strangely glad for it, because it helps me understand you better-”

“I can hear you,” Crowley muttered, a low rumble.

“Goodness!” Aziraphale blushed. “Crowley, you’re awake. How much did you hear?”

“Makes me want a mango. A whole basket of ripe mangoes on a hot summer afternoon, sticky mango juice just dripping down my hands and wrists,” Crowley nuzzled his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, sending a shiver through the angel that changed into something else when he could feel the damp heat of Crowley’s tears again.

“Oh no, my dear, did that sleep not help?” Aziraphale’s hand moved over Crowley’s back, comforting him.

“Maybe. Maybe a little.” Crowley looked up, eyes wet with unshed tears. “It was lovely to wake up to the sound of your voice; it was lovely to wake up feeling nothing in particular. But it all came back to me when I properly came to myself, just as bad as before. Guess you can’t walk away from that.”

“Oh no, Crowley-”

“It’s fine, angel. Can’t get away from it, not permanently, not even temporarily with a nap. And you talking about him didn’t help.”

“I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine. I know you didn’t mean it. You wouldn’t do anything to harm me intentionally. Talk about whatever you want. Can’t be helped, it’d be there anyway. Happened long before you knew me, before you could have known anything. Nothing anyone could have changed, and definitely not you,” Crowley said, miserable.

“How long as it been like this, Crowley?”

“I don’t know. A long time.” Something about the demon’s expression said there was more to be said, but then his expression seemed to close off entirely.

“Crowley…”

“Forget I said anything. It wasn’t entirely his fault either, we were all…” Crowley fell silent, looking away, the expression in golden eyes flat and distant.

“Crowley?”

“I just...want to be free of this.”

Chapter Text

“And it’s what I wanted, you know. I’ve wanted this for so long. I didn’t want to be- I’ve wanted to be free but it’s not…” Crowley couldn’t continue, choking on the words as a sob caught in his throat.

“Shh, it’s all right. I’m here for you. And know that you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, but I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me.” Aziraphale’s voice was warm, deep, and his gentle fingers slid across the nape of Crowley’s neck and Crowley shivered at the sensation, before realizing that the angel was merely gathering the demon’s long dark hair out of the way so he would be more comfortable, so that he wouldn’t accidentally lie down upon the length of it and cause himself pain.

“No, I want to. I wanted to be free for a long time…and I still want to be free. But I also want...” And he could feel Aziraphale’s body tense against his; it was not what the angel had wanted to hear, not what the angel thought Crowley had wanted, and he knew Aziraphale was disappointed. “I’m sorry-”

“No, no my dear. Don’t be sorry. I’m the one who should be sorry, I misunderstood. But it doesn’t mean- It doesn’t mean I’d leave you. Or that I’d think less of you. I have been working through this for a long time now, I think. But please, do continue. I don’t want to interrupt.”

Crowley sniffled, miserable. “I wanted to be free. I really wanted it. But. Now that I am. I, I don’t like it.”

“Why?” Aziraphale asked, and then immediately realized with an uncomfortable realization what the answer must have been. “Oh.”

“I didn’t like it before, not being free, but it’s stupid that now that I am, I’m so miserable-”

“It’s not stupid at all. It’s because you love him,” Aziraphale said, softly. It was the truth, and honesty meant that every word was a sharp cutting pain that sliced through him, a pain that he was causing himself one syllable at time. “I know. I saw it all when we were in the forest together but back then I didn’t know what that meant. And as much as I hate to say it – and I really, really hate to say it because he’s been so ghastly, so beastly to you – he loves you too. No matter his ambitions, giving you up would have been difficult-”

“No, you’re wrong. It was easy for him. He threw me away. He used me as he liked, the way he’d treat anyone else, even humans – especially humans – and gave me up when grew he tired of me. He said he won’t see me anymore. Not ever again.” Crowley trembled with the effort of holding back his tears.

“If it were so easy to let you go, my dear, it wouldn’t have taken all these years,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s hair. He felt himself shaking too, though with fury, angry that Asmodeus had never been honest to Crowley, had never prepared Crowley for an inevitable outcome the Prince of Hell had surely foreseen ages ago, with all his machinations and manipulations. “You were called here years ago. Not long by our calculation, granted, but for time spent on Earth, it was a long time. Well, the duration doesn’t matter. I am absolutely appalled in knowing this but I know that you’re still important to him, especially if he’s willing to back you against all of Hell. Probably all of Heaven too, if you think about it.”

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t like him-”

“You’re right, I don’t like him. Not at all. I know I’m supposed to be an angel and I know I’m not supposed to hate anyone, but I hate him. I despise him. He’s horrid, an absolute monster, cruel and manipulative and imperious. I hate what he’s done to you. I hate how he left you. I hate that he never said a thing to you ahead of time even though he must have been maneuvering for this promotion for ages. I hate that he abandoned you and then made you go Downstairs to run stupid errands for him that he shouldn’t have needed anyone to run if he had done anything decently. But I know he has been important to you and you are important to him.”

For a moment Crowley was shocked by the venom in Aziraphale’s voice, but then reality crushed back down around his shoulders. “No. Never. I was never important…”

“He said you were dear to his heart. And that giving you up would have been a sacrifice.”

“What? When-”

“In the forest, when we were hunting. Remember? He was playing at reading entrails, and that’s what he said. I don’t remember the exact words, but he said it right before all of us.”

“I don’t remember,” Crowley mumbled sullenly.

“Then. My dear, you know. With that situation last time, when you were discorporated. I wasn’t sure I should say anything about it but-”

“But?”

“I have been thinking. It makes sense that he took the blame; they can’t actually punish a Prince of Hell in any meaningful way, nothing that could stick, but Downstairs would have done something quite horrible to you. But did you notice? That he never blamed you. Not even once, not even in private.”

“...oh.” Startled, Crowley tensed, looking to Aziraphale as he thought through the situation. “No. And he could have. It wouldn’t have been hard. But even in front of the Dark Council, he didn’t do his usual...pull his usual stunt of wriggling free. That was intentional. He intentionally distracted them away from me. Shit, why didn’t I see it?”

“No matter how good we are at understanding others, it’s not as easy when it’s someone close to us,” Aziraphale said gently.

“But that’s what he was always like. Even before the Fall. Taking responsibility because he was in charge…”

“I don’t know what he was like before. The big Before, the one prior to the War in Heaven. I don’t think I knew him back then. My memory of that time is vague, unclear. Like...a field of broken shards from many different vessels and few fit together neatly, some with sharp, painful edges. Not sure why, if you must know. Not sure why my memories are incomplete. After all, it’s not like I...was in your situation. And I don’t think I’m the only one,” Aziraphale admitted. “But- but the point is… The point is, is that he’s done some things for you that I doubt he would ever do for anyone else, even if he likes to ‘take responsibility’ as you said.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You’re here with me, aren’t you?” Aziraphale’s lips pressed against Crowley’s hair. “I don’t think you remember this, but one time a long time ago – and I think this must have been at that roasted mutton place in Nineveh that’s been gone for...oh, far too long, what a shame, I really liked it – you got really drunk on honey liquor cocktails at dinner and told me he stood up before Satan and everyone and turned down being Representative on Earth (and thank goodness for that, good gracious, I don’t know what I would have done if I were up against him this entire time, let us never consider this possibility again) and maneuvered you into this job. One that literally no other demon has, and as I understand, many would do anything to receive. And then for this most recent…sordid affair, it seems to me that he egged me on to stay near you out of sheer jealousy, trying to maneuver me into hating you, trying to force you into proving your loyalty and love to him again and again, in as many situations as he could contrive. That awful hunting party? Think of the timing, of his influence upon the humans. I think he grew tired of you trying to protect me, and wanted to somehow prove that you would choose him.”

“But it didn’t work,” Crowley said.

The words hung silent between them, that it had almost worked.

“Of course it didn’t,” Aziraphale said, with forced cheer. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here with you. Though I was a bit concerned. You know, it turned out he was the one that made my ring fly off into river...did he ever punish you for retrieving it for me?”

“Him? Nah. He thought it was funny. Thought I was doing something to help him draw the hunt out longer, so we’d be stuck out there and have to stay overnight. Otherwise the humans might have given up and gone home. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that I was doing you a favor. He seemed to think it was some kind of distraction.”

“I suppose he’s very secure in his knowledge of your loyalty,” Aziraphale said dryly.

“You don’t mind that I chose him?”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale sighed. “Of course I mind! I mind it quite a lot! I may never stop minding it! I was very angry for a long time. I’ve been angry about it for longer than you imagine. Probably since the first moment I heard about him from you, all those years ago. In fact, I’m still angry. I may never stop being angry. I’ve known about him for a long time. And I know how you feel about him. But what I understand better now is how I feel about you. And that...is worth it to me to be here with you. Even if I know you love him better.”

“I don’t…”

“Don’t say anything you’ll regret later, my dear. It doesn’t matter to me. It’s not some kind of a game – not a competition. We’re not weighing our hearts against one of your black feathers, seeing which one balances, which one you love more. What matters is that…”

Crowley looked up to Aziraphale, and that tiny flicker of hope in those golden serpentine eyes sent a strong surge of tenderness through the angel.

“It’s taken me a long time but...I realize now that I…” Aziraphale paused, surprised that there were tears in his own eyes, tears that dripped down unheeded onto Crowley’s black-clad shoulder, staining the infernally created cloth a faint pearlescent gray, like the sun coming through an early morning fog. “I...I don’t care what your past is. I don’t care that he’s in it. I mean, I do care. I know he was important to you. That he is important to you. And I accept that not despite of this fact but including this fact. I accept you. All of you. All the sharp edges, all the hard bits, all the difficult parts...all of this – it’s what makes you, you.”

“You...you can’t mean that.” Crowley’s golden eyes were full of tears. “You don’t know what I had with him. What I did with him, what I did for him.”

Aziraphale paused, searching for the right answers. He shifted on the bed just as Crowley did, so that they could meet each other’s eyes directly, so they looked at each other as equals in a way that they never could have standing up, in a way that they never really could otherwise due to their differences in loyalties, in position.

“Crowley, I…” Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat at the loveliness of those bright eyes, so strange with their slitted pupils but at the same time so familiar.

“You don’t have to say it, Aziraphale. Please, don’t force yourself into any…”

“No, I think I do.” Aziraphale’s tear-filled eyes swam with the muddy blue-green-brown colors of all the Earth and Crowley could feel his breath catch at the sheer beauty. “I want to tell you. I need to tell you that I love you. Even though you loved him first and for the longest. Even if you do love him better. And even if you love him still after all he’s done to you, I'll still love you. Because that's a part of you too. And I like all those parts.”

“That’s…” Dumbfounded, Crowley ran out of words.

“Stupid, I know. Foolish. A good way to get hurt, I’m certain. But it’s true. I’m just sorry it took me so long to figure all this out for myself. I suppose in some ways I can be quite thick. And I’m sorry I was mad at you.”

“No, it’s not stupid. I mean, it is. The stupid part is that you love everything. Everyone. It’s...part of your, your what’s that called...”

“Maybe.” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand and pressing the tips of each of Crowley’s fingers to his lips, a tender and delicate motion. “Yes, probably. Definitely. And still I don’t know if this is different from loving anything else or everything else or anyone else or everyone else. But it’s there, despite everything that’s happened. Maybe because? I don’t know.”

Crowley’s mouth ran in four or five directions at once trying to smile and not cry and still speak but without sobbing. It took him a few minutes to catch his breath, to regain his composure and Aziraphale waited patiently for him.

“Aziraphale…”

“Yes?”

“How can someone as clever as you be so stupid? Of course this is because you’re an angel, you have to love everyone. It’s your...your thing! Your innate thing! Quality, character, personality trait, whatever!”

“Yes, well. I suppose you have a point. Though…” And for a moment, Aziraphale was about to mention that even though he was an angel, he certainly didn’t love Asmodeus in any way, but then the thought slipped his mind at the faint hint of a blush that had bloomed along Crowley’s sallow cheeks like the barest tint of pink at sunrise.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing,” Aziraphale smiled, charmed at Crowley’s embarrassment. “And for the record, I meant it when I said I like you diabolical.”

“Huh?” That faint tint deepened and spread, until the redness reached Crowley’s ears.

“Diabolical, difficult, demonic...however you are, whatever you are.”

“Surely you can’t mean this.”

“I can and I do,” Aziraphale said primly.

“I think this is...some celestial plan to discorporate me,” Crowley muttered, hiding his flushed face against the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s broad chest. “You must be up to no good. Er, only good.”

“Am I?” Aziraphale asked, all lightness and innocence, running his fingers through the soft curling locks of Crowley hair. “Oh, do tell me if I’m succeeding, please do tell.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley growled, but his heart was not into it, and it came out sounding rather awkward and strained and his voice unintentionally cracked mid-syllable.

“Oh, dear me, am I really discorporating you?” Aziraphale felt at Crowley’s forehead, his wrist, playing at doctoring. “Do tell me when you’re in extremis, my dear, and I’ll do my best to revive you. After all, I wouldn’t you want to have to do all that documentation. I know for a fact that it is a fearsome amount of work.”

“What? How?” Crowley laughed, as Aziraphale moved, pressing his ear against Crowley’s chest as the angel tightened his arms around the demon’s waist. Crowley squirmed ticklish in Aziraphale’s grip. “That- that’s not going to revive anything!”

“You’ve caught me, my dear foul fiend; you’ve seen through my heavenly strategems. I shall embarrass you until all the blood rushes into your head and you faint, and then once that’s accomplished, I shall steal your bowl of soup and the bread served with it-”

“What’s that go to do with thwarting-” Crowley snapped, wriggling limbs tangled with Aziraphale’s. “Oh, that’s a bit too honest now, isn’t it? You just want my soup and bread.”

“The humans always make it the best for you, so yes, I should rather say that this is a...an angelic ploy to steal nothing but the best nibbles from you; the best bites. Specifically that barley and fish soup they like to make for you, the one you love so much that you order it everywhere around the Mediterranean in whatever style they make.”

“I can’t allow that, angel. Soup is serious business, I won’t allow any interference-”

“Ah, my poor heart, I have been thwarted, so soundly,” Aziraphale giggled, as Crowley pushed him down onto the bed, slender but strong hands clasped upon Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“That’s not fair,” Crowley laughed. “You know your laughter is contagious; I can’t help myself once you get started-”

“It must be one of my horrid angelic plots! Oh, oh! If only you, a foul fiend of a demon, were here to thwart me-” Aziraphale chuckled, easily picking up Crowley and setting him down so that they lay side-by-side once more.

“I am here, you stupid angel, how are you this strong-”

“Like I’ve said before, I’ve always been this strong, my dear. What you should be asking is how I am this funny-”

“You’re not funny!” Crowley laughed. “You’re just...gaming the system, gaming my silly lizard brain who thinks your laughter is funny-”

“I think your lizard brain has very good taste then. Is that different from your snake brain? Or are they the same? It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale smiled. “Just another thing I like about you.”

“Stop saying that, you can’t really mean it-”

“You know I wouldn’t say anything I don’t mean,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hands in his once more. “Not to you, not like this. Not with something this serious.”

“You can’t mean it…” Crowley’s eyes filled with tears again, and Aziraphale kissed his hands.

“I do,” Aziraphale said, pressing Crowley’s hand against his own face, feeling the cool touch of those elegant fingers stroke along the rounded curve of his cheek. “You don’t have to believe me – though it would be nice if you did – but I mean it. I am deadly serious, my dear.”

“I can’t decide who’s sillier, you for saying it or me for believing it…”

“Then let’s just be a couple,” Aziraphale beamed. “A couple of fools together.”

“Stupid, stupid, stupid… I’m getting up, this is too stupid for words,” Crowley muttered, and moved to sit up.

Just as he moved, Aziraphale did the same, unintentionally, and as they sat up, their lips brushed past each other

“Did that just-”

“Did we…?”

Chapter Text

“Naaaah,” Crowley shrugged it off, though he had tensed up and every visible part bit of his bare skin, above his shoulders, which was not very much at all, was beet-red. “Doesn’t count. Course it doesn’t count, that’s silly, why would we be- and it’s not like we haven’t greeted each other before with a kiss in public, that’s just...just normal stuff people do. Greeting. Mouths touching. Have we greeted each other with a kiss in public before? I don’t remember. Anyway, I’m getting up. Fucking starved, what time is it again? Palace kitchens should be open soon or still open unless you want to go elsewhere. Oh, you ever been to that restaurant down by the harbor? Have we been to that one in the harbor where they make that dish that I like, what is it called again? The one that’s like a pease purée poured over eggs, oysters, and scallops.”

“Don’t remember, but yes, we have been to that restaurant together and we should go again. I’m certain that they will miraculously have all the right ingredients and the right chef at hand.”

“Then I’m going to get up,” Crowley said, scrubbing at his tearstained face with the edge of his himation.

“Not until you first tell me what this is,” Aziraphale said, dragging out what looked like a wrinkled scrap of white linen from beneath the pillow. “I felt it under my hand earlier.”

“What is- oh, I forgot I left it there.” Embarrassed, Crowley reached out for it, but then Aziraphale unfolded the bit of cloth.

“This looks awfully familiar,” Aziraphale said glibly, examining the linen hat, remembering all the fine stitchwork he had put into it.

“Yeah, well. He didn’t want it, so I took it.”

“You did?” Aziraphale looked surprised. “And you kept it?”

“Yeah. He erm, had me be his guinea pig? With the hat”

“He changed you into a little round squeaky rodent and put you in the hat?”

“No, no, not that,” Crowley laughed. “No, I mean, he was afraid you had done something...nefarious to it-”

“Nefarious?! As if I were a demon!” Appalled, Aziraphale made some shocked noises of outrage.

“Yeah, well. You’d understand if you were down there. Plenty of destroyed demons from all sorts of subterfuge. But uh, I kept it though.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t want all your effort going to waste,” Crowley said, snatching the hat from Aziraphale’s lax fingers, pulling the wrinkled linen over his head. “Besides, it’s quite nice. Warm and soft and very cozy. Perfect temperature for winter nights, especially over my ears. I’m amazed that you enhanced this to be so very cozy. It doesn’t even need to warm up, it’s just warm.”

“My dear, it’s all a mess.”

“So are you, but I’m not complaining,” Crowley said with a cheeky grin.

“Crowley…”

“I, for one, am going to wear this out,” Crowley announced, straightening the hat on his head, trying to wear the plain round cap in what would have been a jaunty angle had it been one of those woolen hats the guards wore, even though it was nowhere near the right shape or fabric. “In fact, I have decided that I shall wear it to dinner.”

“You- You wouldn’t dare…! It’s, it’s such an awful mess! And everything else you’re wearing is black, it wouldn’t match-”

“I’ll have you know monochromatic is a fashionable look. This is a pop of white over black, quite stylish. Besides, it’s your mess, you’re the one who decided to make it in linen – which wrinkles abominably. In fact, I’m surprised your heavenly influences didn’t miraculously keep this properly pressed at all times-”

“That’s because- First of all if you didn’t want it to wrinkle, you shouldn’t have stored it under your pillow, I don’t think any amount of miraculous intervention could have protected it from that.”

“What, does this place look like it has a lot of proper storage?” Crowley gestured at the tiny room which really had no more than the bed. “And do you think I have...like my own fancy chest to put clothes in? Because that’s not how clothes work for me, I’ve never had to store anything before-”

“Secondly, I chose linen because I thought he was really a priest. The proper ones don’t wear wool or any other animal garments, not even leather sandals-”

“-except for lion skins, so you could have made him that kind of a hat-”

“-or leopard skins and I would not have made a silly little hat from a skin of a big cat, that is a waste of a valuable hide that should be worn whole-”

“Would probably have been more stylish in wool. Or fleece. Ooh, or bits of pine martens, those are nice and soft. Could a hat be made out of the fur of willow catkins? Those are really soft. I like willow catkins,” Crowley said, adjusting his hair with the hat on it, twining the end of a curling lock about his finger. “Reminds me, I should cut this off.”

“Didn’t you already give a hair offering at the funeral?”

“Not what I meant,” Crowley replied, letting his hair go. “Not that kind of haircut. Besides, that was...more than a year ago! I mean, just to wear it short. For fun. Change things up a bit. Never tried it before, for er, reasons but I think I would like short hair. What do you think?” Getting up, Crowley reached out to Aziraphale, pulling him up out of the bed.

“That would take some getting used to, after all I’ve never seen before you without long hair, but I think you would look good in anything,” Aziraphale smiled, straightening the elegant drapery of his clothes as Crowley glared at the bedding, which in a flurry of fear returned to a tense state of being neatly made.

“Anything? Oh, then I really will have to wear this to dinner.”

“Crowley!”

“Ah, there it is again, I like the way you say my name. I’m glad, it sounds good coming from you. I’m glad I told you. ‘Crawley’ just doesn’t suit me well, not anymore. Can’t imagine anyone calling me that ever again. Damn, I guess now I’ll have to figure out a way to make everyone else call me Crowley too-”

“Crowley, this is ridiculous, I cannot allow you to go to a formal dinner like this. Maybe if it were some place that we’d stand for supper, but not that fancy place that you suggested where we recline and-”

“So you still love me? Even now, with this ridiculous wrinkled hat? Even reclining in some elegant establishment with this cute little homemade hat of yours that the servers will give strange looks to, though that is assuming we get in because maybe we’ll even be turned away at the door because of my rustic, homely appearance?”

“Crowley!” Exasperated, frustrated, irritated, and yet-

And yet with the heat of affection lingering in the air, the gentle fondness and love that could not be untangled from that word, from that name, emotions all tangled together as if a thread woven through their lives, holding everything together. No one else had ever said his name like this; no one else ever would.

“Of course I would!” Aziraphale protested. “Even if you were threadbare or naked or...or, I don’t know, in some other ridiculous state of silliness that only you could think up.”

“Fine,” Crowley said pulling off the hat, setting it down upon the pillow. “I believe you, you don’t need to prove anything to me. Though I still think it’s just...your innate angel thingy. But that’s fine, I get it. It’s not personal; I’m okay with it. I shall manage to live with the knowledge of being loved by you, the way you love everything else.”

“Believe what you want,” Aziraphale said, “but I meant every word.”

“Oh, I will.” Crowley ran his fingers through his bed-and-hat-mussed hair and as he did so, the twisted incomplete braid on the left side of his head unwound itself, slipping free, loosening into wavy locks.

“Ah, Crowley-”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale smiled just a little to himself; it seemed that Crowley hadn’t noticed what he had done. “Nothing, nothing important. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

“Though tell me, how do I rank against those other things you love?” Crowley asked. “Say, honey cakes. Slices of roast goose. Roast duck. A lovely Attic vintage, maybe from around, oh I don’t know, Solon’s time. That one really good year, when the winter’s opening of the new wine was just perfect. I know you love those. Sappho songs?”

“You really want to know- You really want me to rank you…”

“Sure angel, why not? After all, you keep very detailed lists on your favorite vintages, your favorite plays. Tell me how I compare to the perfect warmth of a summer’s day? Or a winter night by the hearth while we’re snowed in. An old copy of the Iliad that smells like clean dust and old ink and brittle papyrus? A new copy of an old Euripides play you haven’t been able to read yet, the faint grit of sand on the pages that was left on the papyrus from the scribes drying the ink. ‘Tell me, out of all mankind, who do you love better than you love me?’”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “You’re not taking this seriously, are you. Don’t be- oh, if I didn’t know any better Crowley, I’d say you are doing this just to get me to say your name.”

“Coming from you, I’d like to hear it more. It sounds good when you say it. I’m glad you know it. Oh, what if our roles were reversed and you had to live with the horrifying knowledge that I love you, what would you do then? Wouldn’t you want to know how I would rank you compared to the things I like?”

“Crowley…”

“Think of how I am feeling. Would you believe me?” Crowley turned to the angel, golden serpent eyes full of curiosity. “If I said I loved you.”

“No,” Aziraphale said simply, standing in the doorway. “I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Is it because I’m a demon?”

“No, of course not. You were an angel first and I suppose one could argue that you’re inherently an angel – just a fallen one. It’s because...it’s because of the context of this conversation. Maybe if you were to say it to me in a different context, I would believe you-”

“Just like you to blame context.” Crowley looked amused. “Well, I don’t know if I have an answer to the love thing but... But, I can tell you for a fact that of all the people I’ve met in all my time – Upstairs, Downstairs, and everywhere else – I think I like you more than anyone else. No, I definitely like you more than anyone else. You’re my favorite person, not just right now but under every circumstance. Even the impossible, infuriating ones.”

“...anyone else?” Aziraphale blinked.

“Anyone,” Crowley said drawing out the syllables for emphasis. “You’re the best, even when you have forgotten that I am starving and are dawdling about whilst I starve-”

“Oh, right. Yes, of course,” Aziraphale followed Crowley out in a dizzy daze of some happy unspoken, unspeakable emotion, leaving behind the empty rooms to cold darkness.

“Looks like we’ve missed the sunset,” Crowley said as they stepped out of the palace. The view faced the harbor where anchored ships swayed and creaked with the tides. “But look! How violet-tinged the twilight, streaked with gold and crimson clouds. ‘In the spring twilight-’”

“‘...the full moon is shining,’” Aziraphale replied. “Even though it’s not spring yet. ‘Awed by her splendor-’”

“Hey, it’s not fair switching poems,” Crowley smiled, “but ‘stars near the lovely moon cover their own bright faces.’ Do you think it will rain tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” Aziraphale said. “I want to spend the day reading in bed.”

“Mind if I join you?” Crowley moved to pull his himation over his head but then thought the better of it, tossing his head back to feel the wind blow through his loose hair.

“You’d be on my bed anyway, my dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile.

“Only because you don’t use it. You’re not using it tonight, are you?”

“No, it’s all yours. You may take the bed anytime, as you like.”

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, and pressed delicate kisses to every finger. “Thanks.”

“For what? The bed? Don’t worry about it, it’s not as if I’d use it anyway, I prefer to read sitting at a desk-”

“For being my favorite person.”

“Crowley…” Aziraphale blushed, glancing away, demure.

“Now I want to do something scandalous; let’s recline at dinner together tonight, on the same couch.”

“Crowley! In public?!”

“In public.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t care who knows,” Aziraphale announced, as they walked down to the city together, the winter wind whipping the edges of their himations about their legs. “I don’t care who knows we’re friends.”

“Hmm, probably everyone knows. Well, everyone that’s a human in the court at Pella,” Crowley corrected himself. “After all, we’re together all the time. Even down to vacations. Bet you’d care if it were Upstairs that knew.”

“Well. You’re not wrong,” Aziraphale conceded. “But if it were safe, if we weren’t on opposite sides, I wouldn’t care if they knew either.”

“Don’t. Don’t be like this. It’s not safe. They’d…”

“Hmm?”

“Not worth discussing. Just don’t, all right? Don’t even whisper it. Lie to them if they ask, tell them you don’t know me, don’t know anything about me. Don’t tell them anything.” Crowley’s lips trembled at the words, but when Aziraphale turned to look at him, he managed a smile.

“As if I’d ever forget,” Aziraphale looked at him with such a tender expression that Crowley found his feet unable to remember how to move forward, and Aziraphale had to reach out to steady his wobbly form.

“I wouldn’t- I would never, ever hold it against you for doing what it takes to survive. I never would,” Crowley said softly, but then as they stepped into the covered colonnade of the agora, he leaned into Aziraphale’s supporting arm, sliding his arm about the angel’s curvaceous waist.

Aziraphale was warm, and his pale curly hair tickled against Crowley’s nose.

“It won’t come to that,” Aziraphale said with a smile. “There wouldn’t be any reason for them to suspect a thing. Come on, you’re being paranoid. Let’s just go to dinner, you’re not the only one who could use a bite. After all, who spent days and days upon my arm-”

“You could have pulled away-”

“Have you ever had a cat sleep on you? And received that outraged look of offense when you woke it up before its time? Now just scale that up by a large constant multiple so that it’s you-”

“Really angel, I’m not as rude as cat-”

“And I did not mean to be as rude to you as if you were a cat-”

They reclined together on the same plump pillow, Aziraphale leaning back into Crowley’s arms, Crowley draped languorous over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Angel?” Crowley spoke in a very quiet voice, after a servant had refilled the cups and left.

“Hmm?”

“Do you forgive me?” Crowley asked, hesitant, just loud enough for Aziraphale to hear and no one else. “For what I did.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said primly. “I don’t know what you want me to forgive you for. What did you do? If it was that business with not meeting me for these last few weeks, I will say what I said before; I understand that you needed some time-”

“No, not that. Erm. Keeping it from you, not telling you. That whole...horrible business in the forest. The last...erm, few years, when you first came to Pella.”

“It was more than a few-”

“Yeah, all right, good point. All those years. Still,” Crowley sighed, pausing for a long breath. “I wanted to know if you forgive me.”

“No,” Aziraphale sighed, but before Crowley could respond, he turned and gave the demon a little squeeze, catching Crowley unawares and drawing down into his arms. “No, it’s not like that, love. I don’t forgive you because there’s nothing to forgive. I couldn’t hold onto it if I wanted to, my dear, and believe me I tried. I even tried being responsible, I really did. Trying to stay fully professional, keeping you at arm’s length...but you saw how well that worked. You did what you had to do to survive – after all, we are all meant to be obedient to their wills. For that I might as well ask you to forgive me for thwarting you, or beg your forgiveness for being an agent of Upstairs.”

“Oh,” Crowley’s voice was soft and surprised. “Oh. Wait, did you-”

“And of course you know that I would not hold it against you to have loved someone else first, that is not something any one of us could have chosen, least of all-”

Crowley untangled himself, straightening himself out so that he was once more sitting properly behind Aziraphale. “Wait, Aziraphale, did you just call me-”

“Yes, I did.” Aziraphale said with a little smile. “I did.”

“Oh.”

“Shall I say it again, love? In case you didn’t hear me clearly the first time.”

“Aziraphale…” Crowley blushed, hiding his face against the back of Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Shall we go for a walk after dinner, love?” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, pressing the elegant length to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger one at a time. “Just you and me. I think it will snow tonight, just a little bit, in flurries of tiny snowflakes. Not enough to lay thick upon the ground, my dear, but just enough to light up the whole evening as the waxing moon peeks through the clouds, the sky full of glittering stars just beyond. Do you think that by moonlight, the snowflakes will shine like the stars? Let’s go and shake off the past, shake off everything terrible and replace it with the winter wind and the falling snow and your hand in mine. Love, let’s go together.”

Chapter Text

Heaven

“What’s one of Gabriel’s angels doing here?” She peered over the other angel’s shoulder, using the taller one as a convenient barrier. “Are other division angels even allowed out here?”

“How the Heaven should I know?” the tall angel with the good cheekbones asked, turning around to look, long unruly curling hair floating very slowly about in the black airless void of space like the tendrils of a nebula. “Wait, that’s a Cherubim, isn’t it?”

“Oh yeah, you can tell by his crown. Just look at him, he’s trying to be all sly about it, wearing it on his finger, but it still sticks out no matter what he tries to do to hide it. They’re doing that these days, you know, those management angels. It’s a fad of some kind, wearing their crowns on their fingers. I hear it was started by an Archangel, if you can believe that.”

“What’s one of Gabriel’s people doing out here?” the tall angel wondered. “Lucifer’s the one who manages all this...this space stuff, with stars and moons and planets and such, Gabriel’s team doesn’t touch this kind of stuff. Admin never leaves head office. Unless there’s a message?”

“Beats me,” the other angel shrugged, pushing back her long black hair, trying to contain it as it floated weightless about her head in a cloud. “Archangel infighting? Trying to usurp authority? Trying to make Lucifer look bad? Who knows. But whatever it is, it’s causing some serious problems. You think someone should do something about it?”

The two angels watched as the Cherubim argued with a scatter of angels who were trying to set a starburst of stardust in place.

“Naaaah,” the tall angel began, but then paused. “Okay, maybe. Yeah, we should probably go help out, it’s looking a bit messy. Screws up the whole rhythm of the work if everyone’s riled up like that.”

“We? What do you mean, we? You got an Archangel in your pocket?” the other angel laughed, winging away to sort through and fine-tune the placement of different types of hydrogen molecules.

The tall angel sighed and flew over toward the hubbub of angels arguing.

“I don’t even have pockets,” the tall angel muttered “...what’s a pocket anyway?”

As the tall angel arrived, everyone else wandered off as quickly as possible, abandoning the tall angel to deal with the Cherubim alone.

“Ahem,” the Cherubim said, clearing his throat and straightening his white robes with cold dignity “I am the Cherubim Aziraphale, sent by the Archangel Gabriel for a surprise inspection, and I’d like to see your records please.”

The tall angel blinked. “Erm. We don’t keep those here. Not on us.”

“Who’s in charge?”

“Lucifer?” The tall angel shrugged. “You know we work for Lucifer, right?” And not Gabriel, the tall angel thought, irritated.

“Obviously! Obviously you work for Lucifer. But he’s not here. Who’s next in command, are you one of his Cherubim?” the Cherubim demanded.

“...do I look like a Cherubim to you?” The tall angel pointed to an uncrowned head, the white robes with the barest hint embroidery of of gold along the shoulders and sleeves, the fabric sparkling faintly with a silvery fine glitter of stardust, the hem tattered and scorched. The tall angel then then held up both hands with long elegant fingers spread out wide, turning them back and forth in a big showy gesture to show that there was no hidden crown.

“Why isn’t there a Cherubim here? What about Elohim? Hashmallim? Or, or even a lowly Principality-” the Cherubim raised his quarrelsome voice, outraged. “Who’s in charge out here?”

“No one. We’re all just ordinary angels out here. The managers stay in the office,” the tall angel said, thoroughly irritated but trying to sound soothing, to sound appeasing. “They don’t need to come out here, we’re trusted do the job right every time.” Which we would be doing if you weren’t interfering, the tall angel thought very loudly, and pointedly in the direction of the offending and offensive Cherubim.

“Fine, then show me your records for the current project.”

“Like I said before, we don’t keep those here.”

The Cherubim scowled. “What do you mean, you don’t keep records? There must be records.”

“‘Course we keep records. Got lots of records! Good ones, all of them. Just...not on us, not on our individual persons,” the tall angel explained with a patience that was already wearing thin. “We go back to Head Office and make a report, and there someone else takes all of our reports and gives it to someone higher ranked who puts it together into something coherent, and then that report is checked by someone else more important. Then someone really important takes the final report over to Uriel’s people and it properly gets entered into the records. Out here, it’s all manual work – no one keeps records out here.”

“I was told to come and make an inspection of the field records,” the Cherubim said, prim and obstinate in equal parts. “I’m not leaving without a copy of your field records.”

“It’s not how things are done in this department,” the tall angel scowled.

“That’s what the other angels said, but there must be field records-”

“And I’m going to say the same thing as the others! There are no records out here! No records at all! Look, if you want to see our records, just go to Head Office and talk to Uriel’s office. Lucifer does exactly what he’s been told to do, without deviation, which is submitting all reports to Uriel’s office as official records. He doesn’t keep-”

“For an ordinary angel, you seem know an awful lot about procedure,” the Cherubim said venomously.

“I’ve said nothing that is unknown or outrageous.” Outraged at the implied threat in the Cherubim’s voice, the tall angel scowled, before smoothing out that expression as best as possible, remembering a Cherubim could cause some serious problems with management, even if that Cherubim were not from the same department. “What I know is common knowledge. I- I just pay attention at meetings, all right-”

The Cherubim’s shoulders slumped. “Look, it’s nothing personal. I just can’t leave without the records.”

“I told you, we don’t have any records here.”

“As I told you, I can’t go back without the records-”

“Ah,” the tall angel said, even though deep down the tall angel wanted to say something else, something with a lot of sharp consonants. But tragically those words had not yet been invented and just as well, for they were probably completely forbidden to the angel – to any angel – though someone was bound to have to invent them at some point. Even so, a flicker of pity went through the tall angel. “All right. First of all… First of all, don’t stand there without thinking about gravity, you’re going to go up in flame-” the tall angel reached out and dragged the Cherubim away from the blazing star whose flames licked at the edges of the Cherubim’s robes and hair.

“Oh goodness!” The Cherubim’s expression softened, and he thanked the tall angel profusely even as he readjusted his robes in a fit of pique, unhappy that a dust-stained ordinary working angel had mussed the previously immaculate drapery.

“You’re welcome. Gravity is real low out here but once you fall into a well, you just fall right on in… well, you just have to be careful. We place them so that they’re sufficiently far apart and won’t run into each other, but the hard part is not running into them yourself,” the angel shrugged it off. “Anyway, secondly. Yeah, I get that you’re in a bind. Terrible stuff, being in a bind. But you can’t just go around demanding what doesn’t exist! That’s unreasonable.”

“I know,” the Cherubim’s expression turned miserable, utterly pathetic. “I know it’s unreasonable. But I don’t have any choice. You see, I can only do what I’m told, and I was told to do this.”

“I told you it doesn’t exist-” the tall angel began, but then paused, seeing the miserable expression on the Cherubim’s face. It would have been hangdog but hangdog expressions hadn’t been invented yet. And for that matter, dogs had only recently been developed but only on paper, though that would be metaphorically speaking, as paper had not been invented yet either. “Oh wait. I guess I could make it exist.”

The tall angel touched a finger to an arcing nimbus of fire flickering off the star and with that bit of glowing flame, drew in the air many blazing sigils that hung in black space, crackling with the cold scent of starfire. “Okay, let’s see. Erm, stardust, check. Gasses, check, not going to list which kinds, it’s mostly hydrogen anyway. Orbital geometry and gravity calculations...uh, check. Not going to write them all down, that’d take forever and a day, longer than it takes to put it up. I mean, you do it mostly by feel, not by actual calculations though I know some of us do actually like doing the math. I find it too boring to just plug things into equations, that’s just putting things in the right place and not having to actually think. Here you go.” The tall angel presented the Cherubim with the glow of flaming words floating gently in darkness and grateful, the Cherubim gathered them up with a gesture, clinging to the words that fluttered with the hot fire of a star within the encircling comfort of his arms.

“Thank you, oh thank you, you don’t know what this means to me-”

“Yeah, yeah, no big deal,” the tall angel waved it off, licking at a scorched fingertip. “Just don’t tell them who gave you this, all right? I don’t want this causing any trouble.”

“Of course not,” the Cherubim smiled. Not much more than the hint of a curve to his mouth but there was such a bright, warm expression in his eyes. “Not a word. After all, I don’t even know your name.”

It was so unusual to see such a genuine show of emotions on a middle manager’s face that the tall angel was taken aback.

“G-good. Let’s keep it that way,” the tall angel said after a stuttering pause, before winging it back to the others who were struggling with a minute error in gravity that meant that gasses were leaking into a misplaced black hole.

Chapter Text

“How do you feel, Principality?” The Archangel Asmodeus asked, looking into lovely dark eyes framed by long curling lashes.

“Okay, I guess?” The angel with black coily hair styled into the tall peaks of a crown and dark skin the color of burnt umber shrugged. “Seems like everything’s in order, all sorted out. Except…”

“Except for the many copies,” Asmodeus said glancing at the waiting copies, who stood politely and watched with many pairs of identically lovely dark eyes framed in long curling lashes. Stepping back he slowly pacing about the test subject, examining the angel with a critical eye.

“Feels like I could be more, sir. But I don’t think I should be, not right now?”

“Very good. Yes, try to limit yourself, we wouldn’t want you overrunning Heaven.” Asmodeus turned to the copy of the angel. “What about you? Can you make another of yourself as well?”

“Sure, Archangel Asmodeus, I can try.” And the copy copied itself over again, splitting into two equal beings that after a moment of pleasant surprise, greeted each other cheerfully.

“Very clever. And very useful,” Asmodeus nodded graciously to his team. “Though the methods used are rather unorthodox, actually testing on an Angel, the biological process that this research group has achieved is an equal complement to the other process of cell splitting. I expect to receive a full report soon.”

Polite clapping all around, and to the copied angels’ surprise, Asmodeus joined in with a gracious smile, briefly showing his appreciation before leaving.

“Phew,” the copied angel sighed, though they were uncertain whether this particular angel was the original or a copy. “Glad he’s pleased. Cheers lads, that’s the one we had to get approval from and we got it! Almost as good as if the Almighty Herself came down to us with commendations. Great job everyone. Maybe if we’re lucky She will come next with commendations. Though let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Now to move onto the next phase of the experiments, what are our options for improving the process? We’ll start by building upon the theoretical model-”

“O, most holy Archangel Asmodeus-”

“A minute of your time, sir-”

“Please, if you could grant us just a moment-”

“Not now,” Asmodeus said, waving off his attendant Cherubim. Obediently, the Cherubim fell into line, bowing deep in obeisance as the Archangel stepped out of his division office.

Asmodeus took a deep breath as he walked away, feeling some of the tension falling from his shoulders as he put some distance between himself and his attending staff of angels. As he walked out into the public halls of Heaven he closed his hand over the ring of his golden crown.

The Archangel Asmodeus kept his hands folded carefully these days. Wearing the crown was tiresome; everyone was always staring and genuflecting, and after a while it got irritating to see conversations die down to heated whispers wherever he went, whenever he passed by.

Of course, a being of his stature would not do anything questionable before the eyes of Heaven and so Asmodeus gently bent the rules a little without breaking them; those angels in management were required to wear their crowns at all times and so Asmodeus had started wearing his on his hand in the form of a very small ring on the smallest finger of his left hand, which he could cover with his other hand, or hide in the draped folds of his long sumptuous robes where the gleaming metal would be lost amid the opulent shine of golden embroidery.

It did not go unnoticed; a few others in middle management had already taken it up as a fashionable statement, an easier way to wear a heavy crown that some days felt heavier than others. But it was still new enough to not be well-known among the rank and file, and so Asmodeus hoped that it would work in his favor.

Today, even the crown on his hand felt particularly heavy, weighted down by responsibility.

Asmodeus walked the blank perfection of Heaven, though he did not stray far from his own division. This side of Heaven was mostly populated by research divisions that worked on matter, on the fabric of reality, on what constituted and would eventually populate extant reality.

He stayed away from the administrative offices where higher-ranked Archangels held sway.

Laughter caught his attention, and he walked a little bit closer out of curiosity. As he did so, he gently made a tiny structural shift to the molecules of his robes, so that the opulent golden embroidery reflected only white, concealing his status even further.

A tall, angular angel with good cheekbones and long dark curling hair was laughing at the tail end of some funny conversation, strutting away from where the Archangels Lucifer and Beelzebub held court over a small group of their subordinate angels, some from middle management, others just ordinary workers. The tall angel pressed a slender, elegant hand to a laughing mouth, stifling a giggle over some joke or another.

“Angel, the edge of your clothes are scorched and tattered. You’re looking rather shabby,” Asmodeus said as the tall angel with the good cheekbones strolled past him.

“Oh?” The angel stopped, a faint smile upon amused lips, and there was a certain playfulness to that expression that Asmodeus found charming. Looking down, the angel brought up the plain hem of the white robes up to scrutinize the damage, briefly baring long slender legs before dropping the cloth nonchalantly. “Yeeeaaah, that happens. Eh, it’s fine, fine. I work on nebulae. Nebulas. Whatever. It gets hot out there (except when it’s not and it’s super cold) and these are forever fraying and getting these tiny pinpoint holes burnt in them. Ha, do I smell like burning stars? I probably do, can’t be helped when you’re helping along the process of birthing stars.”

“Not particularly, no. You don’t smell much like anything. But if you like, I can mend the edge of your robes. They’re quite tattered. Though the more closely I look, the more I notice that your clothes are dusted all over with stardust. Shouldn’t you be decontaminating when you come off a shift?”

The tall angel looked down, at the faint sheen of iridescence that clung to the surface of the long white robes.

“Oh, I did just get off a shift but I never noticed the dust. Is that supposed to happen?”

“There should be a training about decontamination,” Asmodeus sighed, adding that and a training on professional attire to a long mental list of things he would bring up in the next management meeting.

“It’s fine, can’t help getting dusty when you’re working with big clouds of the stuff. At least I’m not covered in hydrogen. But you’re right, ha! Thanks for the offer on fixing the robes but it’s no big deal, you don’t need to bother with me. I fix them all the time before any serious meetings, and it just gets burnt up again once I get too close to a star and I’m forever getting too close to stars.”

“There should also be a training on proper safety working near stars…wait,” Asmodeus paused, remembering what he had meant to ask about and focusing on that. “I see you know Lucifer?”

“Yeah, he’s my manager. Well, not my direct manager but you know…” the tall angel pointed up. “Top manager of our division. Er, the executive of our division. Lots and lots – and I mean lots of tiers between me and him, but he’s friendly enough to say hi to all of his people. Not all Archangels are like that. Most of them are…”

“...distant?” Asmodeus suggested, providing the angel a safe, diplomatic answer.

“Yeah, that’s the polite word for it,” the tall angel said, with an intriguing quirk of amused lips. “Distant. But you know, I’m glad to work for Lucifer. He’s easy to work for and pretty relaxed for someone who’s got such a high position, even for an Archangel. Seraphim. Chayot Ha Kodesh. Whatever they’re being called these days. Wait, have I seen you around before?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I have seen you around either. Though that’s not surprising, there are quite a few of us. Far too many to know everyone.”

“Hey, so who do you work for?”

“Asmodeus,” Asmodeus said, neither lying nor telling the truth exactly.

“Oh, hmm. Must be nice, I hear he’s gentle. Doesn’t write up anyone, no matter how bad they mess up or how much they deserve it. I hear he always takes responsibility himself.”

“I suppose?” Asmodeus shrugged, feeling a peculiar pang of some unspoken feeling at being described as gentle. “What’s going on with your manager?”

“Huh? You mean my direct manager or-”

“I’ve heard rumors that some people associated with Lucifer want to make a complaint to Upstairs,” Asmodeus said, “and I thought I’d see if it was a true rumor.”

“Of course it’s a true rumor. I mean, we’re all angels, right?” The tall angel chuckled. “Anyway, you’d have to ask Lucifer or Beelzebub or...actually I don’t remember everyone who was talking about this. Some others, I guess? Those are the two highest up ones I know involved. They might be the only ones? There could be others? I don’t know them all, it doesn’t have much to do with me. I just know them through work. And I guess, socially, a little, though that’s still technically through work.”

“Not everyone is very happy these days,” Asmodeus said. “After all, even you’re getting dusty and scorched.”

“Yeah, well. Health and Safety hasn’t been that all that great. Not sure why. More than just Health and Safety though. Lots of other things where corners are being cut and resources are being diverted. That’s just part of the problem. And you know what?” the tall angel leaned in, voice lowered into a whisper. “To be honest, I’m not super fond of some of these new changes. Individuality. It’s weird. Feels weird to be in this, erm...what do they call it again?”

“Body,” Asmodeus said, as if he were not intimately familiar, as if he had no expertise with bodies, their construction, their functions...

“Yeah, this. This thing,” the tall angel gestured, pointing to various features: an elbow, a hip, the point of a shoulder. “Why do I look like this? Is this what I want to look like? I suppose someone would call it a preferred shape, but did I really prefer this shape? How would I have known to be this shape if I wasn’t...erm, poured into it? I’m me-shaped, and you’re you-shaped, and everyone else is everyone-else-shaped but how do I know that this is the shape that I want to be? Is everyone else in the shape they want to be? Or are they just in their own shapes because they are? Maybe I want to be another shape? Could I change that? And I don’t mean the way we can change sizes and such, I mean when we revert back to a default, could my default be different? A default I chose, instead of the default I was given? This hair and these arms? The color and the size? And legs – ah, don’t get me started on legs, they’re so strange and wobbly. Moving around with a body is like controlled falling and I feel like I’m constantly falling. Oh, and all these moving parts just get in the way when you’re trying to set stardust in the right place or big clouds of ionized hydrogen. Way easier to do these things without bodies, I didn’t always need to worry about burning my fingers or scorching the hem of my clothes on a newborn star.”

“Yes, I agree,” Asmodeus nodded, finding himself brimming with excitement at the opportunity to speak candidly with another being, without the formality that separated him from the others, without the hint of fear or awe from subordinates. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to make of it. I was not very fond of this experiment in separation either. It seems dangerous. Having names and individual shapes and forms. For other beings to have forms, that I can understand. But for us, I feel like we have lost something, something important. Perhaps we could call it...consensus?”

“Yeah. That’s a good word for it. If you must know, I miss the closeness. Just feeling connected to everyone, moving all together when we needed to do something, not being different from anyone else. Because no one else existed, not you, not even me. Not like what we are now. Just...you know, a big blob of togetherness. That was nice back then, very peaceful. Communication was a lot easier too. It would just be, and we would know it, and move accordingly. Now that we have to talk, everything is not as precise as knowing the information, just like that. And you know what?”

“Hmm?”

The tall angel spoke quietly, voice lowered in confidence, glancing at passing angels. “I’ve heard it’s already caused problems, this individuality. One division made everything on the macro level follow one set of physical property rules, and the other division made everything on the quantum level follow another set of physical property rules. The rules work together just fine, there was enough oversight for that, but the rules themselves are contrary and contradictory and I think Upstairs, and I mean Upstairs Upstairs isn’t very happy about the discrepancy.”

“That would be a management issue,” Asmodeus said coolly, despite remembering the vicious arguments that came up during the management meetings over this exact problem. “If the teams aren’t coordinating in their project goals, it’s a matter of the lack of oversight on the part of the Ultimate Project Manager, not just the executives of each division.”

“Ha, you sound just like an Archangel,” the tall angel laughed. “Are you sure you’re not management? Where’s your crown?”

Asmodeus shrugged. “Would it matter?”

“I don’t know, maybe? Depends on if you’re going to get me in trouble for talking too much? Oh, I definitely do not want to get written up for this. Whoever you are, please don’t tell Lucifer.”

“If I were an Archangel, I would not register such a complaint, neither to your manager nor to Upstairs. In fact, I should be more candid; I am an Archangel. The Archangel Asmodeus.” Asmodeus held up his left hand, revealing his golden crown. With a sigh he shifted the golden embroidery on his robes as well, as honesty got the better of him, and revealed himself as he would normally be dressed, in robes gleaming with gold.

“Oh…” The tall angel paled, taking a step back, white wings drooping.

“No, no – it’s all right. I appreciate your candor, Angel. This was intentional; I wanted people to be able to speak their minds with me. Besides, I can’t get you in trouble if I don’t know your name.”

“Ha!” The tall angel laughed, raucous. “Good point!”

“Best we keep it this way, I suppose,” Asmodeus smiled, a little disappointed.

“Maybe, but I wouldn’t mind it if you knew, you seem like a-” And the tall angel paused, mid-sentence. “What’s that sound?”

“What a terrible commotion…” Asmodeus frowned, looking about for the cause of the blaring alarms that suddenly filled the cool white light of Heaven.

And before Asmodeus could continue, a glowing red nimbus of light appeared about the tall angel’s head, burning like a halo.

“Eh?” The tall angel looked up, making a series of confused consternated noises, reaching up to swat at the strange glow of light that did not budge, staining the very air about the tall angel’s head. “That’s never happened before, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Asmodeus frowned. “Return to your division and report to your manager. I must go now, to see to it that my subordinates are all safe. I don’t think there is protocol for this. Whatever it is, I haven’t heard anything about it and one would think that I should...perhaps there is some safety drill going on?”

“Sure, thanks for the chat!” The tall angel said, scampering away toward a crowd of angels, all glowing with a flickering crimson light, pointing to each other. The sound of voices grew louder and louder. “Until next time!”

“Yes, until next time,” Asmodeus said, though more to himself than anyone else, as that promise seemed hollow.

He thought of what he had to do: meet his Cherubim to account for his subordinate angels, review and evaluate the current progress of research and development work – of which the projects were innumerable, thousands upon thousands of concurrent projects that had been on-going for ages, theoretical work mostly but generating data that took nearly half his division to document. Then he would have to give out orders regarding the next phases of the projects, weeding out projects whose direction was going nowhere and prioritizing resources for promising projects.

Evaluations had to be done; there were angels that should be promoted from certain less promising projects to prestige projects and others that needed to be shifted to less critical roles. Then there were the meetings; he had to attend design meetings with his subordinate angels, design and approve internal division training, and of course then there were the management only meetings; the Assembly of Heaven, the committees on committees, the planning committees where he would have to table a motion for a meeting with the other Archangels in management about improvements in training and another one on Health and Safety, much less the committees he was responsible for chairing...

But those thoughts paused for a moment as he watched the tall angel leave.

Asmodeus felt a pang of regret as his eye caught the faint stardust glitter of the anonymous angel’s clothing as it flowed over long limbs and fluttered about slim shoulders, the tattered edge of the tall angel’s robes just above the bare legs and the padding of bare feet upon the cold white ground. Disappearing into the crowd of Lucifer’s subordinates, the angel looked like any other ordinary worker, albeit rather taller than average.

With so many angels, so many ordinary beings that belonged to so many divisions it was likely they would never meet again, and never again like this. Even if their paths were to cross the angel would be more cautious next time, fearful and deferential, afraid of who Asmodeus was and what his standing meant. That easy camaraderie, that friendliness and honesty would be gone; charming openness and trust replaced with circumspect respect and Asmodeus sighed, realizing the angel had been right. They certainly had lost something with individuality.

His hand closed over his golden crown.

For a moment he wondered which part of the whole this particular angel had been a part of, of that feeling of deep intimacy that was lost forever when they were split up into individual beings.

Asmodeus crossed his arms, but tightened his hands around his own arms and for a moment, wondered what it might be like to do something like this but with another angel, to put theory to practice and let limbs enjoin limbs. Practically speaking their bodies were made for it; had they ever quantifiably put this to the test?

Would a physical embrace be the same? Could it have some of the same qualities of that lost closeness, that intimacy? What was the significance of the touch of another being when from custom and politeness angels never touched each other?

It crossed his mind to bring that tall angel with the good cheekbones in to work on this question with him. It wouldn’t be hard – the Archangels often obliged each other with personnel transfers – he had let an entire team of his own go to Uriel recently in exchange for a skilled Principality to manage documentation. No, it wouldn’t be hard to pull an ordinary angel to work on some research. Not knowing a name was not an issue; he would just point out this particular angel with the good cheekbones to Lucifer, and Lucifer would do the rest. After all, it wasn’t as if he himself didn’t keep a list of possible angels that could be transferred in an exchange between divisions.

He wondered what it would be like, to engage in the research himself instead of merely supervising from afar. What would it be like to run his fingers over those handsome cheekbones, those long elegant fingers, that curling dark hair, to close his hands around slender arms? Would it approximate that remembered intimacy, that closeness, resting his chin upon the head of another angel? Would it be warmer than that hint of warmth that he had felt from this ordinary angel’s friendly smile-

Asmodeus shook his head. It would not be fair to pull an angel accustomed to the freedom of the creation beyond Heaven into the offices and laboratories of a research and development group. To switch out the exhilarating vastness beyond the limitless limitations of Heaven for an office job, even if it were asking a question no one had dared to ask just yet.

Likely that angel of Lucifer’s would never forgive him for clipping those beautiful white wings, for replacing the burning stars with the cage of a research office’s tedium.

He filed that thought away; physical intimacy was a question for a research group to study, to quantify. To diagram multidimensional variables and define data boundaries and try to make sense of the information generated. He would put a research group onto the question once one of the lead teams opened up, even though he knew that important teams rarely had openings for new questions but mostly explored the questions that came up in the most promising existing works that were not yet fully developed.

Uncrossing his arms he let go of the thoughts as he let go of himself. He turned away, walking back toward his division offices, wondering which of the Cherubim that served him directly he should speak to first, to make an inspection of all of his subordinate angels, to account for their presence and safety. After that, he would make an appointment with Upstairs to settle this situation and while he waited for that, he would ask one of his fellow Archangels if there was a meeting planned to discuss this strange state of affairs.

But something did not sit right with him; it didn’t make sense that he had not been informed. He thought of who he could talk to and settled on Leviathan, who generally stayed out of politics and was on good terms with everyone.

It was too bad, he thought, setting aside the memory of the nameless tall angel with the good cheekbones.

There would be no next time.

Chapter Text

Screaming – a sudden uproar of screaming, of cries of agony filling the great echoing offices. Such a thing had never been heard in the calm perfection of Heaven and there was something intensely jarring, disturbing about the noise. Startled, Asmodeus twisted around to look at where the sound was coming from. There, in the distance, a fellow Archangel with a flaming sword dove at a clustered group of red-marked angels, ordinary low-level bureaucrats, slicing through their ranks as if a stellar wind cutting through the clouds of stardust, destroying angels with fierce slashes of their sword.

Shaken, Asmodeus hesitated for a moment before reaching for his own sword with his left hand, drawing it out of thin air whereupon it burst into crimson flame. Whatever was happening, he had to stop the carnage. The Archangel darting forward upon strong wings that displaced the air around him, sending a vortex of turbulence in his wake that caught many ordinary angels unaware, knocking them down.

With a broad stroke he caught the sweeping fall of a fiery blade upon his own sword before it could strike again.

“Michael? What are you doing?” Asmodeus demanded. “What’s going on?”

“The orders have come from Above,” Michael grinned through gritted teeth, “and the traitors are to be purged. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“What memo?”

“If you didn’t receive it, it means you must be a traitor too!” Pale eyes bright with righteous fury, Michael swung at Asmodeus, driving him back with terrible strokes of the flaming blade, blue flames sparking as the two blades met.

“If there are traitors, there aren’t very many and none in the regular staff,” Asmodeus began reasonably. “Everyone knows that it’s just a few Archangels at the top. Lucifer, Beelzebub-”

“We can’t know how far the contagion has spread from the leadership to the subordinates. All this questioning of the Lord’s will cannot be tolerated.”

“I’d rather us not fight, Michael, but you can’t just destroy other angels! They’ve done nothing to deserve this!” Asmodeus grunted as he blocked Michael’s sweeping blade, shoving aside lower ranked angels that had gotten too close, batting them away with a billowing gust from his powerful wings.

“If you’re not with us in destroying these marked angels, you’re against us.” Michael’s eyes were incandescent, reflecting holy fire. “And you’ll need to be destroyed as well. The contagion cannot be allowed to spread.”

“Contagion? What contagion?”

“There you go again, with the questions. You haven’t been marked but obviously you should be. Questions are not sanctioned. Questioners are adversaries.”

“That’s ridiculous, Michael, we both work in matter research. Why would questions ever be-”

“We must purge Heaven of any dissent. God has recognized her own; all of you must be destroyed.”

“I will not go against Her will,” Asmodeus growled, bringing up his sword. “We were created to lead them, to protect them. Not to destroy them-”

“What makes you think you know Her will?” Michael laughed and sword in hand, went after the golden-haired Archangel with renewed fury.

“Get out of the way!” Asmodeus shouted at the angels, as he fought Michael back, blocking that terrible blade that sought to rip the existence out of the marked angels, the fiery edge catching wings and bare skin unaware, leaving angels scorched and crying in pain, cut and damaged.

“Get out of my way, Asmodeus!” Michael snarled, and the will of the higher-ranked Archangel pressed down upon him, but he could not, would not stop – stepping aside would mean destruction, not only for them but for himself.

“No, I can’t. Even if you say it’s the will of the Almighty, She would never-” Asmodeus flinched; he had bumped into someone behind him, and both were shoved against a wall. With a gasp he tensed his wings behind him, using them to push whoever was behind him into the void between his wings so as not to hurt them, and then with the leverage of his wings against the hard surface behind him, he shoved Michael back as hard as he could, so that the Archangel was flung away, tumbling backwards.

It bought him a few seconds, and he turned to see who had gotten caught behind him.

A familiar figure; a tall, angular angel with good cheekbones who had stood out amongst a crowd of marked angels, glowing from the strange halo of unnatural light about curling dark hair. Golden eyes brimmed with tears, that slender form trembling all over in fear and the relief in the angel’s eyes at the sight of him and-

And he was surprised – how could it be, the same angel? Of all the subordinates of Lucifer, why this one? And then he looked down: the angel had reached out a slim pale hand and had pressed it against Asmodeus’ side over the golden embroidered robes where Michael’s blade had gotten by his defenses, and the flesh and the clothing over it was mending itself back into wholeness. It had been a trivial blow, one that he had hardly noticed, but now that he looked his entire right side was covered in blood.

You saved me, at the risk of your own existence. He couldn’t say the words; they were trapped in his throat, but their eyes met and he knew the angel knew.

His own eyes stung and he did not know what that meant.

All he knew was that would not ever see this angel again.

Not after this, never again.

There would be no next time, not for the rest of existence.

This angel would be destroyed. At best Asmodeus was buying time, a few moments longer before destruction. There would be no other chance.

He should drop his sword, Asmodeus thought. He should drop his sword and obey.

And he too would be destroyed. For raising his sword against his own, even if he thought it right. He would be dragged before Her throne in chains. They would execute him along with the others, putting him to the flames. And that was the best possible outcome; likely he’d be summarily executed here on the floor of the public hall, without ever seeing Her again.

Destruction, for some petty internal squabble – and he knew it had to do with power, it always had to do with power: who had it, who wanted it, who wanted more. After all, his division had been sidelined ages ago to a barebones staff of minimal importance, with more labor for projects going to favorites like Gabriel who had ingratiated himself with the Metatron. With the Metatron who kept volunteering to accept more responsibility and taking more resources to ostensibly work on these responsibilities but instead hoarding them, easing Her burden while burdening the others.

Asmodeus’ own division had been making do with very little, and for a moment a bitter amusement went through him; he should have joined Lucifer and Beelzebub in their complaint against Upstairs a long time ago.

Instead, he would be destroyed for some pathetic power grab amongst higher ranked Archangels that had never involved him.

Lucifer and Beelzebub and whoever else was involved would be destroyed too, but at least they had begun the process of filing a formal complaint. He had not spoken up when he should have, and regret went through him realizing that keeping his head down, that letting those injustices go had brought him to this point: being turned upon as if he were like the others.

But maybe destruction wouldn’t be so bad; perhaps they would all return to that unity of spirit that existed before individuality. Or maybe they would just become nothing.

He had always obeyed, why not obey now?

Why not submit as he had always done?

A breath, and he could see the faraway figure of Michael getting back up on shaky feet to come for him again, and behind Michael he could see the sweeping motion of more flaming swords slicing indiscriminate through the crowds of angels and he recognized the mass of figures that held the terrible blades: Cherubim subordinates, followed by Gabriel, Sandalphon and-

And just set down the sword. Set down the sword. There would be no next time.

Set down the sword.

There would be no need to even consider a next time – all those cares and worries would be gone.

Set down the sword.

Asmodeus’ hand trembled. His fingers seemed to lose strength, and he could feel the weight of the sword in his hand waver.

But then he looked back at that angel again, at those golden eyes and the hot tears that ran down good cheekbones. The pressure of that trembling pale bloodstained hand slipped from his side, and he touched his right side where the wound had been, but it was gone. He had never even felt the pain of the initial blow.

Set down the sword.

Without realizing it he felt his left hand tighten upon the hilt of his sword, bringing it up, answering Michael’s challenge.

“What are you doing? Run!” Asmodeus snarled, pushing the tall angel aside with his right hand, his strength unintentionally knocking the figure down to the ground, but thank goodness the angel had slid away along the slick white floor and was far from him and the battle he fought.

He did not look back to see if the angel had run, but turned his attention back to Michael who came for him on a sweep of white wings tucked in close for speed, slamming him back into the wall and he could hear, could feel delicate hollow bones in his wings crack and-

And he could not remember losing his sword, but he grappled with the Archangel, trying to push Michael away as Michael’s hands went for his throat, tightening around the sensitive flesh there, sharp thumbs digging in and blood poured down the front of his robes and-

Green eyes wide with surprise as blood trickled down his face.

A glimpse of Michael laughing as his vision grew hazy, black blotches appearing before his eyes and a moment later the sound of Her voice, familiar but no longer warm, no longer the voice of one who he had served, but the voice of a stranger.

And when heard that voice he thought of the times he had knelt by Her throne, had felt Her golden light upon him, had believed everything She had told him, did everything She had ever asked for and genuinely loved Her with every fiber of his being, with every cell, every molecule, every atom, had given Her everything She had ever asked from him, had bitten back his complaints, had given up everything of what it meant to be him as long as it could be for Her-

“Out.”

Existence twisted around him, and he saw Michael’s blue eyes staring back at him in triumph as the Archangel kicked him away, bones crunching under the impact.

Asmodeus was falling.

Chapter Text

For Elena, who patiently listened, read, and contributed so much to some of my best work in this fandom.

Thanks to Elinekeit for listening (and suffering), and to thelaithlyworm (Thimblerig) and Naminational for all the support and kind words. And special thanks to Elena, who has been a dear and good friend through all sorts of difficult times, spanning a global pandemic and a war and the uncertainty of times to come.

Thank you very much to you the reader, for your comments and kudos, which has kept me going through the hard times that this story represents. Thank you for your patience and trust.

I’ve had a vague idea for this story in my head for some years now, and sometime during the pandemic in 2020 I started writing it, piece by piece, until it got to a point that Prereader Elena suggested that I finally start posting it. The oldest draft I can find dates back to December 29, 2020 and is that first scene with Asmodeus and Michael, as well as a line or two of a future scene with Aziraphale as a nurse. By the time I started posting this story, I had written up to about chapter 8, to the scene about “Nanny Not Evil.”

This was a difficult time, and made all the more difficult by the invasion of Ukraine on February 24, 2022. As previous notes have indicated, this affected a friend near and dear to me and I have been living with the fallout ever since.

Any mistakes or errors are my own; it’s hard juggling a big work like this and the second half was done mostly without a safety net, so to speak.

As a change of pace, I will be including bits of the early sketches and cut scenes.

This work is based on The Alexander Romance, a very imaginative and fairy-tale like biography of Alexander’s life by a source known as the Pseudo-Callisthenes. I took bits from both the Greek & Armenian version as well as the Syriac version: https://www.attalus.org/info/alexander.html

Here is another translation that I found while putting this together, with lots of commentary on the language, etc.: https://www.attalus.org/armenian/Tales_Alexander_Wolohojian_trans.pdf

There are some useful resources online to help you visualize stories, for example to plot their relative heights and compare them (based on the actors, except for Asmodeus of course):

https://www.mrinitialman.com/OddsEnds/Sizes/compsizes.xhtml?Aziraphale~male~178_Crowley~male~186_Gabriel~male~188_Michael~female~175.3_Sandalphon~male~170_Uriel~female~162.6

https://www.mrinitialman.com/OddsEnds/Sizes/compsizes.xhtml?Aziraphale~male~178_Crowley~male~186_Asmodeus~male~193_Beelzebub~female~168_Hastur~male~187_Ligur~male~180

Note that Downstairs is consistently a lot taller. Also Hastur wears multi-inch lifts on his shoes to appear taller than Crowley and thus should not be counted (this is not Hastur’s actual height in the show but the height of the actor).

I recognize the link method is a little annoying, but it is because so many of them die and need to be looked up on the Internet Wayback Machine. So if a link dies, just copy and paste it into the link above and it should give you a past snapshot.

Chapter 1: Part I: A New Arrangement, 365 B.C.

This is the earliest sketch of the story:

Michael lets Asmodeus in on a secret: Heaven is planning on creating a nephilim that will be placed in order to create a kingdom ruled by heaven on earth which will disrupt the balance. So Asmodeus naturally agrees to disrupt the creation by being a third parent in the mix.

“oh so that’s why he’s 2/3rds divine”

Michael remarks that Asmodeus looks worse for the wear “I’ve been in Hell for an extended amount of
time. It tends to not do good things to one’s skin, just like that extended stay in Heaven has left you
with a sheen of gold upon your brow.”

Maybe something where we don’t know who the parents are. Actual: Michael and Asmodeus. But we
think it’s Aziraphale and Crowley (maybe they each think the other is one of the parents).
Crowley is sent to be a nanny to Alexander. Alexander looks like he does in the romance, but only to
angelic eyes; otherwise he looks very normal. To get the job, Crowley has to regularly sleep with the
king (Phillip II) which she is not happy about. This is part of Asmodeus’ punishment for the things that
happened in the last story, putting Crowley in very unpleasant duties. However, Crowley actually likes
raising kids and puts up with the other stuff, usually by way of hypnotizing and time-stop. That doesn’t
stop Aziraphale from thinking that Crowley is being put to unpleasant tasks.

Goal: Crowley gets moved over to Beelzebub’s division? Or at least 51% of the time he works for
Beelzebub. Asmodeus gets sidelined. Beelzebub is taking over more and more power from the other
princes of hell over time.

Hastur: burns down temple of artemis to distract from alexander’s birth (tragedy). Never know who
it’s supposed to distract, humans or angels.

Gabriel in cahoots with Metatron to make Alexander a Nephilim, but Michael finds out about it and
secretly undermines Gabriel with the help of Asmodeus (since Michael is sent to Earth to do the deed).
Later with Jesus, Gabriel takes it in his own hands.

The story follows the Alexander Romance, Book I Chapters 1-16. https://www.attalus.org/translate/alexander1a.html and https://www.attalus.org/translate/alexander1b.html I used details from both the Greek & Armenian versions as well as the Syriac version, as needed.

I looked up cities that would have been destroyed by war prior to 365 B.C.E. and unoccupied during this time and it would be either Himera or Plataea: https://www.britannica.com/place/Himera https://www.britannica.com/place/Plataea However, I never really specified and just sketched out what a typical Hellene city might have looked like, if it were destroyed and completely abandoned.

The first time we get a glimpse of this business of accounting discussions between Heaven and Hell happen in The Symposiums, Chapter 14: The Arrangement, which is also the first time we see Michael and Asmodeus meet, though it’s implied that they’ve met many times before. More on this discreet cooperation between Heaven and Hell later.

The Assembly of Heaven is supposed to be the equivalent to the Dark Council in Hell.

That someone “in the highest of upper management” in Heaven is Gabriel, working with the Metatron.

In the original Alexander Romance, the Egyptian Nectanebo prophesies to Olympias, Alexander’s mother, about her bedding down with various gods in turn and a serpent (Book 1, Chapters 4-6). More on this later.

Asmodeus going straight to Satan to get permission also gives him an opening to the very Downstairs of Downstairs in order to further his future goals. He makes it sound like a difficulty, but it works well into his schemes.

Here is a bit of cut dialogue between Michael and Asmodeus. Michael speaks first:

“An angel.”

“I don’t care.”

“You showed some interest in one of our agents,” Michael said boldly. “Did you not?”

“What of it?”

“If you do what needs to be done, I can make sure he’s assigned to wherever you are.”

“Why should I care about an angel?”

“He’s been sighted more than once with your agent. I can keep that off the official records.

Chapter 2: New Orders, 356 B.C.

This website gives the dates and times of the phases of the moon going back 6,000 years. I often use it to figure out the phase of the moon on specific historic nights: http://astropixels.com/ephemeris/phasescat/phasescat.html

The aforementioned site was quite useful for figuring out the approximate phase of the moon on the night Alexander was probably born, which is this night in the story. http://astropixels.com/ephemeris/phasescat/phases-0399.html

The agora is a centralized meeting place but could also be a marketplace: https://www.britannica.com/topic/agora

Ephesus had a commercial agora: https://www.livius.org/articles/place/ephesus/ephesus-photos/ephesus-commercial-agora/

Ancient Greek theaters had skenes (essentially: building backgrounds) and machines like a crane for effects like lifting up actors: https://www2.classics.upenn.edu/myth/php/tragedy/index.php?page=theater

More on the theater later.

Hetairai (singular, hetaira) were elite courtesans/companions: https://theconversation.com/elite-companions-flute-girls-and-child-slaves-sex-work-in-ancient-athens-89306

A symposium is a party for upper class male guests:
https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/symp/hd_symp.htm
https://www.getty.edu/education/teachers/classroom_resources/curricula/performing_arts/downloads/worksheet05_01.pdf

For those curious, this series has a story set in a night of symposiums in classical Athens: Mistakes Were Made: The Symposiums.

A barbitos is probably something like a tenor lyre, larger than an ordinary lyre, with lower pitched strings. Sappho is a notable barbitos player: https://www.palmosmusic.com/instruments-en/barbitos-lyre/
https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.04.0004%3Aentry%3Dbarbitos

Ancient Greek and Roman oil lamps work on similar principles: https://www.wesleyan.edu/libr/collections/arch-anth/highlights/ancient_oil_lamps.html
https://www.getty.edu/publications/ancientlamps/assets/downloads/AncientLamps_Bussiere_LindrosWohl.pdf

And were often placed on lampstands: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/24445
I have seen lamp stands in museums that are meant to hold multiple lamps as well.

Compare Hastur’s clothing with anyone else in Hell, and given the color schemes that are closer to someone like Aziraphale’s than the others, one gets the impression that he has for ages clung onto his angelic raiment even as it fell apart around him. As well, his description of himself as Fallen instead of a demon, made me think that there may be two major identity stances in Hell: one group who would think of themselves as demons (Beelzebub, Crowley, etc.) and another who would think of themselves as fallen angels (Hastur, Asmodeus for the most part, etc.). Hastur’s depiction (as compared to Ligur’s) also led me to another thought that is explored in more depth later on, the idea that individual beings were affected by the Fall in different ways.

Notice that not as much detritus clings to Hastur in this period. I argue that over time, the world – reality – slowly begins to affect angels and demons more and more, even high ranked ones that don’t often visit Earth like Hastur or Ligur. So a leaf clings to him now, but in contemporary times, he’s going to be brushing off a lot of dirt and leaves. To a demon of Hastur’s stature, this should not be affecting him so, and it is very disturbing as it gets worse over time – even more reasons to want to destroy the world. Notice this happens with Beelzebub too over the course of the series. Rain doesn’t touch the first Prince of Hell back in ancient Mesopotamia during the Flood, but later when Beelzebub goes to Earth in the TV series to meet Adam Young, dust does.

In this series, the general gist is that Hastur serves Beelzebub, and Ligur serves Asmodeus. However, there is something more to Ligur’s background that is revealed later in the story: Ligur actually started off as Beelzebub’s Duke and his loyalties do not lie with Asmodeus. More on this later.

A wax tablet was wax spread in a thin, light wooden case that could be used for writing with a pointed stylus. Erasing was an option; these were used in schools too. https://www.lib.umich.edu/papyrology-collection/ancient-writing-materials-wax-tablets

Here is an artistic depiction of someone using a wax tablet, which is interesting because visually there isn’t much difference from modern electronic tablets: https://blog.education.nationalgeographic.org/2016/06/02/ancient-roman-tablets-reveal-voices-of-the-earliest-londoners/douris_man_with_wax_tablet/

In the TV series, we see four Archangels but only one Prince of Hell (Beelzebub). I have interpreted this as the other three Princes of Hell, who we will see later, as having been sidelined with no actual decision-making power. And that there were originally seven each, post-Fall. More on this later.

According to tradition, the night that Alexander the Great was born, a man burned down the Temple of Artemis for clout: https://penelope.uchicago.edu/~grout/encyclopaedia_romana/greece/paganism/artemis.html

Which reminds us all: don’t do dumb shit for clout. A modern example would probably be that idiot who revealed top secret military information on a game forum for clout.

Here is a modern recreation of how Crowley and Aziraphale would have been reclining: https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/reclining-and-dining-and-drinking-in-ancient-greece/

Here are the names of the meals that ancient Greeks would have throughout the day, from The Deipnosophists by Athenæus: But Philemon says that the ancients took the following meals—ἀκράτισμα, ἄριστον, ἑσπέρισμα, or the afternoon meal, and δεῖπνον, supper; calling the ἀκρατισμὸς breakfast, and ἄριστον luncheon, and δεῖπνον the meal which came after luncheon. And the same order of names occur in Æschylus... https://www.gutenberg.org/files/36921/36921-0.txt

Athenaeus refers to a meal called Ἀριστόδειπνον (aristodeipnon) which is alternately translated as “breakfast-dinner” https://lsj.gr/index.php?title=%E1%BC%80%CF%81%CE%B9%CF%83%CF%84%CF%8C%CE%B4%CE%B5%CE%B9%CF%80%CE%BD%CE%BF%CE%BD&mobileaction=toggle_view_desktop or brunch: https://www.loebclassics.com/view/atheneus_grammarian-learned_banqueters/2007/pb_LCL204.269.xml or lunch-dinner.

Usually ancient Greeks ate using bread as spoons. Page 194: https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=TY0l2i1mOFsC&oi=fnd&pg=PR8&dq=ancient+greek+utensils&ots=2dbuJgF-Nu&sig=IYT-XXcUFWdGVX75yw88qsJt-lU#v=onepage&q=spoon&f=false

In fact, they also used bread as napkins: https://ecampusontario.pressbooks.pub/housesandhouseholdsancientgreece/chapter/diet-and-food-production/

However, Ephesus at this time was part of the Achaemenid Empire, and the Persians ate with spoons: https://www.kavehfarrokh.com/ancient-prehistory-651-a-d/achaemenids/brief-notes-on-spoons-and-forks-in-greco-roman-and-ancient-iranian-civilizations/

Here’s an example of what is possibly a very fancy spoon handle: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/327420

Here is an adapted modern recipe for the original Egyptian soup: https://passtheflamingo.com/2018/03/13/tilapia-stew-with-barley-egyptian-ca-3500-bce/

Evidence for this soup was actually found in a mummy’s tummy: https://www.ancient-origins.net/history-ancient-traditions/tilapia-stew-0014329

But the original apparently included bones, skin, and fins: https://books.google.com/books?id=HflTVd898PAC&pg=PT270&lpg=PT270&dq=barley+and+tilapia+soup+egyptian&source=bl&ots=HYjDqmf9FV&sig=v_7WlNx82eccHNdyvVRH2Mpy4og&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjU9tGe5NjZAhURwlkKHQKKCI8Q6AEIKTAA#v=onepage&q&f=false

What I did was try to imagine what fusion cuisine would have looked like back then. So an Egyptian soup recipe (tilapia + green onions + barley) but done in a Hellene way with imported salted sardines from Athens, maza, and green onions.

Aristophanes’ Knights talks a lot about Athenians eating sardines: https://johnstoi.web.viu.ca/aristophanes/knightsweb.htm

Maza is a kind of barley bread or dumpling: https://ecampusontario.pressbooks.pub/housesandhouseholdsancientgreece/chapter/diet-and-food-production/

Here is a recreated recipe: for maza https://passtheflamingo.com/2017/05/24/ancient-recipe-maza-ancient-greek-ca-2nd-millennium-bce/

The sort of unassuming bowl that Crowley is eating from would probably be called utility ware by archaeologists. I didn’t have anything specific in mind, but perhaps something like this? https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/326383?when=1000+B.C.-A.D.+1&where=Asia&what=Ceramics&ao=on&ft=bowl&pg=21&rpp=40&pos=4

Flatbreads are common throughout the Mediterranean world. Here is everything you might want to know about Persian bread: https://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/bread-persian-nan

The reference to Ecbatana and a stone bench comes from Chapter 10 of Mistakes Were Made: The Book of Crowley.

Stanford Orbis gives really useful information on travel time in Roman Empire, which I have borrowed for this story: https://orbis.stanford.edu/

Here is an interesting resource on an example of an ancient Greek fountain: https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/unlocking-the-secrets-of-an-ancient-fountain/

And of course an ancient fountain in modern Pella: https://www.greece.com/photos/destinations/Macedonia/Pella/Town/Nea_Pela/Krini_(ancient_fountain_at_modern_Pella)/863512

And here is a picture of part of Pella’s water system: https://www.flickr.com/photos/carolemage/6913981702

Apparently Pella had an excellent wastewater management system as well:
https://books.google.com/books?hl=en&lr=&id=mbgrBQAAQBAJ&oi=fnd&pg=PA175&dq=pella+palace+toilet&ots=rYVMj0aepY&sig=ZeJxA5TdGIQ0PlpZZrPTzlrwdf8#v=onepage&q=pella%20palace%20toilet&f=false

Speaking of wastewater, here is a source on ancient toilets: https://www.nature.com/articles/533456a

Nectanebo is a character from the original Alexander Romance, who is supposed to be an exiled Egyptian king disguised as a magician. Now, he’s a Prince of Hell disguised as an exiled Egyptian king disguised as a magician.

Asmodeus has been at the court of Pella since at least a year before Alexander was born, possibly longer.

As usual for clothing and costuming, I relied on Francois Boucher’s 20,000 Years of Fashion: https://books.google.com/books/about/20_000_Years_of_Fashion.html?id=fXG1AAAAIAAJ

But if you wanted more about chlamys, here are some interesting sources:
https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/secondary/SMIGRA*/Chlamys.html
https://www.journals.uchicago.edu/doi/pdf/10.1086/358954

And a resource on recreating Macedonian military wear: https://hetairoi.de/en/mens-military-clothing

Chitons are like a tunic. Here is a resource on Greek clothes: https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/grdr/hd_grdr.htm

Fibulae are like ancient safety pins that hold the fabric together. https://www.penn.museum/documents/publications/expedition/PDFs/6-2/Ancient.pdf

This meal that Crowley describes is really something that Aziraphale would have liked.

Here is an ancient reference on honey cakes: http://www.attalus.org/old/athenaeus14c.html and an adapted modern recipe that you could make yourself: https://tavolamediterranea.com/2019/08/03/the-greek-sweet-tooth-choirinas-goat-cheese-honey-cake/

There really was a historic Nectanebo: https://www.livius.org/articles/person/nectanebo-i/

In fact, here is a picture of his statue: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nectanebo_I#/media/File:Nectanebo_I_with_khepresh_crown.jpg

Of course, in reality he died years before the start of this story. More on Nectanebo later.

Ancient Egyptian priests and priestesses shaved their heads. Everyone else used hair gel: https://www.newscientist.com/article/dn20809-ancient-egyptians-believed-in-coiffure-after-death/

Here is the kind of chair that would have been around at this time: https://web.archive.org/web/20220528063551/https://www.wallswithstories.com/furniture/the-elegant-klismos-chair-an-ancient-greek-design-that-has-stood-the-test-of-time.html

This kilt that Asmodeus is wearing is called a shendyt: https://fashionhistory.fitnyc.edu/schenti/

And here is another resource on Ancient Egyptian clothing: https://www.archaeologynow.org/egypt-blog/blog-post-title-two-hz67c

Ideas for materials for their beaded collars came from here: https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works/#!?time=02&geo=af

Eyeliner really makes Asmodeus’ eyes pop: https://www.nature.com/articles/s41598-022-08669-0

According to the Smith Museum of Invention, kohl was invented in 4000 B.C.E.: https://www.smith.edu/hsc/museum/ancient_inventions/eyeliner2.html which is just four years after the creation of the world, according to Good Omens. Humans got on that trend fast.

Apparently the Ancient Egyptians also used tools to do their eye makeup and had all sorts of beauty treatments: https://nhmu.utah.edu/blog/2021/06/30/makeup-ancient-egypt

Asmodeus’ snake ring is based off of a Roman ring. It’s the middle one, labeled 24.2.9: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/547914

A “Mesopotamian wild man’s plaything” is a reference to The Epic of Gilgamesh, which is also a story in this series. Poor Crowley’s hips.

A brazen bull is legendary torture-to-execution device: https://allthatsinteresting.com/brazen-bull

Here is a cut section that would have fit between this chapter and the next:

Time passed. The dread that Crowley had in serving Asmodeus once again somehow began to melt away over time. They fell into easy routine. Asmodeus never slept, but at certain times Crowley would snuff out the lamps in their quarters or light them as necessary, to suggest the normal living hours of a human being. In the mornings, Crowley set out the food that was brought for Asmodeus, who never ate more than a little fruit, leaving the rest to Crowley. During the day, he ran little errands for the pretend lord in exile that allowed him to listen in on the various factions in court and report back to Asmodeus. Evenings, Crowley sat beside Asmodeus at banquets at the foot of his supper couch serving him food that he hardly touched and wine that he drank sparingly.

As time passed it became clear that Asmodeus never even hinted that he suspected Crowley of wrongdoing, of betrayal, of thwarting him as if Asmodeus had been yet another one of the Opposition. If he had, he had been keeping it close to himself and this was surely a long game. But it seemed that the Prince of Hell trusted Crowley entirely, or as much trust as one demon could have for another.

And that made Crowley feel even more guilty. He knew intellectually that it was not supposed to be a feeling that demons had, after all, betrayal and distrust were part and parcel of existence in Hell after the Fall. But after much consideration, he had decided that feeling was guilt, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

And yet he found himself almost happy here. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, all those years together, had it been like this. Without the isolation of Asmodeus’ palace, it was bearable, even enjoyable at times. He spent long afternoons riding out in the countryside with youthful humans attached the court, wrestling and playing games, riding and hunting. He gossiped with the slaves, played dice with the lords to encourage them to gamble their holdings away to the stableboys, watched the carpenters and artisans at their work. When the child was born, he took on the persona of a sister, and spent sunny days washing clothes in the clear cold streams, wintery afternoons weaving and sewing with the other women, and even occasionally dabbled in the local witchcraft, tossing a few demonic interventions into the mix to keep things interesting.

But nights were for Asmodeus, and even as humans occasionally expressed their interest in the Egyptian lord’s handsome retainer, no one dared lay a finger upon Crowley.

Chapter 4: Observation, 351 B.C.

Here is a reference about the peplos, chiton, and himation with examples from ancient art:
https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/god3/hd_god3.htm

Here’s how one would wear a peplos: https://www.nottingham.ac.uk/humanities/images-multimedia/new-site-2017/classics-and-archaeology/outreach-documents/peplos.pdf

Women during this time were often veiled/covered their heads, as this veiling was something of a mobile extension of their home: https://www.jstor.org/stable/40960594?seq=1
https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2004/2004.06.09/

In reality, much of the imagery of angels comes from ancient pagan representations of Victory or Eros, though in this fictional universe it’s the other way around: https://digital.csic.es/bitstream/10261/17726/1/eserv.pdf
Eros is often depicted as a winged youth: https://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/Eros.html

This has often made me wonder if ancient Greeks and Romans saw Aziraphale with his golden winged brooch and thought it was Victory. Or did they think it was Eros?

Here is a near-contemporary example of a gold brooch: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/247575

Here is a fragment of an attempt at putting this meeting outdoors:

“Angel.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands, and there was a pause as Crowley looked around. The courtyard was empty, but before the expected greeting, Crowley let go and gestured for Aziraphale to follow him.

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale asked, but Crowley said nothing until they were out of the palace itself, in a nearby olive grove full of ancient trees where frost-bound heavy boughs dipped low.

Crowley looked around again, before taking Aziraphale’s hands, kissing his fingers one after another, but even then it seemed rushed.

Aziraphale’s mouth tightened. “Is something wrong?”

“Nah.” Crowley gave him a hint of a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. Just...wanted to greet you properly somewhere pretty. Hey, how’s about a drink?”

“S-sure…”

An interesting source on Ancient Greek taverns, which are apparently not as well known as symposiums in terms of drinking venues, because of the aristocratic associations with symposiums: https://archaeologydataservice.ac.uk/archives/view/assemblage/html/6/Kelly_web.html

In case you wanted to read more on symposiums in contrast to taverns: https://www.colorado.edu/classics/2018/06/18/symposium-ancient-greek-society

Here is an example of a woman covering her head with a himation: https://collections.mfa.org/objects/151741

Just adding in this statuette of a woman dancing because I personally like it: https://www.getty.edu/art/collection/object/107SBJ

An early idea was that Crowley had been sent by Asmodeus at some point to warm the king’s bed (Phillip II of Macedon) but I couldn’t quite get it to fit. However, the possibility that something like this happened prior to Aziraphale showing up can’t be discounted. More on this later.

In previous stories, such as The Shipwrecked Angel and The Symposiums, Aziraphale took off his ring for self defense/camouflage. It didn’t always work though, especially with Asmodeus.

I had an interesting conversation with Elena, who pointed out that Asmodeus wouldn’t be much of a Prince of Hell if he couldn’t spot Aziraphale in disguise, or if he couldn’t disguise himself from Aziraphale. I thought this was very reasonable.

The “old project” of course is trying to make Aziraphale fall. Which of course, Crowley is not actually trying to do.

There is no definitive correlation between slow heart rate and psychopathy: https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/abs/10.1177/0306624X18806748?journalCode=ijoe

Asmodeus totally took the credit for sexism. And probably slavery, though both things are not things that he had anything to do with. Though we might be able to blame him for sexual dimorphism. More on this much later.

Chapter 5: Discorporation, 397 B.C.

Crowley manipulated Asmodeus into discorporating him in The Book of Crowley to protect a young woman named Sarah.

I based Asmodeus’ court off of the layout of Crowley’s office in his flat.

I spent some time researching thrones, but decided on keeping the description minimalistic. However, this was a good contender for a throne for Asmodeus: https://collections.lacma.org/node/230211

Not the right era or culture, but this mosaic floor inspired the kind of floor that was in this court: https://www.getty.edu/art/collection/object/103SQK

Note that there are actually two chairs in Crowley’s office, one pushed against the wall.

Crowley hasn’t come out officially to more than Aziraphale and Asmodeus about what he wants to be called. And in Asmodeus’ case, Crowley didn’t come out to him about it so much as Aziraphale slipped and let the secret out.

Can’t do paperwork yet since there’s no paper.

Chapter 6: Summoned, 397 B.C.

Most of this section is going on concurrently with The Book of Crowley, so Crowley has been unintentionally possessing a human, Tobias, who is currently traveling with a disguised Aziraphale.

This first scene led to deciding that Asmodeus had been the Archangel who had done the groundwork/research for bodies and biological processes.

The original draft looked very different: Crowley watched as Hellish administrators and builders worked on the new body, careful not to make eye contact with the supervising Prince of Hell but especially trying not to look at Crowley.

But it made a lot more sense for Asmodeus to see to this particular chore himself, given his feelings for Crowley.

As the notes on the chapter itself says, part of this chapter coincides with Mistakes were Made: The Book of Crowley, chapter 22: The Promise.

I imagined the tones Crowley hears as he is recalled to Hell similar to dissonant phone disconnect tones: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NI_wyiY4vyk

There is a parallel kiss much later in Chapter 59: An Ordinary Demon when Crowley is sent to Earth. More on this later.

Chapter 7: The Dark Council, 397 B.C.

Early drafts of this flashback told too much and did not show enough, so I had to rework the entire thing. Here is are some fragments of the early draft (very roughly in order of writing, with breaks indicating different pieces):

...himself discorporated to thwart Asmodeus...some unpleasant feeling gnawed at him deep inside. Not that he was supposed to feel bad. He was a demon after all and treachery was a simple and ordinary fact of life in Hell. By design he shouldn’t be feeling even a little bit unsettled about this but he had intrigued against his master and received no consequences for it even as he expected to be punished, and Asmodeus had taken the fall.

 

When Asmodeus had returned from his binding in Hell, Crowley had expected to be destroyed. Punished somehow himself, tortured into pieces. And yet all this time, Asmodeus had never even hinted that he suspected Crowley of wrongdoing, of betrayal, of thwarting him as if Asmodeus had been yet another one of the Opposition. It seemed that the Prince of Hell trusted Crowley entirely, or as much trust as one demon could have for another.

And that made Crowley feel strangely guilty. He knew intellectually that it was not supposed to be a feeling that demons had, after all, betrayal and distrust were part and parcel of existence in Hell after the Fall. But after much consideration, he had decided that feeling was guilt, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

 

At that, Crowley felt it was strange that the usually incisive Beelzebub had not pressed Crowley further. Had the First Prince of Hell asked Crowley why he had been in disguise and put himself in danger, he would have been in trouble. But perhaps Beelzebub and Asmodeus had worked something out privately in advance, or somehow Asmodeus’ misdeeds were too much even for Hell‘s bad graces, because Crowley was left to his own devices while a new corporation for him was put together, and Asmodeus briefly banished to confinement in the deepest pits of Hell.

Crowley shivered. He didn’t know what it was like down there, but he had passed by those pits before as a member of Asmodeus’ entourage, following behind his Duke and Under-Duke. Never more than a handful of beings, Crowley remembered, and it always made him wonder why Asmodeus had so few retainers. It seemed that many of the other Lords of Hell had hundreds if not thousands of direct reports. In Beelzebub’s case, this was easily in the millions, the number of demons that owed their loyalty directly to their lord.

 

Most of the Princes were involved only in the dealings of Hell and over time, it seemed that less and less of them had anything to do with Earth. Crowley had noticed a few thousand years ago that it seemed that every time the Dark Council met, there were fewer

And he wondered, was this what happened when Princes of Hell were sidelined? So many had been sidelined in the past, their powers usurped by Beelzebub that he couldn’t even remember what Leviathan or Belial or any of the others looked like.

 

The world that Crowley inhabited was very small, but it made sense; Asmodeus’ court was small. Crowley didn’t wander far from it; it was too dangerous. Wandering off could result in destruction or mutilation. Worse, would be facing forced servitude in another court, or made a plaything of another Prince of Hell. It was better to stay close, maybe no more than one or two warrens away from the territory that Asmodeus had carved out, a minor kingdom among the great landowners of Hell.

Other Princes had many servants, many demons at their beck and call, sometimes in the millions. But Asmodeus’ court was minimal; he had just the barest number of retainers for a Prince of Hell. There was only a Duke, and Under-Duke, and Crowley. A few minor snake demons hung about the edges, skirting the fine line between Asmodeus’ territory and the areas that abutted those of Beelzebub and Leviathan, but they never caught Asmodeus’ attention, having been placed there by various enemies of Asmodeus, the other Princes who vied amongst themselves for power.

It was a tenuous existence. Crowley wasn’t even allowed to run messages; that was done by Ligur and the Under-Duke, who often glared at Crowley in resentment, for they were too lofty of position to be doing such menial tasks. But Asmodeus wouldn’t hear of it.

 

Censured.

Grim and stern, unlike his usual charming self. Even in the Dark Council where the Lords of Hell (who for the most part were only there in ceremonial roles and were expected to vote the way they were told to by Beelzebub) reigned, Asmodeus was usually the one to crack jokes and make witty remarks. It always seemed that Asmodeus tried to put some sense of ease into the usual vicious, endless cycle of backstabbing and outright stabbings. Crowley often thought that it was this charming demeanor that kept Asmodeus in favor for so long; that honeyed tongue went a long way in a place like Hell where humor was short and charm as distant as Heaven itself. Over the ages he had seen the Prince of Hell defuse tensions with a word here or there. But then, he remembered, there were also those times when Asmodeus turned against another demon, even another Prince of Hell with just the right amount of insinuations that made the trouble they were originally in seem no more than a trifle.

But the interrogation after the discorporation was different. It seemed that Asmodeus knew that the charm that usually got him out of trouble would not be of any use here, so he had dropped all pretenses, and answered the sharp questions as best he could, lest he be skewered.

When pressed, Asmodeus had explained that it had been his fault, a mistake. The uproar was such that Crowley had been forgotten. He never answered a single question before the Dark Council but had been hurried out of the cold bare meeting room so that the other Princes could confer amongst themselves and pass judgment.

Whatever happened was not spoken of; he had tried asking Ligur, but it seemed that Ligur had nothing but antipathy for him, likely blaming him for their master’s confinement.

That it was not spoken of meant only one thing.

The darkest pits of Hell. Had he been able to, he might have visited Asmodeus, but that was expressly forbidden. The point was confinement away from all other beings in existence, and Crowley could not subvert that, no matter how he felt.

 

It took a few years for Crowley to realize this but looking back on the memory one day, he suddenly had an epiphany: Asmodeus had been manipulating the questions, pushing them in a direction so that all the blame fell on the Prince of Hell’s shoulders.

When Crowley realized this, he had been drinking in a tavern, and the entire jug of rice wine ended up on the ground in an unceremonious shatter of shards, himself with it.

In the end, Asmodeus had taken full responsibility.

But it never ocurred to him that that was what Asmodeus had wanted.

That part had surprised Crowley; he had expected to be tortured himself, and there was always the off-chance of destruction. But

Why is Hastur here in Asmodeus’ court? He shouldn’t be, but he’s been sent to summon Asmodeus and Crowley, to embarrass Asmodeus. More on this later.

I also reworked this summons to be more in media res. Here is a fragment:

and Crowley paused, hearing footsteps. Odd, it was strange for anyone to visit Asmodeus’ court, which was empty more often than not, unlike the busy administrative centers of Beelzebub’s court that hummed with the activity of thousand and thousands of demons at work.

A single demon appeared at the entrance of Asmodeus’ court, and the guards stepped aside without challenging the figure, one that was still draped in pale robes as some of the Fallen still wore but that celestial raiment was rotting, disintegrating. But Asmodeus didn’t notice, even as Crowley was trying to subtly catch his attention.

“Lord Asmodeus.” And Crowley’s ethereal form twitched with the memory of bodily fear; there was an insolence that Crowley had never heard before in Hastur’s voice as he addressed Asmodeus. Something was going on.

Crowley glanced at Asmodeus, who seemed to take it without any particular care.

“Duke Hastur.” Asmodeus expression changed a split second before turning to face Hastur, lips moving into a smile that was both charming and insincere. “What brings you around? A message from my brother Beelzebub?”

“You’ve already received the summons. The Dark Council is waiting.” Hastur said it with a self-serving pleasure.

Asmodeus frowned. “That’s not the case, I didn’t receive-”

“You’re already late. Lord Asmodeus.” Hastur addressed him properly a beat too late, and Crowley swallowed, wondering how this could be possible. Certainly Asmodeus was renown for ignoring missives, but he had never missed a Dark Council meeting without making some prior arrangement. Duke Ligur, Under-Duke Legion, and Crowley had all taken turns in the past casting lots on Asmodeus’ behalf, but Asmodeus had always been notified and notified his fellow Lords of Hell well in advance.

Unless…

“Ah.” Asmodeus glanced at Crowley. “I suppose if I must, I must. We’ll continue this later, darling, the work is just about done I should say. I’d like to check the details before-”

“Oh, you don’t need to say goodbye to your favorite. He’s coming along too. You’re both wanted before the Dark Council.”

“Shit. Oh shit, I said ‘shit’,” Crowley said, without realizing that the word had slipped from a disobedient mouth, and then Crowley said it again, when both higher-ranked demons turned to look at him.

And a cut bit immediately following this scene:

Crowley followed along easily; without physical form there was no trouble keeping up with the others, and following at a polite distance, he could could keep an eye on Hastur.

It wasn’t a trial. There was no official Usher, no audience to witness the proceedings. It wasn’t held in the Place of Trials, but in a fortified room reserved for the private affairs of the Dark Council. Which meant that everyone knew that it had to do with a Prince of Hell.

By the time they arrived, Crowley could tell that the long walk to the Dark Council’s office had given Asmodeus sufficient time to think, which made it more dangerous because it meant that Hastur had intended for this. Which meant ultimately that Beelzebub had made this decision, and the implications made Crowley nervous.

I took the imagery of Beelzebub with the rings from Beelzebub’s more formal costume, which you see the Prince of Hell wearing while on Earth with Gabriel. This is one large central crown at the throat flanked by two smaller crowns on the lapels: https://64.media.tumblr.com/b9ee371ed1c5e603783f51f1eb145720/8255f7f02297fa94-8e/s1280x1920/9bed4405406b572da05c6a7c59dea7900aa9a7de.jpg

Leviathan was designed for The Seventh Prince of Hell and is meant to be nonbinary and Polynesian. Here are my notes from that story regarding Leviathan:

I had a hard time coming up with a design for Leviathan, but Polynesian made sense when I thought about how Leviathan spends time mostly in the Pacific these days. The thought I had was whatever Leviathan was before, they chose a Polynesian appearance after spending more time in the region. Specifically, Samoan.

While I chose the name, Belial was designed mostly by Elena. She was designed at about the same time as Leviathan but I didn’t use her as much until this story.

In this story, I suggest that the gold upon an angel’s skin or the sores and wounds upon a demon’s skin reflect how long they are in their respective domains. So we can assume for example that Gabriel doesn’t spend nearly as much time in Heaven as Uriel, just as Crowley doesn’t spend nearly as time in Hell as Hastur.

The one detail I added for Belial was the teeth, because around the time of final editing, a strange deep-sea fish that washed up onto a California beach was in the news, so I added the detail: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/unusual-deep-sea-fish-washed-ashore-sandy-california-beach-180977721/

Asmodeus is genuine about not having been informed. Someone (cough, Beelzebub, cough) basically fucked him over. This is not the first time Asmodeus has been fucked over by a peer (see Chapter 100: The Archangel).

Asmodeus fucked around with playing at being irresponsible and now he is finding out.

I imagined that since the Fall, it’s been a mad scrabble for power Downstairs and Beelzebub is intent on winning so that by modern times, there is only one functional Prince of Hell left Downstairs.

In earlier stories, Crowley thought that Beelzebub had a fondness for Asmodeus but he was obviously wrong or else they had put on a show of professional friendliness that fooled even Crowley.

Why did Asmodeus send others to vote for him? When he wanted to protest the votes but couldn’t protest directly. The lower-ranked the voter, the more he disagreed. This comes up again later, in Chapter 29: The Mandate.

Some readers asked about this scene with the Dark Council, so I will include the response here:

You are correct, this really is just a bit of an inconvenience/brief embarrassment, especially since it's not clear what Heaven actually saw. At a guess, Heaven may not even know that Asmodeus was directly involved; I thought that Heavenly surveillance just saw some humans burying Crowley's body. So both Heaven and Hell know that Crowley was discorporated but it's possible both sides don't know too much more than that. But as you may know from office politics and the like, when someone is being targeted, any little thing just or unjust can and will be used against them.

Beelzebub is in fact blowing something out of proportion as an excuse to take down Asmodeus. Asmodeus has for a long time been trying to criticize/embarrass Beelzebub's hollow sham of a Dark Council by sending proxies and rarely attending himself. After all, if the decisions are already made, what's the point of meeting to discuss and vote? But Beelzebub has outmaneuvered Asmodeus by using this supposed lack of responsibility against him, by calling for a Dark Council meeting about Crowley's discorporation without inviting Asmodeus or Crowley so that Hastur must be sent to fetch them and then using the supposed scandal of Heaven commenting on the discorporation as an excuse to begin the process of censuring and sidelining Asmodeus. Not sure how Beelzebub took down the other Princes of Hell but Beelzebub is surely aiming to claim a fourth crown here.

Since both Hastur and Asmodeus were waiting for Crowley, who had been called back to Hell for that purpose, Crowley was meant to be in that meeting. (Earlier draft of this scene was actually very different, if you're interested I can post it on Tumblr or email you a copy, evilasiangenius at gmail). So while Asmodeus did not sneak Crowley in, Asmodeus did sneak Crowley out. There were probably not a lot of good outcomes for Crowley once he was facing the Dark Council for getting discorporated. Crowley could easily have been horrifically tortured, locked away for an eternity in the deepest pits of Hell, or destroyed. But if Asmodeus sufficiently pisses off the other Princes and distracts them from Crowley...well, Crowley gets forgotten and kicked out of the meeting, safe to continue his life on Earth, facing no consequences for getting discorporated -- not even paperwork! And sure, Asmodeus gets censured and is on track to getting sidelined, but he can't be seriously punished (and certainly not for long) and besides, he knows that Beelzebub has been trying to sideline him for ages, at worst this is a small setback. After all, Asmodeus is playing his own game too, a long game. Can't tell you too much more at this point but Asmodeus is an opportunist and has already been working on getting his hands on some serious power.

Here is a relevant cut scene:

Crowley had spent ages listening what was said and watching what was done in the politics of Hell to figure out that for a very long time the business of the Dark Council was the agenda set by Beelzebub, almost from the time of the Fall. It made sense: the First Prince of Hell was highest ranked, and functionally had the most power, whether inherent within that infernal form or in the sheer overwhelming numbers of the damned that constituted Beelzebub’s court.

Since that last terrifying meeting in Hell, Crowley had had a lot of time to think about what he had seen in that council chamber over the ages.

Crowley had said something very rude and unpleasant when he remembered that he had been the first proxy sent to the Dark Council chamber, ages ago. Since then he had only been sent a few times, but all that time he had also been the lowest ranked member of Asmodeus’ infamously small court.

By sending low-ranked proxies for ages to cast lots for him, Asmodeus had been both quietly and directly exerting his power in the Dark Council in the only way he could, by criticizing Beelzebub’s hold on it. Sending lower-ranked members of his court pointed out to the others that since Beelzebub had already determined in advance what the outcome would be, any Dark Council meeting was inherently a sham and a waste of time that Asmodeus would not directly support, even as the Second Prince of Hell seemed to support the First in everything else.

Was that Asmodeus’ method of trying to turn the other Princes to his cause? To signal to them that since Beelzebub set the agenda and the outcome of the vote in advance, there was no point for any of them to be involved in the discussions? But what was the outcome of that? The others didn’t rally to Asmodeus’ cause, they showed up as obediently as ever, and voted the way they were told. So why the protest and how did Asmodeus get away with it for so long?

BTW, while I have told various individual readers they can email me, anyone reading who is curious is welcome to email me/message me on various social media to say hi or to get a copy of various unposted things such as my meta about God in the Good Omens universe.

While writing The Second Prince of Hell, Elena and I spent some fun time coming up with long introductory titles that are used by both Heaven and Hell in their correspondence. She was the one who came up with Beelzebub as the “Chief Terror Officer”.

Fun aside: I found this in the cut document (I keep all these fragments and bits of cut sentences in a separate file. In the past, they’d go on the bottom of a writing file but some of these stories end up so long that that gets unfeasible). This was from a conversation with Elena where I was joking about how Hastur may have been chosen to become a Duke of Hell:

Beelzebub was like, pointing randomly in a crowd like, "You! You there! Boy with the toad hat, what day is it?"

Hastur: It's Christmas day, sir!

Beelzebub: Here is a shilling, go buy me the fattest goose in the market!

Hastur: We don't have gooses, shillings, or markets in Hell.

Beelzebub: Excellent, good answer, you're now a Duke of Hell.

Hastur: Yay!

Like the Disposable Demon/Eric being sent Upstairs to provide hellfire or Archangel Michael going Downstairs to provide holy water, I think it’s possible that other angels and demons have run errands before back and forth. It’d be interesting to explore what kind of experiences they have, especially given Asmodeus’ claim that he’s captured at least one of these messengers before in The Prince and the Principality.

After this scene, Crowley spends some time in Hell before ending up back in Ecbatana with Aziraphale, and lots of cuddling, in the last chapters of The Book of Crowley.

Chapter 8: Alexander, 351 B.C.

In this series, Aziraphale much prefers to present as male and is usually female only under orders. Usually. Whereas Crowley slides between male, female, nonbinary, gender non-compliant, etc. Just follow the pronouns or lack thereof.

Here’s how ancient Greeks lit fires in antiquity: https://www.quora.com/What-did-the-ancient-Greeks-BC-use-to-start-fires-light-torches-etc?share=1 fires

This weird look for Alexander comes directly from the Alexander Romance 1:13, Syriac version (The Greek/Armenian version is similar: And the child grew, and was weaned ; and he became strong, and increased in stature and wisdom ; but as regards his form and appearance, he was neither like Philip, nor Olympias his mother, nor the god by whom he was begotten, but his features and looks differed from theirs, for his hair resembled the mane of a lion, and one eye was different from the other, one being white {light} and the other black {dark}; and his teeth were sharp like a razor, and his steps were firm like those of a lion. From his person then it was evident what he was destined to become afterwards.

However, due to the Romance there are some who theorize Alexander had heterochromia: https://www.nationalgeographic.org/encyclopedia/alexander-great/

Picking names is not my forte so Prereader Elena was the one who named these alternate personas. Melita means honey, or honey sweet (or honey bee, according to one source!): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Melite_(mythology)

And Akakios means Not Evil: https://www.behindthename.com/name/akakios

I have this in my notes as “possible Crowley name”: https://pantheon.org/articles/a/azesia.html

The Dioskouri are Kastor and Polydeukes aka Castor and Pollux in Latin: https://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/Dioskouroi.html

Sparta was ruled by two kings, a tradition supposedly descended from twin sons of its original founder: https://muse.jhu.edu/article/2591

Aziraphale is wrong and intentionally so. The story of the lion with the thorn in its paw is Androcles and the Lion, attributed to Aesop’s Fables: https://sites.pitt.edu/~dash/type0156.html

Whereas Herakles and the Nemean Lion really does involve strangling. The flaying is implied, probably by Crowley: https://www.perseus.tufts.edu/Herakles/lion.html

Sorry Aziraphale, it’s going to be many chapters before you get to be a tutor.

Here is a source on the architecture of Pella: https://web.archive.org/web/20220122191630/https://sites.google.com/site/melanijasherdenkovska/cv/ancient-macedonian-architecture-and-urbanism

I did a little math to convert the square meters of Pella to square cubits: https://www.palaceofpella.gr/the-palace-description-architectural-phases/?lang=en

Here’s a neat article about all the various cubit measures, which vary by culture: https://www.hindawi.com/journals/janthro/2014/489757/

Thank you, Latin Stack Exchange for giving us the translation of touché in ancient Greek. This word is apparently found often in Plato and comes from people arguing with Socrates: https://latin.stackexchange.com/questions/1566/what-is-touch%C3%A9-in-latin

Speaking of Socrates, here is the Onion’s take on Socrates as seen through the lens of internet fighting in the modern era: https://www.theonion.com/historians-uncover-lost-socrates-dialogues-where-he-jus-1833416965

There are a LOT of Cleopatras among the Macedonian elites. Alexander’s sister is known as Cleopatra of Macedonia: https://www.livius.org/articles/person/cleopatra-of-macedonia/

Chapter 9: Rendezvous

Here is a nice article on winter clothing in Ancient Egypt. Scroll down until you hit English. https://journals.ekb.eg/article_310674_a89fe402fe9f4810f20a0397c84c7191.pdf

We have direction information about Macedonian banquets from Athenaeus: https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Athenaeus/4A*.html

Here is a review of a book on ancient Greek feasting that gives us some idea of what was eaten: https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/1996/1996.04.29/

Lanike is a known nurse of Alexander, and is also mentioned in the aforementioned text. Alexander kills her brother in a drunken brawl many years later. Unsurprisingly, there is not very much about her besides the relationship to her brother and Alexander: https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/term/BIOG174166

Could it be a nefarious coincidence that all the nurses are sick during a banquet that Asmodeus is sure to attend, Alexander will definitely attend, and Aziraphale now is compelled to attend?

I made up the rendezvous points after reading about how many waterfalls there are in the region though I can’t seem to find the same source again: https://greekreporter.com/2022/11/02/edessa-waterfalls-pozar-thermal-springs/ The notable famous one dates from later, but I imagine that even in spring there can be little waterfalls here and there from runoff.

Here is a very early draft of the rendezvous points: There was a big sycamore tree in the palace gardens, an olive grove just outside the palace, a waterfall beside a small stream, and this tavern. Of the other secret rendezvous points, this was the favorite; the other places didn’t serve wine.

Yes, they do bring out the wine with the meat. In fact, as Athenaeus says, before the meat as well: “And after they had emptied their cups, they were each given a bronze platter of Corinthian manufacture, containing a loaf as wide as the platter; also chickens and ducks, and ringdoves, too, and a goose, and an abundance of suchlike viands piled high...”

What’s the difference? In Athens, wine came after dinner instead of with or before, which made the Macedonians seem very uncouth, especially since they drank it without mixing it with water:
https://www.colorado.edu/classics/2018/05/23/wining-and-dining-ancient-greece

More on unmixed wine later.

Chapter 10: Banquet

So why is Crowley sitting instead of reclining at a feast as he would have in The Symposiums story?
Again, we have Athenaeus: “Hegesander, too, says that in Macedonia it was not customary for anyone to recline at dinner unless he had speared a wild boar without using a hunting-net. Until then they must eat sitting. Cassander, therefore, at the age of thirty-five continued to sit at meals with his father, being unable to accomplish the feat, though he was brave and a good hunter.” More on Crowley reclining at feasts later.

The same section in Athenaeus talks about some people having to sit at a banquet of Alexander’s, though in a more Homeric sense than in a ‘haven’t killed a boar without nets’ sense: “In their gatherings at dinner the heroes sit instead of reclining, and this sometimes happened at King Alexander's court, according to Duris. Once, at any rate, when he entertained nearly six thousand officers, he seated them on silver stools as well as on couches, spreading purple robes on the seats.” Since this banquet is prior to getting all that Persian Empire loot, I chose to use chairs and cushions. These last two quotes come from Athenaeus: https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Athenaeus/1B*.html

What might these chairs have looked like? These chairs are called klismos and have been much copied in the West even through today:
https://www1.up.poznan.pl/furnituredesign/sites/default/files/u8/56-62_Ancient-greek-furniture_-source-of-inspiration-for-the-designers-and-manufacturers-of-modern-times.pdf

Lots of examples of klismos throughout history: https://www.peacocksfinest.com/single-post/the-timeless-beauty-of-klismos-chair
https://web.archive.org/web/20210624234519/https://www.wallswithstories.com/furniture/the-elegant-klismos-chair-an-ancient-greek-design-that-has-stood-the-test-of-time.html

Generally in symposia, more important guests sat closer to the host, so I extrapolated from that.

Pella also has a banquet hall, you can see the ruins in the first row of pictures, second from the right, the andron: https://www.palaceofpella.gr/the-palace-the-buildings-of-the-palace-complex/?lang=en

Even back in Phillip’s day, these parties could be really big: https://brill.com/display/book/edcoll/9789004356733/BP000012.xml

Speaking of parties, here’s an introductory article about parties in the ancient Greco-Roman world: https://blogs.getty.edu/iris/how-did-ancient-greeks-and-romans-celebrate-special-occasions/

I based the idea of the larger supper couch on images from a contemporary tomb at Agios Athanasios at Thessaloniki: https://www.wikiart.org/en/ancient-greek-painting/a-banquet-scene-from-a-macedonian-tomb-of-agios-athanasios-thessaloniki-greece--350
https://www.greecehighdefinition.com/blog/macedonian-tomb-at-agios-athanasios-thessaloniki

Contrast this with the much cozier Athenian symposiasts: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symposium#/media/File:Symposium_scene_Nicias_Painter_MAN.jpg

While the reality is probably perspective/limitations of the medium (wall painting vs. ceramic art), I chose to interpret this as physical distance, in part to contrast this more formal banquet with the much more intimate small party atmosphere we see in The Symposiums. Plus, there are probably different cultural norms at play here.

What are they drinking? Athenaeus talks about this too: “After we had finished with them, our attention was next engrossed in a warm and almost neat drink.”

This was probably something called Calida or Calda, which is basically like hot water + wine + spices: https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/secondary/SMIGRA*/Calida.html but due to Macedonian tastes did not have much in the way of hot water in it.

In the banquet wall painting, you can see an aulos player and a kithara player as well though they are pretty much standard fare at a symposium: https://www.pothos.org/forum/viewtopic.php?t=3052

Here is a modern aulos maker with videos of what the instrument might have sounded like: https://www.maxbrumbergflutes.eu/en/floeten/aulos-auloi-tibia/

Here is a modern kithara maker with learning videos on how to play the instrument and what it would have sounded like: https://luthieros.com/learn-to-play-the-ancient-greek-kithara/

FYI, the word guitar comes from kithara: https://www.etymonline.com/word/guitar

Often, female aulos players in classical symposiums entertained naked and were sex workers: https://www.thefreelibrary.com/Associating+the+auletris%3A+flute+girls+and+prostitutes+in+the...-a0423235219

It was not easy to find information on the question regarding if women reclined at these kinds of banquets or were even invited! When I was searching for information a bit over two years ago, I ended up going down some rabbit hole of Roman customs and Hellenistic customs (notably from Hellenistic Alexandria) which was about as close as I could get because most sources are classical Athens, and which led to the choice you see in this story. Unfortunately I wasn’t thinking ahead, and didn’t save the links, regrettably – that was when I didn’t think the story would be that long and this involved, and thought I could easily find the references again.

A big problem in general, if I haven’t mentioned it already, is that most sources are either classical (too early) or Hellenistic (too late) and generally in the wrong place (Athens or Alexandria). Specifics about this time period are not easy to find. Most people are more interested in Alexander’s youth or adulthood and not his childhood.

Anyhow, here is some more updated information. So even then, through having read many resources for the Symposiums story, you can find references to the idea that at least in contemporary Athens, the mere presence of women at a party was generally scandalous: “Further, by the fourth century B.C., legal speeches in Athens would cite a woman's presence at such parties as proof that she must have been a prostitute, which seems to reinforce the supposition that respectable women were not generally welcome at traditionalist, male-defined dinner parties and symposia, at least during the classical period in Athens. When scholars today mention women at Greek symposia, they are thinking typically of hetairai, as well as female slaves and other hired entertainers, as represented mainly on painted pottery and in comic writings and legal speeches from Athens.” https://www.cambridge.org/core/services/aop-cambridge-core/content/view/8C8604D6BC08EEFB48C7075BAF96ACE0/S0017383500033659a.pdf/womens-commensality-in-the-ancient-greek-world.pdf

But deciding that there is an ahistoricity to the original source, the Alexander Romance, I thought okay, here is where I will fudge things a bit – Roman matrons could dine with their husbands, sometimes reclining with them: https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/banq/hd_banq.htm

But mostly sitting: https://muse.jhu.edu/pub/1/article/47135/summary
https://www.researchgate.net/profile/Catherine-Draycott/publication/330142694_Dining_and_Death_Interdisciplinary_Perspectives_on_the_%27Funerary_Banquet%27_in_Ancient_Art_Burial_and_Belief/links/5eece299458515814a6b49f7/Dining-and-Death-Interdisciplinary-Perspectives-on-the-Funerary-Banquet-in-Ancient-Art-Burial-and-Belief.pdf

Here is a Hellenistic representation of a woman seated at a banquet (don’t forget to leave space for the Erotes): https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/711029

Some sources said that for Romans (I believe this was early Romans, Republic or prior) respectable women didn’t even sit on the couch, but sat in front of the couch, which is something children apparently also did. Whereas if one had a slave to serve them, the slave would sit behind the couch. Unfortunately these are the two references I can’t find, but I sort of smashed these two thoughts together in an anachronistic way to describe how Aziraphale was sitting. So since Aziraphale is not a slave but an honored servant, and definitely not a sex worker, instead of reclining she sits in front of Alexander’s couch.

Here is a neat article (with pictures!) about traditional methods of processing wool to weave: https://www.penn.museum/sites/expedition/from-spindle-to-loom/

There are multiple references to Alexander the Great cosplaying as various gods including Artemis. We can have Aziraphale to thank for that in this story, as I imagine that is who made Alexander this lion costume: https://journal.lib.uoguelph.ca/index.php/classics/article/view/5919

Alexander as an adult also had a lion skin helmet that is conjectured to be a reference to the Nemean Lion: https://commons.lib.jmu.edu/honors201019/544/

Felting is a very ancient craft. This lesson plan gives quite a lot of useful information as well as references: https://www.dti.udel.edu/content-sub-site/Documents/2016-units/JFrasher%20Textiles%20-%20Unit.pdf

Knitting seems to not be very prevalent in antiquity, in fact for tight-fitting clothes, apparently another technique was used called sprang: https://costume.mini.icom.museum/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/12/Drinkler_ed_JP.pdf

Though there isn’t much you can find on knitting in the Hellenic world, knitting has been around for a long time: https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1111/ojoa.12141

So I assume Aziraphale learnt it at some point and is just busting out these cross-temporal, cross-cultural crafts.

To figure out what would have been served at this banquet, Athenaeus was not as good of help, because his banquets described were in a different season, summer if I recall correctly. Since seasonality was an issue (late winter/early spring is usually a hard and hungry time of year), I checked Xenophon’s hunting treatise for information about what might be hunted at that time, though it didn’t give me much information.

These children of Crowley’s that Asmodeus refers to are Nephilim children. More on this later, but they have been mentioned in previous stories.

Alexander cites Xenophon: “As she follows up the trail the hound will, as a general rule, finally arrive at some well-wooded spot; since, as a general rule, the boar lies ensconced in places of the sort, that are warm in winter and cool in summer.” https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1180/1180-h/1180-h.htm

To figure out what stage a boar’s life would be in this season, I looked up boar reproduction for southern Europe (in this case, Iberia): http://abc.museucienciesjournals.cat/volume-35-2-2012-abc/reproduction-of-wild-boar-in-a-cropland-and-coastal-wetland-area-implications-for-management-2/?lang=en

Here is a neat article about lion iconography: https://www.jstor.org/stable/40341534?seq=13

Identifying big cats in iconography is not easy, especially depicted in art, usually with pharaoh or a priest wearing a “leopard” or “panther” skin: https://mmolipol.webs.ull.es/TdE1/TdE1-2Castel.pdf

Here is an artistic rendition of the Pharaoh Ay wearing a “leopard” skin performing a funerary ritual for the very famous Tutanhkamun: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ay_%28pharaoh%29#/media/File:Opening_of_the_Mouth_-_Tutankhamun_and_Aja-2.jpg

Here is a later Roman era Gucci knockoff: https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/567608

Asmodeus is therefore not quite right in his assertion. Though ancient Egyptians did wear big cat skins, notably priests, the more prevalent skin would be a spotted cat, and not a lion. Though pharaohs did wear lion tail belts: https://journals.ekb.eg/article_310674_a89fe402fe9f4810f20a0397c84c7191.pdf

The questions that Asmodeus asks essentially point out to others that Aziraphale is single and available. I can’t remember the reference, but I remember reading that in the ancient world (and even the modern world!) a woman who is unclaimed by a man is as if she is available to any man.

And then the question Asmodeus asks Alexander questions his parentage, which is Scandalous!

There is apparently debate over whether Macedonian is a Greek dialect or a distinct non-Greek Indo-European language: https://bmcr.brynmawr.edu/2013/2013.08.21/ More on Macedonian later.

There is a myth that Amazonian women yeeted that right teat right off in order to be better archers: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/amazon-women-there-any-truth-behind-myth-180950188/

Some more on costume and pleats in ancient Greek clothing with images: https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1179/036121104805253216?journalCode=ydre20

According to this article which has even more on costume and pleats, “In fact, according to Vitruvius, the grooves on the pillars of ancient Greek temples were designed to mimic the pleats of ladies' robe.” https://pdfs.semanticscholar.org/5c90/1b8a7ff1632e46a72e5c09fdc75cbd21cbe2.pdf

Chapter 11: Lies

What’s the deal with unmixed wine? Ancient Greeks thought it was unhealthy and even barbaric to drink wine without diluting it with water: https://laudatortemporisacti.blogspot.com/2004/10/wine-and-water.html

Historically, the Macedonians are known for their hard drinking, but some scholars argue that this is due to Athenian propaganda: https://muse.jhu.edu/pub/148/article/538245

However there is still the reality of Alexander killing one of his officers in a drunken brawl as aforementioned, and the drinking contest that killed over 40 people: https://www.google.com/books/edition/Alexander_the_Great/NRQaBwAAQBAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=alexander+the+great+Calanus+drinking&pg=PA343&printsec=frontcover

A peristyle is a columned porch or an open colonnade, which has been theorized to have been adapted from temple and sacred contexts to ordinary domestic ones: https://www.brown.edu/Departments/Joukowsky_Institute/courses/greekpast/4747.html

Athenaeus’ The Deipnosophistae references sucking pig served with hot rolls: “Or fetch me the paunch of a sucking-pig killed in the autumn, with some hot rolls.” https://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Athenaeus/3D*.html#note67

Prior to modern medicine, childhood mortality was genuinely very high so Crowley is not wrong here: https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/79426554.pdf