Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The searchlight shifted and stopped on Hastur.

The infernal Duke hardly seemed to notice, his eyes and ravenous attention locked onto the grieving Morningstar. Until, at least, his head suddenly rocked backwards, his neck depressed as if someone throttled him, and as he opened his mouth to gasp for air or to voice his resentment, something… something pushed inside, down his throat, into his chest cavity.

Aziraphale found himself gagging.

Dagon, having stood close to Hastur before, stumbled back now; Ligur, however, his head still swimming from what had happened to his Dewdrop, rushed closer and pawed at the thin air that seemed to assault his partner in crime, helplessly, but knowing something, anything, had to be done.

Hastur shook violently, and helplessly, his arms flailing, beating even at his would-be saviour without any sense to it; then, however, he suddenly gurgled and went rigid, there were one – two – three rapid pulls upwards (Aziraphale’s stomach churned, but he couldn’t look away) and, with a nauseating, gorging, spluttering sound, something was torn out of his mouth, hurled through the air and smacked to the floor mere yards away from where the demon stood.

That ‘something’ was bright yellow and appeared a little like a cross between a caterpillar, a fish and a lobster – taken, of course, that such crossbreeds would have much too many limbs that turned thin and pseudo-fluid, though still sharply barbed, mere inches away from the body, that they would lack a head, though one pair of their appendages would closely resemble a pair of antlers, or any visible eyes or mouth and still give clicking, questioning, almost singing sounds.

Crowley retched and hid his figure behind Aziraphale.

The angel was petrified; he felt he wanted to turn away, but couldn’t.

“Welcome back, Hemah,” the booming voice said, unmodulated, cool, but still affectionate. “I have missed you. And, Hastur… your time here is over. Leave.”

Hemah? The name rang familiar to Aziraphale, one of his fellow Principalities if he wasn’t completely mistaken, but… wasn’t he presumed lost on a diplomatic mission?

Hastur (Hemah?) had broken down on the ethereal floor of this place and coughed his soul out. The black drew back from his eyes, revealing a pallid nut brown, and his rotten teeth righted themselves. The wounds on his hands that had necessitated the gloves closed up, and his split fingernails healed. Boils retreated into his skin, as did his hair; he was perfectly bald as the transformation was finished, dressed in a pristine ensemble of suit and coat, and frightfully attractive. Dagon already retreated from him as a woman having spotted a rat; Ligur merely stared at him, big-eyed, in full and utter disbelief.

The parasite, or whatever the Duke had carried within him, squirmed and tittered on the floor, making everyone recoil half a step from it; Gabriel even made as if to lift Beelzebub up, into his arms or behind his back, which they immediately got him out of by ramming an elbow into the pit of his stomach.

“Stop your threatening.” Her voice seemed unperturbed as She addressed the parasite. “Leave. You have your own universe; leave us to ours. I will be more than ready to face your overlords and their revenge should they be bent on exacting it.”

The thing on the floor (Hastur?) chattered aggressively, but then vanished with a pop of air streaming into an abruptly opened up vacuum, leaving nothing but an anxious, foreign feeling and a puddle of slimy, viscous matter.

“I didn’t want it!” the thusly freed Duke unprecedentedly wailed, continuously snaking and winding away from Ligur’s helpful hands. “Almighty, believe me, I didn’t… I didn’t want to do anything this, this loathsome creature made me do! But I was… I was… suppressed… dormant… I had no way to fight it! It fed off me, it made me do horrible things, murder, arson, torture, and I… I… Lord Almighty, I wish I could forget, I beg for you, I beg, just forgive me…”

Now it was Ligur’s turn to stumble back from the penitent. What in all universes had gotten into Hastur? Why was he, he of all demons, to lose everyone…?

“Don’t fret, Hemah,” the voice consoled him, and he lifted his face adoringly up to Her, bathed in Her light, “you have been coerced, you have been unfairly and violently exiled, you shall be absolved. And you, Lahatiel,” Ligur jumped as he was addressed by his angel name, almost forgotten heirloom of times he wouldn’t care to think about all too much, “you needn’t mourn, since you lost not a single thing. Look around you; everyone you see is your sibling.”

Ligur shuddered at the very idea, even as Kushiel and the other Angels of Punishment nodded their assent or extended their welcoming arms toward him.

Hemah lifted, still quivering, and trudged toward his former choir again (they accepted him with some bias, but still) while the Lord addressed Dagon, calling her ‘Rahab’, and forgave her for the unhuman things she must have done. Dagon didn’t dignify Her with an inch of her attention. Ligur rubbed his face with his knuckles, diligently hiding his own grief.

She, however, didn’t deem it worth a comment (perhaps the consolation She provided was strictly between the Duke and Her); the searchlight travelled on, and found Aziraphale and Crowley. It was indeed oppressive; much like being caught in an oven, rich, hot air around them, suffocating, but also welcoming… She loved them all, Aziraphale understood in these moments, had never stopped loving the Fallen, but such a love, such an all-encompassing thing, however calm and well-intentioned it may well be, could easily also be oppressive, be inescapable, be read as a prison. He himself felt he could hardly breathe beneath the weight of the bundled affection she bestowed on Crowley and him these very moments, though he also appreciated... but it was so very hard to do.

“Azfiel,” She breathed, “and Rahtiel. Most rebellious children, guardians of humanity. I hope this end to all has been more to your liking than the one I previously devised.”

Aziraphale wanted to say something; he did, in all honesty. Just, each and any word seemed to be stuck in his throat. What She had said had sounded suspiciously like what Gabriel and Beelzebub had inquired of them, earlier, and yet She had managed to say it without a hint of malice, or biting sarcasm. Conversely, She had appeared downright amused…

“I thank you. It was interesting, for one, to see it play out this way.”

“What way?” Gabriel didn’t seem to be able to contain himself from bursting out; perhaps these happenings were still a sore in his flesh. “So You say it wasn’t… that it actually was Your will we didn’t succeed with the apocalypse?”

“The natural way,” She explained, calmly and mildly taking the interruption in stride. Her voice, Her presence, Her attention and perception of oneself was a security blanket, but it was also a stranglehold. “The physical, mortal way, without our intermingling. And none of the ends are my will; you are my will, you and your mortal brethren, and that you take your fates in your own hands. But then, end it must, time and time again, and it was thought-provoking to once see the immortals taking the side of the mortals in this.”

Aziraphale blushed. It seemed he’d never live that one down.

“Wait.” Archangel Raphael’s voice issued from his metallic, fiery Throne form. He appeared to be grappling with his faith and drive to know, to dissect; with his devotion and his intellect. “So you have done… this… it’s happened before? We went through this, this kind of cycle before?”

“Yes.” She saw nothing wrong with it, apparently. “There were many cycles, countless existences lived and perished, every single one fascinating to behold.”

“And it’s always… or have we been the first to have it come out this way?” Crowley spoke up now, his voice throttled between the rows of his teeth.

“Crowley, don’t…” Raphael tried to caution him, but She overtook him easily.

“Sometimes the immortals take the mortals away so the planet faces its descent while unpopulated. Sometimes the planet is left to waste away with the mortals still on it. I never know how a world will turn out when I lay it out, or when I turn it over to you. Why ask?”

“Why ask?” Crowley’s face contorted. “You just told us we’ve lived scores of lives – of existences – and we remember none of it, and you’ve got the nerve to deny me to even ask about it?”

A warning hiss emitted from Gabriel's corner, but he didn't speak up more.

“I deny you nothing.” A dripping, rippling sensation in Her speech; Aziraphale couldn’t deny that Her words reached his heart and made it clench unbearably. He was an angel of the Lord, he needed to follow Her, and yet… “How could I? I set you forth into this world with nothing but your character, your personality, abilities, inclinations, and the directive to act according to it – to unfold it.”

Crowley ground his jaw, but lowered his head and sank into sulky silence.

Her attention shifted toward Michael, Uriel, Chamuel and Asael, their offspring, still huddled together almost as one; the Quartermaster, it seemed in reflex, lunged forward to shield Asael, arms and wings extended as if to provide protection. She gently chided him, “There is no reason to hide our progeny from me, Chamuel; it is endearing to me to see how serious you take your fatherhood. Rest assured that there is nothing bad on your conscience – nothing to be forgiven.

Now, about your child. Let them come forth; let us look at one another. I know them so well already, and I feel nothing but kindness for them. Young angel, beloved Asael, valued possibility,” the addressee lifted their still-young face toward Her, “I am very glad to finally meet you face to face.”

Gradually, Archangel Raphael joined his sister and her family; Uriel welcomed him with a gentle sensation that couldn’t be read on a face she did not currently have. Michael, taken with adoration and perhaps purged of whatever seed Lilith had planted in her consciousness, started humming a hymn as Asael stepped forward, their head craned upward; they looked like a young man today, but Aziraphale had met them often enough to know that this was by no means their regular form. No, much to mostly Michael’s distaste they had changed genders, looks and ages much as Crowley would change hairstyles. She had never ousted them; still, she had been less than happy with her foster child’s way of existence. Not that it mattered now, not anymore.

“I…” Asael stammered, and swallowed. “I am happy to meet you, too. I guess.”

She didn’t waste a beat. “In my affections, you are no less than the ones I formed directly. You will be a welcome addition to my new creation. Uriel, Michael, Raphael, Chamuel – you did well in this existence, your faith and devotion move me endlessly, and I am glad to have you close once more. I missed you.”

Her attention shifted again; Beelzebub flinched, and Gabriel straightened and puffed himself up, as the searchlight found them. “Welcome back, Gabriel and Sariel.”

“It’s Beelzebub,” the demon contested irritably. “It’s been Beelzebub for millennia.”

She wasn’t perturbed as She retorted, “Sariel is the name I bestowed on you – nothing will be said or done about all the other changes you’ve made to yourself, but suffer me to address you by the name I have given to you.”

"Not one inch to you," the fallen Cherub grumbled. Their jaw shifted uneasily, and they ignored their brother's tries to shush them.

The Almighty relented; if Aziraphale's intuition was correct, she was a little saddened, but by no means put off. “As you will have it, then, my child Beelzebub. I’ve never left you, though you may have occasionally thought I had, and I am proud of you.”

A superior smile crossed Gabriel’s lips as he heard this; Beelzebub’s frown, however, only deepened.

Her attention moved on.

It moved over all the present angels and demons – which were all of them – which, finally, gave Aziraphale time to regain his breath and turn to Crowley, sweating and panting behind his sunglasses and in his tight-clinging collar, his wings as wide and night-sky black as they had always been, and put a hand on his shoulder. Weirdly, he had assumed his demonic friend would jump, exhibit signs of pain, or draw away, but nothing of the sort happened.

“Crowley,” he asked, downright pleaded. “Are you alright?”

Crowley waved him away with an insincere, muddled muttering. “Sure, sure. ‘ve always been, dun’ worry about me. How ‘bout you? Spending all those years on Earth, all alone…” he lifted his head to finally look at his friend, “’t must’ve been a terribly lonely thing.”

Aziraphale smiled; doubtful, wistful, and yet. He knew what was behind this: I know I should’ve been with you, but I couldn’t. It was like a needle in my gut, but I couldn’t. It would’ve been the end of me. “It was,” he confirmed, “but I wouldn’t have had it any different. After all – as Gabriel and Beelzebub already said – they were who I chose. I couldn’t simply leave them behind.”

“But they were all dead,” the demon interjected.

Aziraphale’s smile persisted. “Nevertheless,” he said.

And that was all that needed to be said.

They all noticed as Lady Almighty was done with addressing Her angels and demons individually; they could tell by the searchlight expanding, encompassing them all in its fluid, saffron-yellow awareness, in the knowledge that they now all were being perceived – benevolently. As oppressive as that may very well be read by some.

She had missed them. All of them. Had missed them bad, though She had always been around.

She loved them. Loved them all. With a force that was beyond anything earthly.

Though what would become of it, now that their realm was…

Aziraphale choked on the sensation.

“What will happen now?” Raphael, audibly fighting disintegration, gave voice to that thought.

“We will move on,” the Lord explained. Her voice was so tender, so loving, and yet it permitted no contradiction. “We allowed the physical world to run its course, and unmake itself, with the help of those who inhabited it; those who by rights reigned in it. Now I need to unmake you, return you to the matter everything immortal, everything supernatural, was made of, and carry you with me until I find a new realm where I can let you live, and roam, live and breathe.”

Unmake?

That sounded…

“That’s a bit overblown, isn’t it?” Crowley pressed out between clenched teeth.

Aziraphale felt a tremor course through his astral self. He clenched his fists.

The Almighty didn’t chuckle, though now, a hint of amusement was in the air. “It is logical, Rahtiel. There is nothing here anymore; nothing to sustain life, mortal or immortal. I must find a new realm for you to unfold.”

Unfold, yes…

No, he thought.

Too much life, too much experience, too many memories in this existence… he couldn’t forfeit it.

Aziraphale felt the Almighty open Her palms to welcome, to accept them all, to press them against Her chest; wind started blowing, gentle at first, ruffling everyone’s feathers, and Michael already drifted with it.

“No,” the angel muttered, turning toward Crowley who seemed pale and gaunt and helpless under his sunglasses. He stretched for him.

The wind grew stronger. A pulling sensation developed.

They had no chance.

No!

Crowley stretched for him too; angel and demon joined hands at their wrists. Crowley’s teeth were bared, and he put all his force in withstanding, opposing, negating the force that cajoled them in the Almighty’s direction. Aziraphale tried his best too, but it was getting hard to breathe, and he felt himself wasting away, he sensed how his essence, losing his own-ness, his individuality, rushed towards Her and in the process mingled with the essences of all the others, angel as well as demon, since they were made from the same stuff, to the same stuff they would return. Crowley first, since Crowley had been standing the closest, and suddenly, he knew him, knew him in and out, knew everything he had ever been, Rahtiel the Virtue and the angel who hung the stars and made art of it and the Serpent of Eden and Crawly the Fallen and Keket (who was Keket?) the lover of Lilith and Anthony J. Crowley and even Nanny Ashtoreth. He was rushed toward Her, though he felt She was like a child willy-nilly sweeping their toys back into the toy box after a long day of merrymaking, and it was warm and tumultuous and some still fought it, but it was inevitable, and the essence of the angel Aziraphale laughed and turned their attention towards an uncertain future, a future of new life and new adventure and new responsibilities, a future of new rules and new rule-breaking, a future of hearing and seeing and tasting and feeling, and he gave up and became one with everyone else, and then, there was nothing.