Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

After all, the end of the world had included no demon or angel or God. No divine or infernal interference had been needed; everything had run its natural course.

The humans had been first to wipe themselves off the face of the planet. With the rise of the ocean level, more and more islands and coasts had become uninhabitable, and the thousands of people who had lived on, and off, that land had fled, had pushed, further inward. The people living in the hearts of these great landmasses had defended themselves and their livelihoods – as one would. Walls and gates had been put up and staunchly defended, blood had been shed, and so, the coming ice age had been ushered in by war on a global scale. (One could only assume that Famine and War, one driving humanity into the other’s arms, had rejoiced at the very sight.)

Around the same time, a cult formed, or merely came to light; a cult following, worshipping, and pleading to the ocean monsters of old that they may feast on the prayers’ enemies, leaving themselves alive, maybe even helping them ascend. They didn’t flee or curse the rising masses of saltwater; quite contrarily, they welcomed them, hoping in them to find a sort of salvation, or at least hope of survival. The ocean creatures would inherit this Earth, so much was clear; perhaps it would be a good idea to assure them as soon as possible of one’s continuing support.

Around the pulsing centre of this cult, eagerly welcoming the rising tides, Duke of the fallen Hastur was suspiciously often found, silent and gruesome, but rallying the human believers on with his mere presence. It was soon time, he suggested the susceptible; soon his half-brother Cthulhu would lift out of the waves, and with him, the day of reckoning would begin. Even his companion Duke Ligur, by all means the more sociable and world-wise of the two demons, had to admit he shivered in the light of his fellow Duke’s cool complacency and creeping determination of what was to come.

As Cthulhu, a fearsome man-squid-hybrid with hateful, black, beady eyes, finally rose out of the waters, all prayers, all the help the cultists had given him was forfeit; none remained standing. None but Hastur, the monster’s half-brother, and Ligur, who Hastur claimed was a true and cherished friend and couldn’t come to any harm.

“Not ‘im,” Hastur reasoned with Cthulhu, in a language that the other demon couldn’t understand while standing by in a shiver. “’e’s a friend. Been wi’ me for much of the time since we brought you ‘ere, he was. Saved me countless times.”

Ligur gargled. He felt as a fish being gutted as the six eyes on the Elder God measured him, and he couldn’t help but fear being found wanting.

The Duke of Hell was passed over; Ligur found himself greatly afraid; a sensation that he hadn’t known all his prior existence. Yet he remained with his fellow Duke and the Elder God, for what else was he to do, really?

Others, however, didn’t have the same luck. Those that weren’t killed by Cthulhu’s ascent had had their minds torn to shambles; these incurably insane survivors existed, furthermore, on cities of rafts that floated the ocean for the express purpose of being tormented by the Elder Beings, having their mental capacities siphoned off in order to feed these creatures, or being picked off by Leviathan or Dagon, the new queens of this ocean world. Being killed by them was a merciful fate in comparison to what Hastur and Cthulhu, and their foul entourage, had in store for them.

Only a pale shadow of the sheer numbers and greatness that humanity had once exhibited were still around as the final shot had been fired, as the weapons finally fell silent again; in the end, one was bound to wonder how many people had been killed by the struggles and how many were taken by the plummeting temperatures and food shortages that were a result thereof.

It was a long, uncertain time, it was a messy, brutal time, and the survivors’ society was dysfunctional. The rich drew back into forts, swimming or viciously walled off, keeping themselves apart from the rest of the world as long as they could; in the end, however, as their resources ran out and not much beside worthless paper and coins persisted, even they needed to learn that they couldn’t keep separate forever, and ruefully joined the bigger groups – that was, if they were accepted. They, highly specialized creatures, had had to learn the skills needed to survive from new, and they hardly had anything left to learn from, and with; most of them perished in their new, glazed-over world in which crops had hardly any chance of thriving and animals were few and far between.

This also was the time around which most of the supernaturals turned the physical world their backs. The horsepeople simply had no-one left to feed off – they faded into nothingness, all except, perhaps, Death; the demons slowly grew bored of ineffectual human suffering; the angels, however, felt their task was accomplished, and nothing was left to be done on barren Earth. Even the demon Crowley left, saying that it was all too much, that he couldn’t stomach it, the frozen and shattered remains of monuments, the silence and howling, piercing wind where once busy life had bloomed, the bones, the multitudes of memories – his memories as well as humanity’s. The angel Aziraphale heard it with a downcast smile and a glimmer of tears in his eyes, and he nodded in understanding and mourning, but turned back toward Earth.

Aziraphale was there as the last human being breathed their last. They weren’t aware of it, but the angel was there, watching over them, and as he turned away from the corpse, he felt something inside him crystallize, too. He became something of a hunter-gatherer after this moment; he drifted over the icy plains and snowy dunes, walking, trudging, stumbling wherever the wind took him, ice was caked in his hair and eyelashes, and he picked up and preserved whatever remains of human civilisation he found, warming himself with his celestial powers, and with his memories. Sometimes he turned up something he thought Crowley might have liked, something that reminded him of a certain human he had known better, or things that brought to mind Michael, Uriel, Asael their child and their ill-fated odd friendship, and it brought a smile onto his frostbitten lips.

What might they be doing up there, in Heaven, or up in space, while he was on his solitary wake?

This went on for uncounted years, maybe millennia; time meant nothing in this lifeless abyss. It only ended as the sun had reached the end of its life cycle and collapsed first onto itself only to expand into a gaseous Red Giant, a process in which it obliterated every planet within its reach. Aziraphale, though numb and feel-less from the cold, felt as it happened, felt how he was pushed out into space, felt how his physical coil fell away and was obliterated, and he would almost have liked to laugh. It was a relief of sorts – not only the physical weight crumbling away, but also the knowledge that it was over, his days of wandering, of homelessness, of worrying were over, and She, She finally called all of them home.

Crowley… Crowley would be there.

He pressed his eyes close and resolved to only open them as soon as he felt heavenly peace flowing back into his bones.

“I hope you are proud of yourself, and your charges,” was the first thing he heard as things around him grew calmer.

In irritation, Aziraphale quickly opened his eyes. It was definitely him, though he also had been stripped of his mortal coil, and creatures of a lesser holiness could only look upon a Cherub in pain; his voice was more ethereal than his underling knew it, sounded fourfold as he spoke (human mouth, eagle beak, ox muzzle, lion snout), irritating to the ears, but his piercing violet eyes were the same. His wings, bright white and laden with unending eyes upon eyes, gently swayed in a breeze that Aziraphale couldn’t feel.

“Were they worth it, I wonder? After all you two braindead monkeys did to preserve them, they managed to give themselves a slow, painful, violent death without any help from us. We would at least have been quick and efficient about it…”

“Oh shut up, Gabe.”

Crowley’s voice was much more of a reassurance than Gabriel’s, nevermind how flat and pressured it sounded. The demon’s presence reassured the angel; still, Aziraphale couldn’t breathe easy. He felt watched. Felt watched by a multitude of eyes out of every possible direction – or, more accurately, one enormous pair of eyes that was able to take him in from any possible angle. It was warm around here, warm and thick with a suffocating pressure, the air felt light and dry, there was a sensation, a hue of gold all around them, and…

“Don’t you dare addrezzing my brother like that.”

Could that be…?

Beelzebub, too, stood there without their body; their Cherubic form, however, was drastically changed. Its wings were insectoid, not feathered, instead of arms it had appendages that were reminiscent of a mantis, and whereas Gabriel stood on a solid pair of ox legs, Beelzebub's spirit form was supported by four thin, knubby ant legs. Their scowl, however, was as ill-pleased as ever. “Answer the question,” they grumbled. “I, too, would be interezzted to hear what you traitors think of your chosen tribe now that they took the proverbial axe to their own livelihoodzz.”

Crowley, standing close to Aziraphale, looking much like he had always done, albeit a little scalier down the neck, huffed. “So we’re cool with the whole sibling thing now, are we?”

Gabriel snorted. “In a way, I guess we’ve never been a…”

His turn was rudely interrupted by a gravelly shriek – a sound that seemed to want to be, to have to be, high-pitched, but that tragically was hampered by the throat it issued from. A throat that had been made to lead choruses of angels in hymns to their Creator. Aziraphale whipped his head around, and had he had a body and a physical face these very moments, he’d have blanched.

The source of the scream was unmistakably Lucifer – but it was the reason for the scream which made Aziraphale’s non-existent blood run cold. Lucifer too was a mere Seraph now, without physical flesh, just wings and arms and Aziraphale shuddered to think what else, but his arms and claws were wrapped around Lilith – beloved, darling Lilith. The demon monarchess convulsed in his grip, unresponsive, foaming at the mouth, her breath rattling, her limbs twisted, her eyeballs rolling wildly, her head lolling around on her neck, directionless, with utter disregard for the laws of physics. It was clear that she was dying, violently fading, and fought the happening tooth and claw.

Lucifer, who pressed her against him in a desperate attempt to not have to let her go, to not have to lose her, was tearful and feral in his helplessness, and despite all the things he might have done, all the death and desolation he might have wrought, in these moments, Aziraphale couldn’t but feel bilious sympathy for the Ruler of Hell.

And Lilith… oh, would that he could do anything for Lilith.

He felt how Crowley shivered next to him – Crowley who once had loved her, who perhaps may have never stopped loving her – and Duke Ligur who had appeared in the far-off with Duke Hastur and Dagon ran closer, but…

“DO SOMETHING!” the first rebel suddenly roared at nothing in particular, sharply above everyone’s heads. “Save her, you pathetic, good-for-nothing sad sack of a deity!”

Aziraphale trembled under the sensation of awakening – of awareness that now gradually seemed to envelop them all. He couldn’t see anything changing – here was nothing save a flimsy, saffron-yellow light – but it felt as if a giant, encompassing all of them with its arms, had risen above them, lovingly smiling down on them. Its glance was like a searchlight, its breath sweet, its very presence felt weirdly, unexplainably homely. The Principality could feel his brain knotting while he attempted to make sense of this – but one thing he knew without a doubt: that it momentarily focused on the poor, convulsing monarchess.

“Lilith,” a booming, though whispering voice rang out, thin and still powerful like fluid gold.

Lilith groaned and lay still.

Lucifer dared take a calming breath.

Then she combusted.

Aziraphale gasped.

“Lotus Flower,” Crowley muttered, his fingertips touched to his cheek and lips. “Oh Hea… oh somebody, no.”

Ligur froze in his tracks with a sound as if someone had punched him in the stomach, appeared for a moment uncertain whether he should cry or vomit, and then turned to return to Hastur’s side. (Duke Hastur, indeed, was the only one who seemed to be genuinely amused by the goings-on.)

Only through his looking around to observe the infernal Duke’s reaction, Aziraphale noticed that Michael and Uriel, Chamuel and their child, all without a scrap of physical coil upon them, hovered in mid-distance, seemingly taking inventory of each other and their sustained injuries, if any at all. They were joined, beside this, by any number of angels and demons, some alone, some in loose groups, some in huge bunches. They filled the scenery horizon to horizon, and possibly even beyond that, and all of them exuded a sense of complete lack of orientation.

Everyone, Aziraphale knew instinctively. Everyone was here, had returned to Her arms…

Lucifer shrieked as his beloved disintegrated, leaving nothing but dust on his palms. “What have you DONE?” he thundered into nowhere.

The voice didn’t sound upset as it continued, “Ah, Lilith, daughter… I missed you for so long. Now be still, my human child, you are finally home.”

“What… have you… done,” Lucifer reiterated, under audible strain to keep himself controlled. Aziraphale sensed his fury, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides. Crowley gave a strangled sound of apprehension.

The Almighty was unmoved, was a pillar, was sure-footed and callous as She graced Lucifer’s questions with an answer – so, She was everything Aziraphale had ever known Her to be. “She was human. I returned her to the clay that was used to craft everything mortal, where she belongs. Fear not for her, Lucifer – I know how much you loved her.” The Morningstar made as if to bristle against that, but She didn’t let him get out a word. “Do not contest it; you loved her enough to let her fly free where with anyone else, you would have clipped their wings. And just think if it had been any different… if you had been unattached, unaccompanied in your wrath… perish the thought.”

Lucifer said no more, only closed his fists around the dust his Queen had left and sobbed, dry-eyed.

“And yet, think of how cold and static creation would have been without your fire, Lucifer.”

Silence.

“Lilith is with her brothers and sisters now,” She finally ventured, addressing all. It was a message to everyone: fret not, I am benevolent with her, I will be benevolent with you. “And all of you, dearly beloved, are here. One more remains to be banished… then we shall be among our own.”

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.