Chapter Text
The camp where they are stationed is nothing to marvel at. An old building that used to be a warehouse, as can be deduced by the expansive rooms that felt more like concrete caves than a man-made structure. Well, man-made-ish. Man had yet to make anything, you see. In fact, man had just barely been made in the first place. So, without man making the things we will claim to look man-made… who made it?
Nothing did. The answer is simple: it doesn’t exist. The building is merely a shell of a place, a safe haven for warriors to convene before the epic battle to begin the everlasting war. It is more of a concept, but we will choose to see it as a concrete building. All exit signs attached and illuminating some old oil stains on the ground from the leaky forklifts that once (never) existed here.
Fluorescent lights shine harshly down on those below, hundreds upon hundreds of warriors all doing various things in preparation for what is to come. Some sit, some stand, others brandish their weapons or adjust their neckties to avoid rashes.
One doesn’t move, he merely holds a sword and stares ahead.
Were he human, the lights would be giving him an awful headache. Funnily enough, he feels as though he may be getting one nonetheless.
“Are you alright?” Asks a firm voice beside him.
He would startle had he not already been aware of her presence. Instead, he merely turns his head, shifting uncomfortably on his feet.
“Anael. Hello, er. What did you say?”
“I asked if you were alright? You seem a bit…” She gracefully waves a hand through the air. Everything she did was graceful, he suspects. She had an air about her… or perhaps that was all of them. They were angels after all, so the whole lot of them should be graceful, even if he didn’t feel it in himself. Currently he felt a bit like a flounder on dry land. That species had just been invented a few hours ago. Quite an interesting fish, too.
“Ah,” He tilts the sword in his hand, watching the flames dance upon it with every movement, “Certainly. Just trying to mentally prepare is all! For our victory, that is. Surely we’ll win, don’t you think?” He hesitates, “I mean, we must.”
An odd expression crosses Anael’s face, “Yes, I suppose we will. I don’t believe The Creator would allow everything to be thrown away so soon after it’s been made.”
He relaxes slightly, but feels his mind stir again and his jaw tighten.
“Aziraphale.”
His eyes flick to her, “Yes?”
Her expression was a mixture of compassion and the look of someone who was talking to a very stubborn child, “Is something else bothering you?”
He sighs.
“We’re…” The words are suddenly trying their hardest not to leave his mouth, “We are... fighting our brothers and sisters! We’re supposed to kill them! They are – were – our friends. I just… I…” He stops, unsure of how to properly voice the deep anguish he feels coiling inside of him. Hundreds fell with Lucifer. Hundreds of the ones he’d known since the beginning of everything. From the moment he had been created he had known them. He’d known their beauty and their kindness, as well as the personalities and duties of each.
Now, he didn’t even know their names, for it had been stripped from each as they fell and erased from time.
It hurts like fire in his chest and made tears well in his eyes.
Anael’s eyes turn soft and understanding, the same pain Aziraphale feels is written in every line of her expression.
“I understand, Aziraphale. I don’t think any of us truly want to accept that it’s them on the other side. Some have purposefully denied it to make things easier. But it is for the greater good of humanity. The fewer demons who are able to escape into the world, the less chaos that can brew. Many will remain, of course. The Great Plan must still come to pass one day, we all know that.” She looks down at her own sword, the hilt shimmering with grace, “It must be done.”
He swallows harshly and nods, “So it must.”
It isn’t until after Anael leaves that he turns back to the light above him. He nearly begins praying, but stops once he realizes he’s not sure what to say.
They wait for another day, the room of angels growing increasingly more antsy with each minute that passes. No one, except those who are higher in the chain of command, have any idea what they are actually waiting for. Even those who know, namely the Archangels, are anxiously picking at their robes or combing fingers through course feathers. This does nothing to calm Aziraphale’s already high levels of stress.
The archangel Gabriel paces while Michael stands stone-still a few feet beside him, carefully out of range of any giant, golden wings should they extend. Aziraphale certainly doesn’t think about how amusing it would be to see that. Definitely not.
“Michael better watch out or she’ll be spitting feathers for the rest of the day.” Anael’s voice pipes up from beside him, a grin apparent in her voice.
He laughs.
Then, the room fills with red.
Hundreds of angels straighten, going silent and watching the red alarms flare before shutting off and turning back to the awful, piercing white. The room is silent as they turn to Michael.
“It is time.” She says, her voice carrying, “As warriors of heaven, you know your duties. Be strong. Show mercy only to those deserving,” Her voice tilts with venom, “because where we fight today, there will be none. Fight for heaven.” The command rings, bouncing off of the air conditioning units in the far corners. A few angels huddled around it shiver.
Gabriel claps his hands and smiles, “Let’s move it people! Places to go, demons to smite!” The smile drops and the final command is spoken, “Fight.”
Across fields of rotted shrugs, or perhaps they were parking lots with broken shopping carts, another group was rallying. More warriors for a different cause, each with a much more sinister goal in mind than their fluorescent counterparts. Mangled, twisted faces and dark eyes that once held compassion for every star and being. Some breathed life into plants, others had played with their siblings, tugging on wings and laughing. Aziraphale would tell you their laughter had reminded him of splashing water and warm sunlight.
They crouch, mangled legs set to spring once the word was given. At the front stands the leader. Lucifer, Satan, The Morning Star, God’s favorite, bringer of sin and the first adversary. He stands, noble and unmoving, still radiant in all of his beauty but twisted from the Fall. An aura of suctioned light surrounds him and dark, crimson wings float extended behind him like a cape, the feathers skimming the dry, cracking dirt the army stands upon.
“It does not have to be this way.” He says, voice like wind over sheer cliffs. Every word brings with it the feeling of looking over the edge into the churning deep below, “I can call them off. Your plan… it can be stopped as well. We can keep the world as it is.”
A whisper, faint and magnificent all in one, slips past his ear, “You chose this, my son.”
“I chose nothing!” He says firmly, “You did this. You choose humanity over us! We are your first! Your children! And yet you let their filth taint our lands!”
“No, my son, I love you all equally, you must understand–“
“No.” His voice shakes with thunder, the crowd behind him shifts with uncertainty, “You do not.” He turns to the army, wings flaring as a sword appears in his hand, black as the night, “Go. Kill all that you see.”
The once silent crowd now grows thunderous, the roaring cries for blood, for justice of what they once were. Amalgamations of tattered wings, broken bones and bubbling skin all rush forward, running into the fog that surrounds them.
One chews on his lip, hesitating for only a moment, before following.
Aziraphale shifts where he stands, the formation of angels tight as they stare into the dark mist ahead of them. A single light post illuminates the dusty lanes of the parking spot before fading into nothingness. The rustle of feathers echoes with every gust of wind as the fog creeps closer. Beside him, Anael swallows, her brow creasing in concentration.
Nobody dares move.
Aziraphale thinks about everything that lead up to this moment. The eons of time spent with those by his side, as well as those who crawl ever further through the mist. He hasn’t seen them yet. Not many have. Many of the unfortunate beings who witnessed a demon didn’t return to tell the tale, but of the few who did were too distraught to speak of it. Crying, they would attempt to describe what they had seen, only to fail and revert back to a grieving mess. These angels were then sent to be the equivalent of heaven’s janitors.
In his opinion, the worst part is the lost memories. He wants to remember their faces, their love, and smiles. Their names, forever gone. He misses them like an ache in his soul but he can’t seem to pin down who he misses.
Overall, he has decided, the fighting may not be worth it.
It is a horrible thought, a near traitorous one, but he can’t help but allow it to sit, heavy, in the back of his mind. Demons were creatures just as they were, and they were once angels too. Were they truly beyond saving? Beyond compassion? Perhaps he was extending too much hope, but was that not his job?
Those twisted faces once held smiles brighter than the morning sun. They created stars and sand. They braided hair and stroked uncooperative feathers. Gentle hands that, if Aziraphale focuses hard enough, he can feel framing his face and it takes everything in him not to smile on instinct. How can one miss something they hardly remember? It is absurd, but entirely too real for every angel.
Some, despite their love for the lost siblings, are filled with bitterness. The betrayal tainting their fond memories, or what was left of those memories. Some wept, overcome by grief. Others, like Aziraphale, merely froze. He can’t quite pin down where he sits emotionally, perhaps he is somewhere between mourning and anger. A mixture of those around him, but it doesn’t seem right to outright admit it.
In reality, he just feels lonely.
Of course, there should be no reason for him to feel this way. Since the Fall he has been surrounded by others, comforted and cared for, just as he has done to others. The Fall, if anything, brought the remaining angels closer together, their fear that more would follow permeating their minds.
Still… it feels… hollow. Like a piece of him fell with them.
He stares out at the fog and sees a movement beside him.
“You’re trembling, Anael.” He says softly, tilting his head to meet her gaze. Her form just barely shakes even as her expression remains stoic.
“You as well.”
His eyes travel down to his hands. He grips his sword tighter.
“May I… say something?” He asks her, voice carefully quiet.
“Of course, brother.”
“Do you really believe…” He glances to his other side where another angel stands, gaze carefully trained forward. “Do you think this is worth it?”
She meets his eyes, her own soft white ones expressive to the point where he knows her answer before she has even said it. She never gets the chance to speak.
As she opens her mouth, a tendril of something appears from the darkness. The archangel Michael raises her sword, and it begins.