Dust
Dust
"Ramses the Great. Lovely man, I heard. Never met him myself--I was on the Continent at the time. There’s tremendous potential for good among the so-called uncivilized, you know." Azirophale’s soft warm fingers traced the raised lettering on the object label just below the granite bust.
"Angel, I know four hundred ways to say 'bastard' in languages living and dead and even I can’t do him justice. And there’s been some artistic license, I see. The real thing had nasty beady eyes and a nose like a scythe blade. Lickable pecs, though."
"Crowley, really. Half the time I think you say these things just to disturb me." They strolled on through the great high-ceilinged corridors of the British Museum, a kind and pudgy blond scholar side-by-side with a nasty streak of black in sunglasses. Every so often Azirophale would pause to reconcile an arguing couple, nudge a sticky-fingered child gently away from the artifacts; but if you followed twenty paces behind them, you'd see that the couple was at it worse than ever and the child now had a felt-tip in one chubby hand.
"Well, if we're not going to gossip, why even bother? It's just a bunch of crumbling pieces of rubbish. Sure, the statues were nice when they were bright and shiny new with the paint still on, but what's the point now? There's brighter and shinier in every hovel and housing estate in London."
"Perspective, my dear. 'For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.'"
Crowley shivered a long shiver. "Hell and damn, Angel, warn me before you do that, will you? It's like nails on a chalkboard and rotting meat and putting your hand in a pile of sick all at once."
"Very sorry, I'm sure." The angel took the demon by the elbow and steered him delicately toward a glass case containing a wooden head-rest, a pair of knotted rope sandals, and several glass cosmetics jars. "What I mean to say is, it's all ineffable how the bits fit together, isn't it? What cruelties might have been thought up on that pillow? Did those sandals stand arrogantly on a slave's face, or carry their owner to a widow's home to deliver sacks of emmer wheat?"
Crowley darkened his sunglasses with a thought. He couldn't see anything, which helped, but the angel was still talking.
"What I'm saying, dear, is that we're all part of the ineffable plan. You tempt, I thwart, and we start all over on a new generation every few years, never knowing where we'll end up. Oh, I know it feels like power, just the two of us on earth, and all these pliable humans. But we don't know any more than they do, really. Perhaps one day we'll be dust."
"Hmm," the demon said.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing. Just--do you ever wish kohl would come back in? I mean, yes, sunglasses work better and they look a bit more flash, it's just--I looked bloody good in it and you never see it these days. Not even in Egypt."
Crowley jostled Azirophale with his elbow as they strolled out of the crowded museum. Ineffable, huh.
"Ramses the Great. Lovely man, I heard. Never met him myself--I was on the Continent at the time. There’s tremendous potential for good among the so-called uncivilized, you know." Azirophale’s soft warm fingers traced the raised lettering on the object label just below the granite bust.
"Angel, I know four hundred ways to say 'bastard' in languages living and dead and even I can’t do him justice. And there’s been some artistic license, I see. The real thing had nasty beady eyes and a nose like a scythe blade. Lickable pecs, though."
"Crowley, really. Half the time I think you say these things just to disturb me." They strolled on through the great high-ceilinged corridors of the British Museum, a kind and pudgy blond scholar side-by-side with a nasty streak of black in sunglasses. Every so often Azirophale would pause to reconcile an arguing couple, nudge a sticky-fingered child gently away from the artifacts; but if you followed twenty paces behind them, you'd see that the couple was at it worse than ever and the child now had a felt-tip in one chubby hand.
"Well, if we're not going to gossip, why even bother? It's just a bunch of crumbling pieces of rubbish. Sure, the statues were nice when they were bright and shiny new with the paint still on, but what's the point now? There's brighter and shinier in every hovel and housing estate in London."
"Perspective, my dear. 'For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.'"
Crowley shivered a long shiver. "Hell and damn, Angel, warn me before you do that, will you? It's like nails on a chalkboard and rotting meat and putting your hand in a pile of sick all at once."
"Very sorry, I'm sure." The angel took the demon by the elbow and steered him delicately toward a glass case containing a wooden head-rest, a pair of knotted rope sandals, and several glass cosmetics jars. "What I mean to say is, it's all ineffable how the bits fit together, isn't it? What cruelties might have been thought up on that pillow? Did those sandals stand arrogantly on a slave's face, or carry their owner to a widow's home to deliver sacks of emmer wheat?"
Crowley darkened his sunglasses with a thought. He couldn't see anything, which helped, but the angel was still talking.
"What I'm saying, dear, is that we're all part of the ineffable plan. You tempt, I thwart, and we start all over on a new generation every few years, never knowing where we'll end up. Oh, I know it feels like power, just the two of us on earth, and all these pliable humans. But we don't know any more than they do, really. Perhaps one day we'll be dust."
"Hmm," the demon said.
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing. Just--do you ever wish kohl would come back in? I mean, yes, sunglasses work better and they look a bit more flash, it's just--I looked bloody good in it and you never see it these days. Not even in Egypt."
Crowley jostled Azirophale with his elbow as they strolled out of the crowded museum. Ineffable, huh.