Happy Holidays, Prestissima!
Triptych
For: prestissima
From: A Secret!
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG-13
Historical fic, Sandman crossover.
Merry Christmas, pretissima! I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill every prompt ☹ but I tried and I think I fulfilled about two and a half. xP
Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale are from Terry Pratchett’s and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens.
Egypt
Aziraphale quite liked Egypt.
He’d been a little wary at first, but he’d gotten used to the sun quite quickly, and after the initial sunburn had decided that a quick miracle or two wouldn’t hurt. The flood waters were receding, and there was lush foliage everywhere along the riverbanks.
He was lying in a patch of papyrus plants near the Nile, the scent of papyrus and lotus blossom thick in the air around him, when there was a familiar prickling at the edge of his aura. Aziraphale sat up. A familiar-looking black snake was languidly slithering towards him, forked tongue flickering in and out.
"Get thee behind me, vile serpent.”
The snake, quite close by now, paused, emitting a series of short hisses as though having trouble breathing. Aziraphale was concerned for a moment until he realised that Crawly was laughing. He frowned. “What’s so funny?”
Crawly drew himself up. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that line ssaid sso… boredly. Or, what’ss the word? Lethargically.”
Aziraphale didn’t bother replying. He merely watched as Crawly changed shape, outline shifting into that of a darkly handsome young man, the whiteness of his pleated overskirt almost painfully bright. A gold necklace glittered at his throat.
“I thought evil was supposed to be subtle.”
“It is. Doesn’t mean evil can’t look good.” Crawly stretched sinuously. “Have you seen the marketplace in Bubastis? It’s full of heat and colour and song, and you can buy anything there. And I do mean anything,” he winked.
Aziraphale pulled at the flexible stem of a papyrus plant. “So why come to Waset*, Crawly?”
Crawly made a face. “I told you, don’t call me that.”
“Well, what should I call you, then?”
Crawly shrugged. “Not sure yet. Be a good host and show me around, will you?”
“So you can undo all the good I’ve done?”
“Aziraphale, I passed two brothels and a pair of drunk men going at it on the way here and I didn’t have to do a thing. I meant show me the good taverns.”
“Fine.” Aziraphale sighed. There was only so much he could do, after all.
* Waset was the old Egyptian name for Thebes, now Luxor.
~
Crawly tugged at a lock of Aziraphale’s dark hair, and the angel pulled away sharply.
“Black hair does not suit you, Aziraphale.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Cr - demon.”
“Hey, there’s no need to get stuffy about it - angel.”
“I am not stuffy, and was calling me an angel really meant to be an insult?”
“Well, technically, you are one, though that’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s not like you’re perfect.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked icily.
Crowley held his hands up. “Hey, coming from a foul spawn of the Pit, that’s a compliment.”
Aziraphale sniffed, turning towards the cat now twining around his legs. He smiled, kneeling and holding out a hand. The cat nuzzled it, and he scratched beneath her chin. “Well, aren’t you a beauty.”
The cat pulled back, regarding the angel for a moment. Aziraphale frowned; there was something off about this cat. He gasped and leaped backwards, almost knocking Crowley over, as the cat changed, outline shimmering and flowing into that of a bare-breasted young woman with a cat’s head and tail. She blinked, whiskers twitching, seeming amused at the look on Aziraphale’s face.
“Thank you,” she purred, raising a hand softer and more velveteen than any mortal woman’s to Aziraphale’s red cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Aziraphale squeaked, and Bast laughed, before her eyes flickered to Crawly.
“Crawly. Was Bubastis not to your liking?”
Crawly grinned. “Enjoyed every minute. But other towns to see, other people to tempt, you know how it is.”
She nodded, tail twitching. The strong sunlight glittered off the gold necklaces around her neck, the pendants on her chest, and Aziraphale glanced at the pendants before hurriedly resuming staring at her face.
“Come. I will show you Waset.”
They fell in step behind the cat goddess. Aziraphale was fiddling with his tunic; oh, he knew the pagan gods and goddesses were there, of course, but he had never met any until now. He felt uncomfortable, and the heat suddenly seemed a lot worse.
Crawly paused. “What’s that?”
The high voice of a young boy could be heard, raised in pain. They turned a corner, and saw a man hitting a young boy repeatedly with a switch; the boy was sobbing, tears and snot streaming down his face, as old scabs were reopened, promising his father that he’d be more careful with the pottery in future, please, please stop.
Aziraphale started forward, but Crawly caught his arm.
“Don’t.”
“Let go, Crawly! How can he hit his own son like that, for something so trivial?”
“It’s not his son,” Crawly said softly, and Aziraphale blinked. “He knows it’s not his son, and his wife knows he knows, but the boy has no idea.” His tone was oddly flat.
“But he can’t punish an innocent child for his mother’s sins!”
“He can and he will.”
Bast was silent and unmoving, only her tail twitching as the man dismissed his wife’s son with a stinging slap. The boy limped into his house, scrubbing at his eyes with a dirty hand.
Bast flicked an ear as a heavily pregnant cat came out from the shade of a nearby date-palm, slowly making it way towards the man, whose harsh features instantly softened. He knelt, gently stroking the cat, and the three unseen observers could hear it purring.
Aziraphale’s own face twisted. “What a hypocrite.”
Bast shrugged fluidly. “He is human. They contradict themselves, all the time. Come. I know a good inn where you might like to stay, Crawly, and perhaps your friend might like to join you. Nefertem swears by it, when he walks among the humans.”
~
They sat cross-legged near the flowing waters of the Nile, sharing a jug of rich, dark beer. Aziraphale had been wary at first, but it did taste good, and he was feeling pleasantly hazy.
Crawly took a long draught. “Bast, I’ve been wondering something.”
Bast looked up from the kitten asleep in her lap. “Ask.”
Crawly gestured at the Nile. “I’ve been hearing about this river god. Hapi. Some tell me the river god is the goddess Hapi, with the bearded head of a man - poor girl, really, aren’t you lot allowed to shave? - but all other, y’know, woman parts, and apparently she spurts out two streams of water from her vagina.” He smirked at Aziraphale’s blush. “But I’ve also been told of the flood god Hapi, who’s a guy as far as they know, but he apparently has one huge breast from which water spurts. Another stream comes from something in his hand. I forget.” He waved dismissively. “So tell me. What is Hapi? River goddess or flood god? Male or female?”
Bast laughed. “Mrr. Why can’t Hapi be both?”
~*~
Anglo-French trenches, Somme, France
It was raining.
It was cold, and gloomy, and rainy, and muddy, and the smell of death and destruction hung in the air. Anthony Crowley was reminded of Hell, and he grimaced. If a demon felt at home somewhere, it wasn’t a good sign.
Mud squelched in his boots with every step, and he gritted his teeth and miracled it away. He pulled off his helmet, and rainwater ran in rivulets down his neck. Crowley wanted to change into a snake, curl up in a warm corner and sleep, but considering the way things were going, he’d be blown up by the end of the week anyway.* He wondered how Aziraphale was doing, in another muddy trench halfway across the battlefield. You really shouldn’t be in this sort of place, angel.
“Captain Crowley, sir?”
He turned, putting his helmet back on and trying not to hiss from the strain of keeping his eyes human - sunglasses were no use here, they didn’t last more than two minutes in battle. “What is it, O’Leary?”
O’Leary gestured to where the soldiers were gathered, opening their rations. “Time for the rat-packs, sir.”
Crowley nodded. “Oh, joy. More bully beef and bread. Come on, then, private.”
He glanced sideways at the young man beside him fiddling with the dog tags around his neck, at the faint sprinkling of spots on his otherwise smooth cheeks and the strangely pretty, almost petulant lips. “How old are you, O’Leary?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Crowley snorted, accepting his food and glaring at it. It obediently tasted much better than it had any right to. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Private Wilkes, I don’t recall Anzac biscuits being part of our rations, but I do recall that Australian officer yesterday, so I’m not going to ask. Private O’Leary, come over here.”
O’Leary did so. Crowley fixed him with a long look. “We both know you’re lying. How old are you?”
O’Leary bit his lip. “Sixteen in November, sir.”
Crowley nodded. “And you’re here because…? Don’t tell me how you did it. Tell me why.”
The young man - no, boy, shrugged. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve always been fascinated by war. I always wanted to fight, and I used to wish the days of knights and quests were still here. The days of glory. I’ve got a chance at that now. It’s different, but it’s still the same.”
“You’re an idiot, kid. Look around you. See any glory?”
“I think glory’s something you make for yourself, sir, not loot off a battlefield.”
“Glory’s a fairy tale told to little boys so they’ll want to go and fight and die just for some rich high-up arsehole who got insulted. Look, this is no place for a kid. I can pull some strings, get you sent home -”
“No, sir. Please. I want to fight.”
Crowley just stared at the young private in front of him, standing stiffly, eyes pleading with him not to give him away. What was it about humans that made them glorify death and destruction and turn suicidal? He’d seen many wars - he’d started quite a few - but he’d had nothing to do with this, and the boy wearing a man’s uniform was too young for all this. They all were.
“Go and eat, private,” he said, not unkindly.
O’Leary nodded, turning, and then paused. “Even the birds want to fight, it seems.”
“What?” Crowley followed the soldier’s line of sight to a large black crow, slowly fluttering down towards the ground on tattered wings and limping. Blood dripped from its neck, which had a rope tied around it.
“Badbh.” Shit.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go eat and try to get some rest, private.” Your ancestors, a very long time ago, believed that seeing her before a battle meant you’d die, he wanted to say. When the boy had gone, he turned, and caught sight of a striking redheaded woman standing some distance away. Nobody else appeared to have noticed her. She turned, caught his eye, and winked, mouthing Tomorrow.
*Most people fight to survive. Crowley fought not to deal with the amount of paperwork and red tape involved in trying to get a new body from Hell.
~
The next night, Crowley sat alone, unheedless of the mud soaking into his uniform - it couldn’t get even more uncomfortable, after all. In his hand was a muddy, bloodstained dog tag bearing the name Sean O’Leary.
All around him, the survivors sat in huddles, and there was a hush spread across the trenches like some great looming bird of prey perched over them. Or, perhaps, a looming crow with a rope around her neck, blood dripping down dark feathers.
The demon in Hell looked up, and the woman he saw this time was naked, short and stumpy, her grey skin blending in with her surroundings. Her eyes met his, and she raised her hand to her face; the hook-ring on her finger tore at the pale flesh of her cheek, spilling ruby-red blood.
Crowley stared Despair in the face, fingers absentmindedly playing legerdemain with the tag. He’d been on a lot of battlefields, and he’d seen Despair many times, but he didn’t think there was a personification of Glory; if there was, he’d never met her.
He tucked the tag into his pocket, and turned away.
~*~
The Dreaming
A respectful hush permeated the mausoleum, broken only by the high, clear voice of the child speaking.
“I had an awful nightmare once,” the girl recalled, clutching her rag-doll to her chest. “I was lost, in this huge, awful forest. It was dark, and scary, like the trees were reaching out to grab me, and I thought I was going to get lost and never wake up.” Her eyes were huge in her pale face. “And then I was in this huge desert, and I was even more scared. Then I saw him. He was really tall, and dark, and he had weird eyes, like stars. But he was nice, even though he didn’t smile. He asked me what I was doing there, and I said I was lost, and he said he’d bring me home. Then he took my hand, and then I woke up. And I wasn’t scared anymore.”
Aziraphale glanced at the demon by his side. Crowley was sitting stoically, jaw set, staring straight ahead through his sunglasses, and Aziraphale sighed and pressed his hand.
“I never thought he’d snuff it. I mean, he was always there, you know?” Crowley murmured.
“There’s still Daniel,” Aziraphale pointed out, softly.
“Yeah, but he’s not Morpheus. He had style.”
“Dream isn’t dead. He can’t die. I mean, you can’t kill dreams. It’s like trying to kill hope.”
Crowley peered at the angel over the top of his sunglasses. “You’ve been talking to Matthew, I see. Look, it doesn’t matter that Dream of the Endless can’t die. Morpheus died. That’s why we’re here.” He returned to his previous stiff position, glaring straight ahead. “He’s a bloody point of view, sure, but he was still a he. A person.”
“We’ll have to meet Daniel soon, you know,” Aziraphale said quietly.
“He’s not Morpheus. I mean, did you see what he’s done to the palace?”
“I know, dear boy. But he is Dream, and we’ll have to work with him or stop using dreams as a medium.”
Crowley sighed. “He wasn’t a bad guy, all things considered. I don’t get it. Couldn’t he have just -” he snapped his fingers “made the Furies go away, just like that?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “Lucien said there were limits to how much he could let himself change.”
“We changed.”
“That’s different.”
Crowley pointed to the golden-haired man seated some rows down. “The Devil himself gave up his seat in Hell. The Antichrist decided he didn’t want to be the Antichrist. You indulge in Gluttony and Sloth and Covetousness and now Lust on a regular basis. Destruction resigned. And you’re telling me he couldn’t change?”
“And you embrace Charity and Hope and Fortitude, and you can even Love, now. I think he didn’t want to change. Perhaps he feared he was becoming too human.”
Crowley just looked at him. “And? Sure, humans are idiots, and they find every possible way to screw up their lives, but they’ve got some good things going for them too. Anyway, this was Morpheus. How human could he get?”
“As you yourself complain often, dear, humans are stubborn. I suppose that rubbed off on him, at least.”
“Ssh!” Wisakedjak, behind them, poked the angel’s shoulder rather hard. Aziraphale sighed, settling down.
“I still don’t like him,” Crowley mumbled.
“Daniel? You haven’t even met him. Give him a chance.”
“Hmph.”
And they sat there, as the voices of old gods and new gods, children and ancients, washed over them in tribute, and pondered dreams and humanity.
~*~
Happy Holidays, prestissima, from your Secret Writer!
For: prestissima
From: A Secret!
Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley
Rating: PG-13
Historical fic, Sandman crossover.
Merry Christmas, pretissima! I’m sorry I couldn’t fulfill every prompt ☹ but I tried and I think I fulfilled about two and a half. xP
Disclaimer: Crowley and Aziraphale are from Terry Pratchett’s and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens.
Egypt
Aziraphale quite liked Egypt.
He’d been a little wary at first, but he’d gotten used to the sun quite quickly, and after the initial sunburn had decided that a quick miracle or two wouldn’t hurt. The flood waters were receding, and there was lush foliage everywhere along the riverbanks.
He was lying in a patch of papyrus plants near the Nile, the scent of papyrus and lotus blossom thick in the air around him, when there was a familiar prickling at the edge of his aura. Aziraphale sat up. A familiar-looking black snake was languidly slithering towards him, forked tongue flickering in and out.
"Get thee behind me, vile serpent.”
The snake, quite close by now, paused, emitting a series of short hisses as though having trouble breathing. Aziraphale was concerned for a moment until he realised that Crawly was laughing. He frowned. “What’s so funny?”
Crawly drew himself up. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that line ssaid sso… boredly. Or, what’ss the word? Lethargically.”
Aziraphale didn’t bother replying. He merely watched as Crawly changed shape, outline shifting into that of a darkly handsome young man, the whiteness of his pleated overskirt almost painfully bright. A gold necklace glittered at his throat.
“I thought evil was supposed to be subtle.”
“It is. Doesn’t mean evil can’t look good.” Crawly stretched sinuously. “Have you seen the marketplace in Bubastis? It’s full of heat and colour and song, and you can buy anything there. And I do mean anything,” he winked.
Aziraphale pulled at the flexible stem of a papyrus plant. “So why come to Waset*, Crawly?”
Crawly made a face. “I told you, don’t call me that.”
“Well, what should I call you, then?”
Crawly shrugged. “Not sure yet. Be a good host and show me around, will you?”
“So you can undo all the good I’ve done?”
“Aziraphale, I passed two brothels and a pair of drunk men going at it on the way here and I didn’t have to do a thing. I meant show me the good taverns.”
“Fine.” Aziraphale sighed. There was only so much he could do, after all.
* Waset was the old Egyptian name for Thebes, now Luxor.
~
Crawly tugged at a lock of Aziraphale’s dark hair, and the angel pulled away sharply.
“Black hair does not suit you, Aziraphale.”
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Cr - demon.”
“Hey, there’s no need to get stuffy about it - angel.”
“I am not stuffy, and was calling me an angel really meant to be an insult?”
“Well, technically, you are one, though that’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s not like you’re perfect.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Aziraphale asked icily.
Crowley held his hands up. “Hey, coming from a foul spawn of the Pit, that’s a compliment.”
Aziraphale sniffed, turning towards the cat now twining around his legs. He smiled, kneeling and holding out a hand. The cat nuzzled it, and he scratched beneath her chin. “Well, aren’t you a beauty.”
The cat pulled back, regarding the angel for a moment. Aziraphale frowned; there was something off about this cat. He gasped and leaped backwards, almost knocking Crowley over, as the cat changed, outline shimmering and flowing into that of a bare-breasted young woman with a cat’s head and tail. She blinked, whiskers twitching, seeming amused at the look on Aziraphale’s face.
“Thank you,” she purred, raising a hand softer and more velveteen than any mortal woman’s to Aziraphale’s red cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Aziraphale squeaked, and Bast laughed, before her eyes flickered to Crawly.
“Crawly. Was Bubastis not to your liking?”
Crawly grinned. “Enjoyed every minute. But other towns to see, other people to tempt, you know how it is.”
She nodded, tail twitching. The strong sunlight glittered off the gold necklaces around her neck, the pendants on her chest, and Aziraphale glanced at the pendants before hurriedly resuming staring at her face.
“Come. I will show you Waset.”
They fell in step behind the cat goddess. Aziraphale was fiddling with his tunic; oh, he knew the pagan gods and goddesses were there, of course, but he had never met any until now. He felt uncomfortable, and the heat suddenly seemed a lot worse.
Crawly paused. “What’s that?”
The high voice of a young boy could be heard, raised in pain. They turned a corner, and saw a man hitting a young boy repeatedly with a switch; the boy was sobbing, tears and snot streaming down his face, as old scabs were reopened, promising his father that he’d be more careful with the pottery in future, please, please stop.
Aziraphale started forward, but Crawly caught his arm.
“Don’t.”
“Let go, Crawly! How can he hit his own son like that, for something so trivial?”
“It’s not his son,” Crawly said softly, and Aziraphale blinked. “He knows it’s not his son, and his wife knows he knows, but the boy has no idea.” His tone was oddly flat.
“But he can’t punish an innocent child for his mother’s sins!”
“He can and he will.”
Bast was silent and unmoving, only her tail twitching as the man dismissed his wife’s son with a stinging slap. The boy limped into his house, scrubbing at his eyes with a dirty hand.
Bast flicked an ear as a heavily pregnant cat came out from the shade of a nearby date-palm, slowly making it way towards the man, whose harsh features instantly softened. He knelt, gently stroking the cat, and the three unseen observers could hear it purring.
Aziraphale’s own face twisted. “What a hypocrite.”
Bast shrugged fluidly. “He is human. They contradict themselves, all the time. Come. I know a good inn where you might like to stay, Crawly, and perhaps your friend might like to join you. Nefertem swears by it, when he walks among the humans.”
~
They sat cross-legged near the flowing waters of the Nile, sharing a jug of rich, dark beer. Aziraphale had been wary at first, but it did taste good, and he was feeling pleasantly hazy.
Crawly took a long draught. “Bast, I’ve been wondering something.”
Bast looked up from the kitten asleep in her lap. “Ask.”
Crawly gestured at the Nile. “I’ve been hearing about this river god. Hapi. Some tell me the river god is the goddess Hapi, with the bearded head of a man - poor girl, really, aren’t you lot allowed to shave? - but all other, y’know, woman parts, and apparently she spurts out two streams of water from her vagina.” He smirked at Aziraphale’s blush. “But I’ve also been told of the flood god Hapi, who’s a guy as far as they know, but he apparently has one huge breast from which water spurts. Another stream comes from something in his hand. I forget.” He waved dismissively. “So tell me. What is Hapi? River goddess or flood god? Male or female?”
Bast laughed. “Mrr. Why can’t Hapi be both?”
~*~
Anglo-French trenches, Somme, France
It was raining.
It was cold, and gloomy, and rainy, and muddy, and the smell of death and destruction hung in the air. Anthony Crowley was reminded of Hell, and he grimaced. If a demon felt at home somewhere, it wasn’t a good sign.
Mud squelched in his boots with every step, and he gritted his teeth and miracled it away. He pulled off his helmet, and rainwater ran in rivulets down his neck. Crowley wanted to change into a snake, curl up in a warm corner and sleep, but considering the way things were going, he’d be blown up by the end of the week anyway.* He wondered how Aziraphale was doing, in another muddy trench halfway across the battlefield. You really shouldn’t be in this sort of place, angel.
“Captain Crowley, sir?”
He turned, putting his helmet back on and trying not to hiss from the strain of keeping his eyes human - sunglasses were no use here, they didn’t last more than two minutes in battle. “What is it, O’Leary?”
O’Leary gestured to where the soldiers were gathered, opening their rations. “Time for the rat-packs, sir.”
Crowley nodded. “Oh, joy. More bully beef and bread. Come on, then, private.”
He glanced sideways at the young man beside him fiddling with the dog tags around his neck, at the faint sprinkling of spots on his otherwise smooth cheeks and the strangely pretty, almost petulant lips. “How old are you, O’Leary?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Crowley snorted, accepting his food and glaring at it. It obediently tasted much better than it had any right to. “Pull the other one, it’s got bells on. Private Wilkes, I don’t recall Anzac biscuits being part of our rations, but I do recall that Australian officer yesterday, so I’m not going to ask. Private O’Leary, come over here.”
O’Leary did so. Crowley fixed him with a long look. “We both know you’re lying. How old are you?”
O’Leary bit his lip. “Sixteen in November, sir.”
Crowley nodded. “And you’re here because…? Don’t tell me how you did it. Tell me why.”
The young man - no, boy, shrugged. “Ever since I was a boy, I’ve always been fascinated by war. I always wanted to fight, and I used to wish the days of knights and quests were still here. The days of glory. I’ve got a chance at that now. It’s different, but it’s still the same.”
“You’re an idiot, kid. Look around you. See any glory?”
“I think glory’s something you make for yourself, sir, not loot off a battlefield.”
“Glory’s a fairy tale told to little boys so they’ll want to go and fight and die just for some rich high-up arsehole who got insulted. Look, this is no place for a kid. I can pull some strings, get you sent home -”
“No, sir. Please. I want to fight.”
Crowley just stared at the young private in front of him, standing stiffly, eyes pleading with him not to give him away. What was it about humans that made them glorify death and destruction and turn suicidal? He’d seen many wars - he’d started quite a few - but he’d had nothing to do with this, and the boy wearing a man’s uniform was too young for all this. They all were.
“Go and eat, private,” he said, not unkindly.
O’Leary nodded, turning, and then paused. “Even the birds want to fight, it seems.”
“What?” Crowley followed the soldier’s line of sight to a large black crow, slowly fluttering down towards the ground on tattered wings and limping. Blood dripped from its neck, which had a rope tied around it.
“Badbh.” Shit.
“What?”
“Nothing. Go eat and try to get some rest, private.” Your ancestors, a very long time ago, believed that seeing her before a battle meant you’d die, he wanted to say. When the boy had gone, he turned, and caught sight of a striking redheaded woman standing some distance away. Nobody else appeared to have noticed her. She turned, caught his eye, and winked, mouthing Tomorrow.
*Most people fight to survive. Crowley fought not to deal with the amount of paperwork and red tape involved in trying to get a new body from Hell.
~
The next night, Crowley sat alone, unheedless of the mud soaking into his uniform - it couldn’t get even more uncomfortable, after all. In his hand was a muddy, bloodstained dog tag bearing the name Sean O’Leary.
All around him, the survivors sat in huddles, and there was a hush spread across the trenches like some great looming bird of prey perched over them. Or, perhaps, a looming crow with a rope around her neck, blood dripping down dark feathers.
The demon in Hell looked up, and the woman he saw this time was naked, short and stumpy, her grey skin blending in with her surroundings. Her eyes met his, and she raised her hand to her face; the hook-ring on her finger tore at the pale flesh of her cheek, spilling ruby-red blood.
Crowley stared Despair in the face, fingers absentmindedly playing legerdemain with the tag. He’d been on a lot of battlefields, and he’d seen Despair many times, but he didn’t think there was a personification of Glory; if there was, he’d never met her.
He tucked the tag into his pocket, and turned away.
~*~
The Dreaming
A respectful hush permeated the mausoleum, broken only by the high, clear voice of the child speaking.
“I had an awful nightmare once,” the girl recalled, clutching her rag-doll to her chest. “I was lost, in this huge, awful forest. It was dark, and scary, like the trees were reaching out to grab me, and I thought I was going to get lost and never wake up.” Her eyes were huge in her pale face. “And then I was in this huge desert, and I was even more scared. Then I saw him. He was really tall, and dark, and he had weird eyes, like stars. But he was nice, even though he didn’t smile. He asked me what I was doing there, and I said I was lost, and he said he’d bring me home. Then he took my hand, and then I woke up. And I wasn’t scared anymore.”
Aziraphale glanced at the demon by his side. Crowley was sitting stoically, jaw set, staring straight ahead through his sunglasses, and Aziraphale sighed and pressed his hand.
“I never thought he’d snuff it. I mean, he was always there, you know?” Crowley murmured.
“There’s still Daniel,” Aziraphale pointed out, softly.
“Yeah, but he’s not Morpheus. He had style.”
“Dream isn’t dead. He can’t die. I mean, you can’t kill dreams. It’s like trying to kill hope.”
Crowley peered at the angel over the top of his sunglasses. “You’ve been talking to Matthew, I see. Look, it doesn’t matter that Dream of the Endless can’t die. Morpheus died. That’s why we’re here.” He returned to his previous stiff position, glaring straight ahead. “He’s a bloody point of view, sure, but he was still a he. A person.”
“We’ll have to meet Daniel soon, you know,” Aziraphale said quietly.
“He’s not Morpheus. I mean, did you see what he’s done to the palace?”
“I know, dear boy. But he is Dream, and we’ll have to work with him or stop using dreams as a medium.”
Crowley sighed. “He wasn’t a bad guy, all things considered. I don’t get it. Couldn’t he have just -” he snapped his fingers “made the Furies go away, just like that?”
Aziraphale shrugged. “Lucien said there were limits to how much he could let himself change.”
“We changed.”
“That’s different.”
Crowley pointed to the golden-haired man seated some rows down. “The Devil himself gave up his seat in Hell. The Antichrist decided he didn’t want to be the Antichrist. You indulge in Gluttony and Sloth and Covetousness and now Lust on a regular basis. Destruction resigned. And you’re telling me he couldn’t change?”
“And you embrace Charity and Hope and Fortitude, and you can even Love, now. I think he didn’t want to change. Perhaps he feared he was becoming too human.”
Crowley just looked at him. “And? Sure, humans are idiots, and they find every possible way to screw up their lives, but they’ve got some good things going for them too. Anyway, this was Morpheus. How human could he get?”
“As you yourself complain often, dear, humans are stubborn. I suppose that rubbed off on him, at least.”
“Ssh!” Wisakedjak, behind them, poked the angel’s shoulder rather hard. Aziraphale sighed, settling down.
“I still don’t like him,” Crowley mumbled.
“Daniel? You haven’t even met him. Give him a chance.”
“Hmph.”
And they sat there, as the voices of old gods and new gods, children and ancients, washed over them in tribute, and pondered dreams and humanity.
~*~
Happy Holidays, prestissima, from your Secret Writer!