Happy Holidays, daughtersofisis!
Title: From Heaven
Recipient: daughtersofisis
Author: savethedistress
Rating: PG-ish for the word 'Hell' and some oogy descriptions.
Pairing: Sorta Aziraphale/Crowley . . . if you squint and turn your head precisely 36 degrees to the left.
Prompt: "So schreitet in dem engen Bretterhaus
Den ganzen Kreis der Schöpfung aus
Und wandelt mit bedächt'ger Schrelle
Vom Himmel durch die Welt zur Hölle."
("Within the narrow confines of our boards [as in, boards of a stage]
you must traverse the circle of creation
and move along in measured haste
from Heaven through the world to Hell.")
- Faust, Goethe, II. 239-242
Author's Note: Er, this got a bit mixed up as far as order goes, but the basic idea is there. Note that I have never ever read Faust. But happy holidays nonetheless, daughtersofisis! I hope you enjoy your gift!
In the beginning, it was crowded. Nobody ever expects this of Heaven, but it's true. There was an angel for every job, and it takes a lot of work to construct the universe. The thing about celestial space is that while it is large, it is not infinite. Everything (and everyone) has its limits; nothing is infinite. Celestial space may come close, but the number of things to be done came closer. Certain older texts will tell you that the wisdom or mercy of this or that God is infinite, but this is only true because humans have a very hard time coming up with a word for something that comes extremely close to infinite without resorting to math. And religion and math have never been on the best of terms.
But the point is: it was crowded. The Heavenly city, most are surprised to find, is much like any other city. That is, there are plenty of folks willing to do the work, and even more willing to stand around telling others what to do, but very few willing to do the cleaning up. It was dirty. It was cramped. And it was hot.
These are the sorts of conditions that breed dissent. But then again, most conditions are.
Aziraphale was one of the few willing to do the cleaning up. His first day on the job he was issued a broom and a blue uniform with a tiny badge over the breast pocket, the type you half-expect to read 'Frank'. In actuality, it said 'Azirapha'.*
He couldn't place where he first saw the angel with the golden eyes. It seemed like he had always been there; he was easy to see, the way he stood at the edge of a crowd.
What Aziraphale did remember was the first time he really noticed him. Aziraphale himself had been sweeping, and the other angel had been standing, as always, on the outskirts of a group. The group was small, but that only made his slight distance all the more noticeable. Someone was standing in the middle of the group - every group has a center - and was talking to the others, addressing them in hushed tones. Aziraphale recognised him immediately: Lucifer. Aziraphale had heard all the stories - that he was God's favourite, the first created, the most beautiful, the most angelic of all the angels - but he had a hard time believing that anyone who carried themselves with the air of a second Holy Father was anything more than a bloated ego. Though at the moment he was speaking to the group, not as a king addressing his subjects, but as a co-conspirator. He was giving some kind of speech, but covertly, his eyes warm and personable and his whispered tones causing everyone around him to lean in, ears cocked. Lucifer was charismatic, you had to give him that.
The rest of the group's obvious involvement in Lucifer's words made the golden-eyed angel stick out like a crooked halo at mass. He hovered on the edge of the brave listening few, as if afraid to take a step too far and truly involve himself, but still curious enough to want to listen, to not want to leave.
Aziraphale didn't know what it was that drew him to the other angel. Maybe it was some divine force pulling down on the warp and weft of space and time, forcing two objects into orbit around each other, maybe it was some curious magnetic force, maybe it was chance. Regardless, once the angel had caught his attention, it was impossible not to notice him. Aziraphale passed him day after day, flashes of gold at the edge of slowly growing crowds in the hustle and bustle of the city. And at every passage, he felt a pull, sharp and constant, directing his step closer and closer to the other angel, but never close enough to truly interact.
Then came the war, and a sword being roughly shoved into his hands, and a splatter of blood across his nametag.
The last time he saw the gold-eyed angel was as he fell, arms curving upwards . . . a star falling like dice cast from a careless hand.
- - - - -
The first thing he felt was the burning. People tend to think of Hell as fiery, and this is true, but it is not the red-yellow-orange oil paint splatter fire that shows up in so many medieval prints and stained-glass windows. Hell is devoid of colour - fire that hot burns only white, and anything touched by it turns only black. It took, by Crowley's estimation, fewer than two seconds for his wings and robes to turn black, for his hair to singe and his skin to char and crack - white fissures in black soot.
The worst part was the noise - an unholy heavenly chorus shrieking, tongueless, from scorched throats and cracked, blackened lips.
It was like some frantic dance - writhing, screaming black figures in the midst of bursts of white-hot light. A few figures stood frozen, paralysed with the pain, bodies contorted and soundless mouths gaping. In light that bright your pupils shrink down to almost nothing - the Fallen stared with white eyes into the middle of it all.
There stood Lucifer, burning slower, brighter than the rest, wings outstretched with feathers turning red to black, singing, crumbling away, the only colour in a monochrome world. He spread his arms wide and smiled, more brilliant than the flames.
Welcome.
- - - - -
The easiest way to identify a demon is by the eyes. An experience like Hell doesn't leave you, no matter how far you are from it.
Hell does not so much change someone as reveal him - it cuts him open, vivisects, dissects, flays out the skin and pins it to a table under an overhead lamp with little labeling flags in all the important parts. Coming back from Hell, everything feels like too much - the colours, the sounds. And especially the silences.
Crawly didn't think he would ever adjust to the silence.
The only benefit of having gone to Hell is that afterwards, nothing much phases you. And so when a flaming sword crashed into the dirt in front of him, he barely raised a snakey eyebrow.
"Oh! My goodness! I'm so sorry, I just keep dropping this thing! It's a bit unwieldy, you see, and I haven't quite gotten the meas- "
Crawly looked the angel straight in the eye.
". . . Oh. Oh. You're one of . . . oh. Er. Begone, fell beast! Lest I strike thee verily across thine head with a cleaving, er . . . cleave."
"How did you end up with this job?" Crawly grinned, his tongue flicking between his teeth.
"Pardon?" The angel looked vaguely affronted, as if he thought he should be offended, but just wasn't sure why.
"Well, it's obvious this isn't what you used to do, is it? Any Principality worth his salt would at least be able to hold his sword properly. So who got sick and landed you in this position?"
The angel drew himself up to his full height** and puffed out his chest. "I'll have you know, serpent, that I received this position on the basis of sheer merit."
"And?" Crawly slithered a bit closer.
"And . . . well. We were a bit short-handed, honestly, with all the naming and the world-beginning and whatnot, and . . . I wandered into the office at the wrong time, I guess. And then Gabriel was yelling at me that if I wouldn't get out from under his feet, he would get me out from under them himself and . . . now I'm here." Aziraphale shrugged. "You know how things go."
"I guessss I do," said Crawly, repressing a chuckle. "So, how about them humans, eh?" He looked up at the sky.
It was a nice day.
- - - - -
* Standard-issue name badges are only so large, even in a city where the average name runs between four and twenty-two syllables long.
**About 70 centimetres on his tiptoes.
Recipient: daughtersofisis
Author: savethedistress
Rating: PG-ish for the word 'Hell' and some oogy descriptions.
Pairing: Sorta Aziraphale/Crowley . . . if you squint and turn your head precisely 36 degrees to the left.
Prompt: "So schreitet in dem engen Bretterhaus
Den ganzen Kreis der Schöpfung aus
Und wandelt mit bedächt'ger Schrelle
Vom Himmel durch die Welt zur Hölle."
("Within the narrow confines of our boards [as in, boards of a stage]
you must traverse the circle of creation
and move along in measured haste
from Heaven through the world to Hell.")
- Faust, Goethe, II. 239-242
Author's Note: Er, this got a bit mixed up as far as order goes, but the basic idea is there. Note that I have never ever read Faust. But happy holidays nonetheless, daughtersofisis! I hope you enjoy your gift!
In the beginning, it was crowded. Nobody ever expects this of Heaven, but it's true. There was an angel for every job, and it takes a lot of work to construct the universe. The thing about celestial space is that while it is large, it is not infinite. Everything (and everyone) has its limits; nothing is infinite. Celestial space may come close, but the number of things to be done came closer. Certain older texts will tell you that the wisdom or mercy of this or that God is infinite, but this is only true because humans have a very hard time coming up with a word for something that comes extremely close to infinite without resorting to math. And religion and math have never been on the best of terms.
But the point is: it was crowded. The Heavenly city, most are surprised to find, is much like any other city. That is, there are plenty of folks willing to do the work, and even more willing to stand around telling others what to do, but very few willing to do the cleaning up. It was dirty. It was cramped. And it was hot.
These are the sorts of conditions that breed dissent. But then again, most conditions are.
Aziraphale was one of the few willing to do the cleaning up. His first day on the job he was issued a broom and a blue uniform with a tiny badge over the breast pocket, the type you half-expect to read 'Frank'. In actuality, it said 'Azirapha'.*
He couldn't place where he first saw the angel with the golden eyes. It seemed like he had always been there; he was easy to see, the way he stood at the edge of a crowd.
What Aziraphale did remember was the first time he really noticed him. Aziraphale himself had been sweeping, and the other angel had been standing, as always, on the outskirts of a group. The group was small, but that only made his slight distance all the more noticeable. Someone was standing in the middle of the group - every group has a center - and was talking to the others, addressing them in hushed tones. Aziraphale recognised him immediately: Lucifer. Aziraphale had heard all the stories - that he was God's favourite, the first created, the most beautiful, the most angelic of all the angels - but he had a hard time believing that anyone who carried themselves with the air of a second Holy Father was anything more than a bloated ego. Though at the moment he was speaking to the group, not as a king addressing his subjects, but as a co-conspirator. He was giving some kind of speech, but covertly, his eyes warm and personable and his whispered tones causing everyone around him to lean in, ears cocked. Lucifer was charismatic, you had to give him that.
The rest of the group's obvious involvement in Lucifer's words made the golden-eyed angel stick out like a crooked halo at mass. He hovered on the edge of the brave listening few, as if afraid to take a step too far and truly involve himself, but still curious enough to want to listen, to not want to leave.
Aziraphale didn't know what it was that drew him to the other angel. Maybe it was some divine force pulling down on the warp and weft of space and time, forcing two objects into orbit around each other, maybe it was some curious magnetic force, maybe it was chance. Regardless, once the angel had caught his attention, it was impossible not to notice him. Aziraphale passed him day after day, flashes of gold at the edge of slowly growing crowds in the hustle and bustle of the city. And at every passage, he felt a pull, sharp and constant, directing his step closer and closer to the other angel, but never close enough to truly interact.
Then came the war, and a sword being roughly shoved into his hands, and a splatter of blood across his nametag.
The last time he saw the gold-eyed angel was as he fell, arms curving upwards . . . a star falling like dice cast from a careless hand.
- - - - -
The first thing he felt was the burning. People tend to think of Hell as fiery, and this is true, but it is not the red-yellow-orange oil paint splatter fire that shows up in so many medieval prints and stained-glass windows. Hell is devoid of colour - fire that hot burns only white, and anything touched by it turns only black. It took, by Crowley's estimation, fewer than two seconds for his wings and robes to turn black, for his hair to singe and his skin to char and crack - white fissures in black soot.
The worst part was the noise - an unholy heavenly chorus shrieking, tongueless, from scorched throats and cracked, blackened lips.
It was like some frantic dance - writhing, screaming black figures in the midst of bursts of white-hot light. A few figures stood frozen, paralysed with the pain, bodies contorted and soundless mouths gaping. In light that bright your pupils shrink down to almost nothing - the Fallen stared with white eyes into the middle of it all.
There stood Lucifer, burning slower, brighter than the rest, wings outstretched with feathers turning red to black, singing, crumbling away, the only colour in a monochrome world. He spread his arms wide and smiled, more brilliant than the flames.
Welcome.
- - - - -
The easiest way to identify a demon is by the eyes. An experience like Hell doesn't leave you, no matter how far you are from it.
Hell does not so much change someone as reveal him - it cuts him open, vivisects, dissects, flays out the skin and pins it to a table under an overhead lamp with little labeling flags in all the important parts. Coming back from Hell, everything feels like too much - the colours, the sounds. And especially the silences.
Crawly didn't think he would ever adjust to the silence.
The only benefit of having gone to Hell is that afterwards, nothing much phases you. And so when a flaming sword crashed into the dirt in front of him, he barely raised a snakey eyebrow.
"Oh! My goodness! I'm so sorry, I just keep dropping this thing! It's a bit unwieldy, you see, and I haven't quite gotten the meas- "
Crawly looked the angel straight in the eye.
". . . Oh. Oh. You're one of . . . oh. Er. Begone, fell beast! Lest I strike thee verily across thine head with a cleaving, er . . . cleave."
"How did you end up with this job?" Crawly grinned, his tongue flicking between his teeth.
"Pardon?" The angel looked vaguely affronted, as if he thought he should be offended, but just wasn't sure why.
"Well, it's obvious this isn't what you used to do, is it? Any Principality worth his salt would at least be able to hold his sword properly. So who got sick and landed you in this position?"
The angel drew himself up to his full height** and puffed out his chest. "I'll have you know, serpent, that I received this position on the basis of sheer merit."
"And?" Crawly slithered a bit closer.
"And . . . well. We were a bit short-handed, honestly, with all the naming and the world-beginning and whatnot, and . . . I wandered into the office at the wrong time, I guess. And then Gabriel was yelling at me that if I wouldn't get out from under his feet, he would get me out from under them himself and . . . now I'm here." Aziraphale shrugged. "You know how things go."
"I guessss I do," said Crawly, repressing a chuckle. "So, how about them humans, eh?" He looked up at the sky.
It was a nice day.
- - - - -
* Standard-issue name badges are only so large, even in a city where the average name runs between four and twenty-two syllables long.
**About 70 centimetres on his tiptoes.