Bright With His Splendour



And there was war in Heaven.

The streets of the City rang with screams and the clash of weapons. Friend fought against friend, soldiers turned on their officers, breaking their wings and flinging them down from the heights. The alabaster pavements were slippery with silvery angel blood.

The dark haired angel hiding in a doorway looked out at the carnage with wide, shocked eyes. He had never imagined such a thing, never thought it was possible. Across the street his friends were fighting, their swords slicing down on one of the enemy messengers. The angel didn't look at what they left behind. Could angels die? he thought dazedly. That angel wasn't dead, was he?

"What's wrong with you, Kanaphiel? Come on!" one of his friends yelled. "Pull yourself together!"

They grabbed the dispatch and flew off. He carefully didn't look at the messenger lying in the road, and flew after them.

* * *

"Form up! Form up!" Malkiel screamed.

The rebel angels rearranged themselves, wings drooping with exhaustion. It had been a long day of battles, and it was hard to see how they could manage another foray. The enemy were coming in over the plain for another attack. They would have to find the energy somewhere.

Kanaphiel stood with his friends. He was so very tired and scared. He didn't see how anyone could possibly expect this to have a good outcome. Caspiel, his closest friend, put an arm around his waist, drawing him near.

"It'll be all right," he said. "We'll make things better."

Things were all right, Kanaphiel thought. I thought this was all just talk.

He leaned into Caspiel's arm, wishing they could just leave. He wanted to go, he didn't want to be here, with an impatient cherub suddenly landing before them and asking where his weapon was.

"I don't have one," he said.

"What are you trained in?" the cherub asked irritably.

"Sword. Spear," he said.

Dagiel, that was the cherub's name. Dagiel. He gave a shrill whistle and a couple of angels rushed over, hovering over him.

"Give this fellow a spear," Dagiel said.

After a moment a spear was dropped down. Dagiel caught it and handed it to him.

"You've got to fight," he said, quite kindly. "Do you think they'll show mercy if they find you weaponless?"

"Can we win, sir?" he asked.

Dagiel gave an unpleasant smile.

"We have right on our side, have you forgotten? Just fight. Leave the thinking to us."

He leapt into the air and was gone. The enemy was very close now, their weapons clearly visible.

"Up!" Malkiel screamed, in a voice that carried across the entire army.

The angels flung themselves into the air and the fighting began again.


* * *

He had blood in his hair. He could feel it even if he couldn't see it. He had fought - horribly and poorly, but he had fought. He couldn't quite remember sticking the spear into the enemy angel; all he could remember was the violent jerk he'd had to give to free it again. Blood had splashed on his face and in his hair, and the other angel had looked so surprised. Then his eyes closed and his wings went limp and he fell, tumbling over and over down through the battle. As he watched the angel fall, he stopped thinking. The only thing left in his mind was the need to get the blood out of his hair.

The enemy forces were larger, but his side had managed to win a breathing space, and were resting. He began to be able to think again. His side. He wondered when it had become that in his mind. He still thought it was a mistake, that he should flee and surrender himself to the enemy's mercy, but he found in himself a small amount of pride and admiration for his comrades. They were brave, good fighters; no one could deny that. They were fighting for something they believed in, although he wasn't sure what that was. The commanders knew; that was enough for the moment. He wrapped his wings tight around himself and tried to rest.

When the order to form up came again the angels wearily arranged themselves into ranks. Kanaphiel could barely lift his spear, and wished he could just leave it behind. The officers chivvied them along. While they had rested everyone had heard the commanders laughing and joking. Perhaps, the angel thought, it will end soon. They will find a way for us all to stop.

"Keep in close formation," Dagiel ordered. "You will be ordered to drop down. Do so immediately. Do not stop to think."

They nodded and were urged to march.

As they approached the enemy, Kanaphiel looked back over his shoulder. There was a noise he couldn't identify, like something huge and heavy making its way across the ground. All he could see were other angels, some of them sneaking looks back as well. Close overhead more angels flew in an awkward, close ranked crowd. They stopped across from the enemy ranks, and a lone and splendid figure flew out, landing neatly between the armies.

"Michael!" Lucifer called. "Well fought yesterday! A trifle unimaginative, but a good example of the military mind."

Michael, clearly visible among his commanders, did not answer.

"My friend, I'm hurt you do not come to greet me!" Lucifer called mockingly. "See how many of my friends have turned up, but you stay aloof. Truly, I'm saddened by your disdain. We come to parlay, Michael. Let us open our hearts to one another. Come, Michael, I am unarmed as you plainly see."

There was silence. The enemy commanders flocked round Michael, clearly begging him to speak. Raphael was gesturing frantically, Gabriel was shaking Michael's arm. They hate this too, Kanaphiel thought. He felt much better suddenly. If the officers on both sides wanted to stop this, everybody would be able to go home.

Michael nodded abruptly, handed his silver sword and his sword belt to Raphael and strode forward. Lucifer waited, hands held out harmlessly by his side. The enemy forces shifted into the stand easy, and Michael stopped in front of Lucifer.

"Well?" he said.

"Surprise," Lucifer said in a vicious tone.

He sprang into the air, and all the officers were yelling.

"Down!" Dagiel screamed.

The standing angels flung themselves flat and the airborne units shot higher. Pressed to the ground, Kanaphiel heard a noise so vast it seemed to be pushing down on him, flattening his wings against his back. There had never been a sound like it before in all the timeless aeons. When it stopped he could hear nothing at all. Hands pulled him roughly to his feet and he looked into Caspiel's face. He was screaming, but making no noise. Kanaphiel smelled something burning, and rubbed a hand through his hair. Tiny fragments of hot metal shook loose. He brought a wing round quickly, distressed to see soot-blackened and scorched feathers. He could feel that the skin on his back and legs was scorched too, wherever his wings had not covered him. Caspiel grabbed his shoulders and turned him to face the enemy. They were gone. They were simply - gone. His eyes gradually told him he was seeing huddled, crushed bodies and terrible, terrible wounds. Sound began to return and he started to shake. Caspiel had stopped screaming and started laughing.

"They won't underestimate us again!" he said.

Kanaphiel didn't answer, turning dazedly to look at the huge and smoking tube-shaped weapons their units had hidden from view. The commanders were cheering and laughing with glee. He saw Lucifer clap Malkiel on the back, and turned away. He had to get out of here. There had to be a way.

* * *

On the morning of the third day he looked across the ranks of the army to where the commanders perched on an outcropping of rock, surveying the enemy. Seraphs and cherubs, all shining brightly, the light of power and conviction gleaming from their perfect limbs. Seated highest amongst them, Lucifer was holding court like the prince he claimed to be. Kanaphiel didn't think it seemed as good a title as 'Seraph', but it was Lucifer's business, not his. Malkiel was sprawled beside him, only slightly lower, a slender arm thrown casually across Lucifer's pale thighs. They all still seemed buoyed up by the events of the previous day. As he watched he saw the commanders all stand up, and Lucifer pat Malkiel's shoulder and point into the distance. He strained his eyes in the direction the commanders were looking but could see nothing. Then they all launched themselves into the air in a blaze of wings and he could hear the familiar yells as they approached.

"Form up! The enemy comes!"

His heart failed within him as he saw the enemy draw near. Their army seemed to get bigger every time he saw it, and he wished the commanders hadn't decided on pitched battle. High above the army, Lucifer and Malkiel hovered.

There was silence as the armies faced each other. He could see angels he knew opposite him and cursed his luck that he had been with the wrong group of friends when the fighting started.

"Stand firm," Caspiel said beside him. "We'll teach them a lesson they won't soon forget."

He said nothing. They were all going to die. He had long since accepted that they could.

Opposite, a lone figure came out from the enemy lines and slowly flew to the mid-way point. It was Michael, he saw, uninjured despite the terrible events of the previous day, shining with power and glory and looking supremely confident. More than one pair of eyes looked up at Malkiel, who had always loved Michael dearly. His face was calm and set as he watched his former friend draw near.

"Lucifer!" Michael called. "Your angels are weary and outnumbered. If you insist on fighting you will earn only corpses, not victory."

Lucifer did not reply, just gave the signal to stand ready.

"Come now, let us make a wager," Michael called, "You can fight against the Hosts of Heaven --"

There was some indignant stirring in the ranks. What were they, if not part of the Hosts?

"--and you can be defeated and paraded through the streets of the City in chains of adamantine. Or," he smiled, "you can face me in single combat. Only one of us need die, and you will save those angels you claim to love."

Both armies shifted nervously. Kanaphiel looked up hopefully at Lucifer. Do it, he thought. I won't have to hurt my friends. I won't have to die. All around him he could see the same thought on other's faces; Lucifer had to feel their desires, had to know they wanted him to prove himself someone worth loving, worth rebelling for.

"Do you take me for a fool?" Lucifer shouted. "What battle is won in such a manner with the Hosts already arrayed? This is a trick of yours, Michael, it is not something for which you have sought the permission of the Throne."

The angels sighed in disappointment. Lucifer's fiery gaze swept over them in fury.

"Ready your weapons!" he screamed.

Wearily, swords and spears were brought up yet again and the angels half spread their wings and crouched, ready to spring into the air.

Very quietly, in a voice that was yet heard by every angel present, Michael spoke.

"I always knew you were a coward," he said.

Every angel's eyes were drawn up to where Lucifer had frozen in mid-air, his beautiful face empty in slack amazement.

"What did you call me?" he said in a low, dangerous voice.

Michael shook his head and chuckled in amusement, and deliberately turned his back. Lucifer looked down at the army of upturned faces and screamed in rage, folding his wings and dropping out of the sky like a streak of terrible light. Michael dropped out of the way, leaving shining, opalescent feathers drifting down from Lucifer's attempt to seize his wings. Then they were darting about each other, silvery swords flickering.

The army cried out in dismay as Lucifer's sword broke. He flung himself on Michael, changing his form and becoming an immense serpent coiling round and round the other seraph. The angels began to cheer and call out as the high cries of lament rose from the enemy army. Kanaphiel stared entranced at the way the light glinted off Lucifer's many coloured scales. How beautiful, he thought, how beautiful. It was going to be all right. When Lucifer won they could all go home and no one would have to fight or die any more. He gazed up to see Michael doing his best to choke Lucifer as the coils constricted tighter and tighter. Then the air brightened unbearably beyond anything he had thought possible, in a way that could only mean one thing. Lucifer was right. This was a trick; it was not a fair fight. All around him angels were casting their gaze down and flinging their wings in front of their eyes in awe and horror. No one could look directly at the brightness, and they turned away and fled from before It, with the enemy forces coming at them and driving back any who tried to escape off to the side. He saw the great wall that bounded Heaven, and was driven up against it with his friends. The wall melted before them in the brightness like ice. There was only darkness outside. The angels clung to each other in terror and heard suddenly the sounds of battle again. They looked up and saw Lucifer and Michael, Lucifer no longer crushing his enemy but trying to flee him instead. Michael lifted the huge serpent in his arms and flung him at the gap in the wall.

"Be cast down, Bright and Morning Star," he cried sternly, "and all your hosts with you!"

The ground beneath the angels' feet wavered and became insubstantial and they tumbled down screaming, their wings hanging limp and useless. Looking up as Heaven shrank in his sight, Kanaphiel saw a form in the Brightness regarding them with great sadness and pity. Before he could reach out in supplication the Darkness took him and he was gone.

* * *



He came to himself in agony, lying on a dark lake of flame. His friends – his lying, troublemaking friends – were around him, moaning in pain and shock. With a start he saw Shamarel, whom he had seen cut down, slowly opening his eyes with the others.

“I thought you were killed,” he said. “How did you get here?”

“I don’t know,” Shamarel said. “I can't remember anything before waking here with you all. Where are we?”

None of them knew. They gathered themselves miserably and flew to a sharp outcropping of rock knifing up from the horrible lake. They had to fight off other angels who wanted to land, and finally gained enough space to perch. The dark haired angel kept sneaking looks at the friend he had seen cut down. If he was alive -- He bit at a nail anxiously. Maybe everyone was still alive somehow. Maybe he was not a murderer after all. He chewed his nails ragged, barely noticing as more fellows arrived and squabbled for space. The black rock was white with angels before any of their commanders found them.

“Come!” the cherub who first found them cried. “The Prince and the High Command are this way!”

He flew away swiftly. As they had nowhere else to go they followed him. They came to a much larger peak of rock. At the summit, the high command could be seen arguing amongst themselves, some of the seraphs coming to blows. Lucifer made no move to stop them. The lower ranked officers hurriedly gathered the angels into companies and gave them the order to explore this new territory. Company after company flew away, leaving room for the newcomers to land. They would be given time to rest before they too were sent out exploring, the officers promised. Kanaphiel shivered as he strained to see through the blackness. This was a terrible place, he thought, so dark and quiet and hot. He did not know where the Throne was, he realised. He had always known before, but it was gone. It was like a hole in his mind.

“I’m scared,” he muttered.

Caspiel heard and put his arms round him consolingly, scratching his fingers along the roots of his wings. He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate only on the mindless comfort.

“This is a terrible place,” he whispered. “I want to go home.”

“Shhh. We’ll get out of here,” Caspiel said, plucking away a little feather to make him jump, “we have to.”

* * *

Much later, when they stood in the great palace of Pandaemonium cheering Lucifer’s speech about freedom from oppression and making their own new Heaven, Crawly – for that was the name he had picked when the order to renounce their angelic names came down - knew none of them would ever be free again. He laughed and cheered with the rest of them, seeing how angels looked sidelong at each other and whispered to the officers. He had no wish to be disciplined. He’d already seen it happen to others, and was deeply afraid of how the officers’ imaginations grew twisted and strange. He could feel it in himself, when he laughed at others' misfortune. At first he'd done it not to stand out from the crowd, to fit in. Now he found the most awful things genuinely amusing. He hated it. He hated this place.

He found it hard to turn on his friends, to report their private speech, although he was not so naive as to think they were similarly sentimental, and was very careful of what he said in their company. He was just no good at politics, he thought. It was rather a surprise when his old friend Caspiel - now Kashkesheth, and working for Dagon - came to see him, grimacing at his unimpressive adornments. People wore so much now, loading themselves down with jewellery and robes, making themselves as splendid to the eye as possible. Having lost the beauties of Heaven, they rejoiced in the beauties of decoration.

“I have a task for you,” Kashkesheth said. He had become important, and had not spoken to any of his old friends for aeons. “This is your chance to make something of yourself,” he said in disdainful tones, “don’t embarrass me.”

Crawly understood that this was not a visit for old time’s sake. Someone had remembered that he existed, and that he was a potential embarrassment for a rising bureaucrat. This was not for his benefit. He was being shunted aside.

“What must I do?” he asked.

“You must have heard the rumours; Creation is in full swing. We want you to get up there and make some mischief.”

“I’ll go immediately,” he said. If he was willing to please it had to be worth something, he thought.

“Come to my office. You’ll need a material body – I’ll make sure your application gets priority. Take good care of the body; it’s assigned equipment, not a gift.”

He nodded politely, barely hearing the rest of the instructions in his well-disguised excitement. He was going to be able to leave this place, if only for a short while. He would be able to pretend he was free.

* * * * * * *

He slid along the ground, humming to himself. It was a beautiful day. Every day was. The air was clean, the water was fresh, and best of all it was light. Even when the sun went down, the darkness was lovely and gentle, and not at all like the horrors of darkness in Hell. He’d been in darkness for so long that he’d wanted to cry when he first saw sunlight gleaming off what he quickly learned were leaves. He’d been surprised that the body he’d been given seemed incapable of crying, and had felt cheated by remaining dry eyed. He felt more like himself than he had since the War, and felt like he was smiling continually, even if the body he had wasn’t too good at that either.

It was a garden, a huge well-tended garden filled with trees and plants, and animals. There were also what he at first had taken for wingless angels, but had come to realise were humans. There were only two humans, and they seemed affable, if rather dim. He had felt terribly sorry for them at first, but they didn’t seem to know they were missing limbs. There was no real challenge in playing tricks on them. They would look surprised and then would smile and forget whatever he’d done. It would look better on his report, he thought, if he could embarrass angels. There were a number of them hanging about; it amused him no end that the humans couldn’t see them, although all the other creatures in the garden could. Each of the gates was guarded by an angel with an impressive fiery sword - high ranked fellows, too. None of them would talk to him. They just sneered and tried to step on him if he got too close.

He was getting tired of the sneers when he approached the final angel. The eastern gate like all the others was hugely impressive and very beautiful. He slithered up to a good vantage point and watched the angel march up and down for a while. Crawly sighed quietly. All he’d get here were more sneers and another attempt to stand on his head. He wondered what would happen if he bit an angel’s foot. He rather fancied the image of a blessed angel hopping round, cursing. He eyed his target’s soft-looking bare feet and decided the heel was probably the place to go for. Then the angel surprised him. He looked around very cautiously, left and right and up in the air, then sat down on the grass, his sword beside him. He put his right foot up on his left knee and rubbed at it tiredly. That was different, Crawly thought. After a bit longer of foot rubbing the angel flopped down full length in the grass and propped his chin on his hands, his feet up in the air and crossed at the ankles, his wings casually spread out on the ground. Crawly sneaked closer for a better look. The other angels were spotless and shining, from their gleaming hair to their delicate white toes. This fellow had dust on the soles of his feet and a splash of mud on one calf, as if he’d jumped in a puddle. He also seemed to be going cross-eyed. What was he looking at? Ah. A ladybird creeping up a blade of grass in front of his nose. How peculiar.

Crawly cleared his throat.

“Hello,” he said politely.

“Hello,” the angel said with a wide, friendly smile. “My, but you’re a fine, big fellow.”

He stopped looking at the ladybird and gave Crawly his full attention.

“And what lovely markings. Very handsome.”

He reached out a soft, pink hand. Crawly looked at him in astonishment, and resolved to get a good bite at his fingers. Just a bit closer, he thought. The hand stopped in mid air.

“Oh dear,” the angel said. “You’re not really a snake, are you?”

“Not as such, no,” Crawly said.

He felt unreasonably disappointed that he’d been spotted. He wished the angel had caught on just a few seconds later.

“You’re one of – them?” the angel said.

“It’s all right, you can say the word. I won’t be offended,” Crawly said. “I’m a demon.”

“I’ve never met a demon,” the angel said. “What’s your name?”

“Er. Crawly,” Crawly said, feeling this was getting a bit out of hand. People didn’t engage him in conversations, especially not angels.

They stared at each other curiously. Crawly suddenly thought that he wouldn’t have bitten the angel’s hand. It had been a very long time since anyone had wanted to touch him without evil intent, let alone complimented him on his looks. What an odd sort this angel was, he thought as the angel picked a dandelion clock and blew the seeds into the air, then rolled over on his back and looked at him upside down.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on duty?” he asked.

“Yes,” the angel said a trifle defensively, rolling onto his front again, fluttering his wings back into a semblance of order.

“I only ask because Raphael is headed this way,” Crawly said.

The angel shot to his feet and grabbed the flaming sword from the ground.

“Thanks,” he whispered as Crawly slithered off.

Behind him he could hear the angel explaining he’d just been having a quick word with a snake in the grass.

* * *

He left it a few days before going back to the eastern gate. At least the odd angel had talked to him; he might be easier for Crawly to wreak a little mischief on than the other stuck-up angels.

“Hello. I hope you didn’t get into trouble.”

“No, not at all,” the angel said cheerfully. “Rahemiel said he chased a demon away from the Tree of Life – was that you?”

Crawly smiled ruefully and gave the impression that he’d have shrugged if he had shoulders.

“I just wanted to see the view from the top.”

The angel nodded, as if it were a reasonable explanation.

“My name’s Aziraphale,” the angel said.

“I know,” Crawly said. He’d overheard some of the other angels laughing behind Aziraphale’s back and wondering whom he’d been cosying up to for his rank.

“Why are you a snake?” Aziraphale asked.

Crawly gave the impression of shrugging again.

“Why is Raphael here?” he countered.

“He likes to have dinner with the humans,” Aziraphale said.

Crawly grinned. Angels. Who could understand them?

The day after that he tried causing a little dissension in the ranks.

“Do you ever have dinner with the humans?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “It might make them self-conscious. They think Raphael’s the only angel around, you see. They might get alarmed if they saw all the rest of us.”

Crawly made a vague noise designed to show sympathy that the high-ranking officers got all the fun. He wasn’t sure if this intelligence was worth anything, but it was nice to have something to report.

“What do you really look like? Show me?” Aziraphale said.

“Er. No. This is what I was given and I don’t want to damage it. How come you don’t lie down in the grass anymore? I’m getting a crick in my neck talking to you. Lie down.”

Aziraphale looked shamefaced.

“I don’t want to get caught,” he said. “It was a close call last time.”

“Ah. Well, if the angel won’t come to the demon –”

Crawly poured himself up the startled angel’s leg, threw a loop around his hips to support his own weight, slithered up his back between the wings, draped himself over his shoulder and smiled into his surprised face. For an allegedly ethereal creature, he thought as he slid across the angel's skin, Aziraphale felt very solid. He wondered what would happen if he squeezed as hard as he could, and tightened his muscles in preparation to find out.

“I like your eyes,” Aziraphale said in delight.

Crawly loosened his grip in surprise and was even more surprised when the angel dropped his sword and held him up.

“Careful, you were about to fall.”

Huh, Crawly thought. Odd fellows, angels. He felt strangely bad about wanting to play tricks on Aziraphale after that, and resolved to go and pay more attention to the humans instead.

* * *

Aziraphale didn’t seem too annoyed with him after the incident with the apple. Of course, the angel hadn’t come out of that with flying colours either. It was quite some time before they saw each other again. Crawly never got recalled, which suited him fine. Eventually he received word that he was Hell’s field agent. That sounded exciting. It was even better to get orders to go and mess up the plans of Heaven’s field agent and to discover it was his old acquaintance.

“Hi,” he said casually when he found Aziraphale sitting on a low wall, one sandal off, and rubbing a foot like he had done in the Garden.

“Hello – oh. You’re that demon fellow, Crawly.”

Crawly grinned cheerfully. It felt good to be in a shape that could do so effectively.

“I see you’ve got yourself a material body,” he said. “How are you adjusting to it?”

“These sandals are giving me blisters,” Aziraphale said glumly. “I’m not quite sure what the point of clothing is – it’s hot and itchy and rubs in all the wrong places.”

Crawly sniggered. He just imagined that his clothes were a perfect fit and supremely comfortable, and they were. The angel hadn’t worked that out yet, it seemed.

“You get used to it,” he said. “Besides, you’d hardly be inconspicuous if you were wandering round in the altogether, now would you? We're not in the Garden now, you know.”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said. “Silly human convention, though. Still, at least I don’t fall over as often anymore.”

Crawly looked at him quizzically.

“I had the hardest time trying to balance without my wings, at first,” Aziraphale said. “I must have looked terribly odd, staggering round the place. However do they manage?”

“I did that at first too,” Crawly laughed. “Running was the worst. I don’t know how many humans' memories I had to alter when I forgot to keep the wings hidden.”

“Your eyes are the same,” Aziraphale said. “Did you get tired of being a snake?”

“Missed having hands. And again, there’s the matter of fitting in – talking snakes get noticed round these parts. Listen. Er. You do know what I’m doing here, right?”

Aziraphale sighed heavily.

“Yes. How do you want to do this? Single combat, work through human intermediaries, vast interference in natural phenomena?”

Crawly sat on the wall beside him. It was a nice day and he was enjoying the chat, and he decided he didn’t want the angel to shift from being an acquaintance to being an enemy just yet.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s leave that till tomorrow.”

* * * * * * *

They were enemies, then friends, then enemies again. Sometimes they were both at once. Crowley – he had decided ‘Crawly’ didn’t really fit a fellow who walked on two legs – felt contemptuous and jealous and sorry for the angel, and did his best to go drinking with him as often as possible. They treated their work with deadly seriousness and as an enormously stupid game. He enjoyed laughing at the angel for his deep streak of snobbish vanity – he’d decided what was good about clothing quickly enough and wore the best quality he could find. Crowley sulked when the bastard pointed out his vanity and the way he stubbornly refused to appear as anything other than young. They laughed together over successful ploys, or stormed off in a huff if the mood took them, one or the other having just lost an argument, a soul or a country. A year or a decade or a century later they would march back when the perfect rejoinder had finally sprung to mind. It was an odd set-up, but Crowley thought it worked just fine.

He thought Aziraphale enjoyed the fighting. It was so satisfying to land a decent blow on someone, to break bones and tear flesh and to know it ultimately didn't matter, that he was damaging a piece of equipment, not a person. Of course some of the fun wore off the first time he didn't manage to repair the damage to his body quickly enough and found himself incorporeal and chilly. It was months before he managed to contact Hell, months of whispering instructions in dreams to a magician, months of watching the idiot struggle and fail to remember in the morning. He found the long elaborate explanations he was required to give to the bureaucrats tedious in the extreme and was overjoyed when a new material body was grudgingly approved. He took better care of the new one and managed nearly a full two centuries before giving in to the temptation of a knock down, drag out fight with the angel.

On balance, he thought he preferred the times when he and Aziraphale had one of their friendly truces. It made his life easier and gave him someone to get plastered with. He loved alcohol, loved the dizzy feeling in his head, loved the fun of staggering round and really loved the nonsense it made him say. Physical life was growing on him. He didn't think of his body as equipment any more; more and more it was simply him. He found it easier and easier to forget he'd ever been anywhere but on earth.

He was dozing in a tavern over a rather nice little concoction the barmaid had thought up when the summons came. A madman begging outside suddenly stiffened like a dog that had caught a scent and came slinking in to him.

"Push off!" the barmaid said.

The madman stuck a hand under her skirt and cackled as she ran off, shrieking.

"There you are," he said.

"Piss off," Crowley said.

"We've been looking for you, Crowley," the madman said. "Why don't you submit a list of all the pubs on Earth? It'll make you easier to find, you malingering little snake."

Crowley sat up straighter. Bugger. Of all the times to get a possess-o-gram. He'd fancied a rest.

"There's trouble on the mainland, Crowley," the madman said. "Go sort it out."

"Sure. Which mainland?" Crowley said. "This island's equidistant from Europe, Africa and the Levant."

The mad beggar dropped into a crazy hunched pose, and the glow died away from his eyes. He held out a hand.

"Alms?" he said hopefully.

"Shit," Crowley muttered.

He shoved what was left of his lunch at the beggar and walked out the door.

It took over a year, and by that time the trouble was so big he didn't need a hint. Walking through the Levantine country villages he heard story after story of miraculous healings, the dead raised and - what really annoyed him - demons being cast out left, right and centre. Bloody angel. This wasn't like him - far too active. He must have been at the spicy food again. What did he think he was playing at? Crowley was going to have to give him a stern talking-to. This was totally out of character; he'd either gone mad, or -- Crowley paused. Or it wasn't the angel. Those persistent rumours and prophecies. . . shit. 'Trouble' was not exactly what he'd have called it.

This - if he was right - could really ruin his life. And life, in all its glorious messy vitality, was something he didn't want ruined. This could be the beginning of the end. Life had people, noise, entertainment - fun. He wanted fun and that's what he was having. But he was working for people who didn't know what fun was, or at least who had their own highly specialised definitions. Crowley shuddered. It had been a very long time since he allowed himself to think about his superiors' ideas about fun. He wondered what it was they did with the souls of the damned, and decided he was better off not knowing. He was very grateful he'd got up to Earth before any humans showed up Downstairs. When he thought of some of the things he'd seen done to other demons and then thought of the huge hunger Hell had for human souls --

He had to face it, he supposed. He liked humans, truly he did. They were funny, quick thinking creatures, attractive in their bright mortality. Like butterflies, he thought. Here one minute, gone the next, but pretty while they lasted. For all he liked humans, however, his work involved sending them to a very bad place. In fact, the more he liked them, the more likely it was they'd end up there. He was not, he thought, a prime example of a good friend. That was worrying, and every step he took through this blasted country made the thought overshadow his mind more. He shouldn't hang around with humans, he thought. Or he should at least stop liking them so much. If the bastards would just stop writing amusing plays and playing pleasant music and doing all the other things that made humans fun to be around his life would be so much easier. Of course, if they stopped doing all that they mightn't be so attractive to his bosses or the angel's bosses, and he could find himself out of a job and chained to a desk for all eternity. He ran through a possible list of desks to be chained to and decided he didn't like any of them. He bet the angel didn't worry about this sort of thing. Send them off to a better place, their eternal home, that's what would be going through Aziraphale's mind if a human dropped dead just because a fellow forgot they didn't have indestructible livers. Aziraphale wouldn't be looking round guiltily, wondering if getting pissed with a demon was a damnable offence if you didn't know that's what he was. Of course, thinking that then made him think that drinking with a demon on a semi-regular basis when you were perfectly aware of what he was probably was a damnable offence. He just wasn't going to worry about that, though. Not now. He didn't have the time. The angel could take care of himself. He wished the angel was around. He could really do with someone to discuss this with.

He tracked the Trouble down to the capital city by the trail of happy, healthy, non-possessed people. That was Hell for you, he mused, trouble was defined as the absence of pain. Of course, this really was Trouble, and he didn't want to think about it too closely. It might make for pain-free humans, but he'd had a continual headache since he set foot inside the country. Everywhere he looked he saw things he remembered, or thought he should remember. He kept catching glimpses of white out of the corners of his eyes and could feel angels all over the place. No one had challenged him yet, but he was on edge. He wished he were armed.

The capital city was crowded with pilgrims and revolutionaries and soldiers and tourists and assassins, all piling in for the big festival. Not to mention the locals all intent on fleecing the visitors while complaining about all the bloody foreigners hanging round gawping at the sights. Normally Crowley wouldn't have been found dead in the place, mainly because of his fear he'd be found dead. He looked nervously up the hill with its immense temple. He could feel the thing pulsing away, and always knew just where he was in relation to it. It was something he hadn't felt for a very long time. He couldn't be lost in this city if he tried. He saw other, minor demons. They peered out of the faces of the mad and the sick, and looked like they were running scared. As well they might, he thought; he was running scared. He could feel the temple and he could feel the path he was following. They were similar; but the path led to an individual while the temple led to - his mind shied away. He was better with individuals.

He slipped along the narrow, crowded streets, never seen by the jostling mass of humans. At one point he swayed, dizzy and faint and looked down to see long dried spots of blood in the dust. He knelt, one hand hovering over the spot, but wasn't so stupid as to touch it. He straightened up and quickened his pace, now physically pushing the humans aside. The path led him out of the city again, off to a slight rise. He shook his head over the fact that he could just have walked round the walls. People were milling about, murmuring in disappointment or loudly proclaiming that they'd never been taken in for a minute. Crowley's gaze was drawn slowly to the top of the rise and he stood there entranced. For a moment he felt vertigo, and heard the wind rushing upwards past him, saw the light receding. He - he knew this man. He stood there and swallowed heavily, remembering the brightness and the long fall into the dark. He looked around, feeling light-headed and dazed. All around there were demons, looking up, yearning and creeping a little closer, then backing off fearfully. He wasn't imagining it, then. He had to get up there. He had to make sure. He had to do something, although he wasn't sure what. He took a few hesitant steps forward and something hit him hard. He sat down in the dust in surprise.

"Get away from here," a voice said, so thick with fury that it took him a minute to recognise it as Aziraphale.

He looked up to see the angel standing over him with balled fists, looking decidedly righteous. He held a hand up in surrender and slowly got to his feet.

"I don't mean any harm," he said.

"No harm?" Aziraphale said scornfully. "Your people have plagued him all this time and now -- this."

He waved a hand at the scene behind him.

"Exactly how does this count as 'no harm', Serpent?"

"You don't understand, Aziraphale," Crowley said. "None of that was me. Come on, it's me you're talking to. I just -- want to be here. I need to go up there, I need to --"

Aziraphale punched him in the mouth and followed it with a blow to the stomach as he staggered back and fell over.

"Filthy -- lying -- snake," Aziraphale said, accompanying each word with a kick.

"Please --," Crowley said.

They'd been on good terms for years. He couldn't believe Aziraphale would turn on him now, not when the angel knew Hell never told him anything important. He hadn't known about this, he'd had nothing to do with this. And it was so unfair of Aziraphale to think he did, let alone to be hitting him when he felt so weak and sick. He hadn't seen the angel since they'd parted amicably in Rome a decade previously, and this wasn't exactly the most pleasant of greetings. He felt tears start up in his eyes at the unfairness of it all. The angel stopped kicking him and glared down with a look of anger and intense hurt.

"Please," Crowley said again, holding up a hand.

Aziraphale frowned, and began to reach down to take his hand. There was a sound like a huge peal of thunder. The angel whipped round to stare uphill with a desolate cry as the sky went pitch black and Crowley felt the temple behind him give a massive pulse. He shot to his feet.

"Aziraphale!" he screamed as the wind rose.

A mighty wind roiled around him and then he and the angel were rolling head over heels down the slope, past the humans who remarked to one another that the breeze seemed to be getting up a bit. The temple exploded, metaphysically speaking. Crowley could feel it in every part of him and he shrieked in fear as he felt What was coming. A hand suddenly clamped across his mouth and something heavy crawled on top of him.

"Quiet!" Aziraphale yelled in his ear.

Crowley nodded frantically and Aziraphale took his hand away and wrapped his arms around Crowley's head. Crowley screwed his eyes shut and buried his face in the angel's shoulder, wrapping his arms tight around him. All about him he could feel the Presence, vast and silent. Please, he thought, desperately clinging on to Aziraphale, pleaseohpleaseohplease. Dimly, as if from far away, he could hear Aziraphale whispering the same thing. He felt the weight of eternity pressing down on them, holding them immobile, and then the sensation faded away and he began to hear mortal sounds and felt the sharp stones pressing into his back. He could see the light come back even though his tightly shut eyelids, but it was several moments before he could persuade his hands to unclench their death grip on the angel's tunic. He opened his eyes and looked up past Aziraphale at the bright and colourless sky, feeling both their hearts hammering. Aziraphale propped himself up and stared down at him with an expression of deepest shock and relief, then knelt back and looked up the hill, his hands pressed to his own mouth. Crowley struggled up beside him and looked up in misery. There was no one up there any more. There was only dead meat.

They sat together silent and unnoticed in the dust. All around them humans went about their business, giving thanks that the unseasonable weather had cleared up so quickly.

* * *

Sitting in Constantinople a thousand years later, in his pleasant apartment with its fine view of the sea, Crowley wondered if humans ever managed to design clothing that was fashionable, beautiful and comfortable all at once. The imperial eunuch he was currently tempting looked like he was boiling alive in his heavy, jewelled robe. Crowley nibbled at a section of pomegranate and wondered why he was even bothering to corrupt the fellow. Everyone at the court was already corrupt, you practically had to bribe people before they'd so much as say 'good morning'. He waved the bureaucrat away irritably the moment he'd got the silly fellow's signature. They always wanted to sign in blood. So melodramatic, humans. He hoped the fellow enjoyed having the facility to screw the girl he'd become infatuated with. Of course, if it was discovered he wasn't really a eunuch he'd lose his cushy court job, and the girl would probably run off to find a new rich protector. Ah well, Crowley thought, such is life. He resolved to start spreading rumours about his visitor in a few weeks. He took his drink and went to lean against a window frame, admiring the way the sun was sparkling off the water and the bright ships. Someone cleared their throat behind him, and he turned to see a fellow even more richly dressed than his recent guest.

"How lovely to run into you here, Crowley," Aziraphale said.

"Why don't you sell that and support a few deserving urchins off the proceeds?" Crowley said, waving his goblet at the embroidered monstrosity Aziraphale was swaddled in.

"Oh, no. I need it for my work. They do expect one to be well-dressed around here, you know. Haven't you seen their pictures of angels?"

Crowley snorted, strolling over to pour wine into the second goblet that had appeared meaningfully close to the jug. He handed it over, cut another pomegranate into pieces, and handed that to Aziraphale as well.

"Before you say anything," he said, "that guy came looking for me, not vice versa. He's already a lost cause so don't waste your time trying to show him the error of his ways."

"Oh, dear me yes," Aziraphale said. "He's been embezzling from his department for months to pay for some floozy."

"Charitable as ever, I see."

"She's two-timing him of course, with a handsome, penniless - but well-endowed, one assumes - gardener."

"Terrible people, these floozies."

"The gardener meanwhile, has a boyfriend he's really awfully fond of but he thinks what the poor fellow doesn't know won't hurt him. However, the boyfriend - who had originally been studying for the priesthood until he fell head-over-heels in love and ran away from the seminary - has of late been plagued with guilt and is visited in his dreams by what he's perfectly sure is the devil, who tells him he's going to burn for his horrible sins and must be useless in bed anyway seeing as his one true love is off messing around with girls every chance he gets, and it really looks like this unfortunate fellow is going to snap one of these fine days and chop his friend up with the axe that a little voice told him to go and buy yesterday. Stop me when this starts getting too familiar, won't you, dear?"

"Oh," Crowley said. "That gardener."

He gave the angel a feral grin and drained his goblet.

"Mmm. That gardener," Aziraphale said, refilling Crowley's drink.

They drank in silence for a moment. Aziraphale watched Crowley steadily over the rim of his goblet.

"I have a proposal for you," he said.

"Get down on one knee," Crowley said, "I want this done properly."

"Aren't we just a natural comedian these days? Do you enjoy being commended for your work when you pull off something big?"

"Well, of course."

"How about when I pull off something big? Your people understand that you can't win all the time, don't they?"

Crowley grimaced.

"I have to explain in minute detail how I could have possibly let you get away with anything. My paperwork more than trebles."

"How interesting. That's more or less what happens with my people. And the only way to avoid the unpleasantness is to work even harder to thwart you, and of course, you have to work even harder to thwart me, and we end up in a spiral of piece-work that takes up every available moment and we achieve less and less, and end up relieving stress by creating little tangles like your current amusement."

"So?" Crowley said.

Aziraphale smiled cheerfully and cut the last pomegranate in half, passing one piece to Crowley.

"I propose we stop."

"Sorry?"

"It's really quite simple - we stop interfering in each other's work. So we both get things done, without constantly looking over our shoulders to see where the trouble is going to come from."

"Sorry?" Crowley repeated. "You're an angel. Are you seriously telling me you're going to give me a free hand to further Hell's schemes?"

"And you'll give me a free hand to further Heaven's schemes."

"You're mad. It won't work. Suppose you reported me?"

"Suppose you reported me? See? It's reciprocal. Now - we'd have to keep each other apprised of anything big. Otherwise there'd be questions about why the relevant one of us didn't thwart in time. I'll be honest, Crowley --"

"Oh, good."

"We'll probably both end up with fewer pats on the back overall, but we'll also have fewer smacks on the wrist. And we'll be able to actually do our work - and take time off too, if we want."

Crowley shook his head in amazement. The angel couldn't be serious. It would never work. But -- maybe he could pretend he'd been convinced. He could play the angel along, and keep records and turn them all over in a century or two. He sipped his wine. Of course, the bastard probably expected him to do just that, so he'd be keeping records as well. It's all be down to which of them could turn the records in first. One would get a commendation - if it could be played right - and one would most likely be recalled. Hmmm. He didn't want to be recalled. And he didn't really want the angel recalled either, not if he was the sort of angel who came up with suggestions like this. You could work with a fellow like that. Crowley realised he was talking himself into this stupid arrangement.

"All right," he said. "I'm game if you are."

"Play fair, now," Aziraphale said.

"I always play fair!" Crowley said, stung. "I only give people what they want. I don't cheat."

"Prove it," Aziraphale said.

"Watch me," Crowley snapped.

Aziraphale held out a hand. After a moment Crowley shook it firmly. It wasn't all that demonic to be working with an angel, but he quite fancied the idea of time off.

"What about the revenue commissioner, the floozy, her gardener and his lover?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale heaved a sigh as if the mere thought was exhausting.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll flip you for them."

The coin spun up into the air, turning over and over, waiting for one of them to break concentration.

* * * * * * *