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pengychan · 5 years

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[Good Omens] Winging It - James 4:11

Summary: Shockingly, attempting to destroy an angel without consulting God first comes with consequences. There is more than one way to fall, and a thousand more ways to inconvenience an angel and a demon who just wanted to be left in peace. Characters: Gabriel, Crowley, Aziraphale, Beelzebub, Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon Rating: T

Prologue and all chapters are tagged as ‘winging it’ on my blog.

A/N: This chapter is longer than usual because I added a full page of fluff between Crowley and Aziraphale that has little to nothing to do with the rest. But I left it where it is ‘cause Christmas, I guess, and you really cannot count on Ineffable Bureaucracy for fluff.

***

The angel Gabriel from heaven came His wings as drifted snow His eyes as flame...

“Of all songs, did they have to pick this one?”

“Hah! Don’t like Sting?”

Something did sting all right and, as a matter of fact, he did not like that, but Gabriel knew better than to explain why those words - a song about his most well-known task and the mention of his wings, which had been white as drifted snow except for the faint purplish tint of the primary feathers - made him wish he could shut himself in a dark, quiet place for a century or two or twenty.

“You could say that,” Gabriel finally muttered, mildly thankful of the fact the background noise in the pub made it easy enough to shut out the lyrics if he didn’t focus on it too much.

Daniel shrugged. “I don’t mind it. But maybe we’ve just had it up to here with Christmas songs by now. I swear that every year they start playing them earlier and earlier. We were just through Halloween and bam, Christmas. I swear I’ve been hearing jingles ever since.”

Ah, yes. Halloween. Gabriel made a face, trying not to think of the laughs everyone at the warehouse got at his expenses from time to time over his less than measured reaction when several workers had come in dressed up as demons. Namely, screaming and trying to climb up the closest scaffold. Even Daniel had been unable to keep himself from laughing to tears - but really, how was he supposed to know it was just pretend and not, well, actual demons?

Of course, that wasn’t something he could say aloud, so he had to resign himself to the fact that everyone working in the warehouse thought he was, to put it mildly, a scaredy cat. Not that it had done much damage, aside from the occasions ‘boo!’ shouted behind him to try getting him to repeat the performance; somehow, it seemed to have actually helped.

“I found you a little stuck up at first, but you know what, you’re good fun,” someone had said, and that seemed to be the general consensus. Plus, the fact he was able to speak to every single worker in their native language - English, Polish, Romanian, Urdu, German, Italian, you name it; he hadn’t lost that sort of knowledge - had gained him a lot of respect despite what they probably perceived as oddities from his part.

That was… not the kind of workplace he was used to, but chances were that no one would hold him down to tear out a pair of limbs because a CEO told them to, and Gabriel found he liked that in co-workers. Besides--

“Gabriel? Did you hear a word of what I said?”

“Huh?” Gabriel looked up from his glass, and his confused expression was probably enough of an answer. Daniel rolled his eyes a little, and took a swig from his glass before he spoke again.

“I asked what plans you’ve got for Christmas.”

“Plans?”

“... I take it you have none?”

Gabriel shook his head. “Not really,” he murmured. Christmas was celebrated in Heaven as well, of course, though not the way mortals did. It was one impressive birthday party, although the birthday boy himself rarely showed up in the high spheres to see them. Now he certainly wasn’t in the mood to celebrate it either way.

“Ah. Don’t you have any family? Sorry if that’s personal, it’s just that you never mentioned--”

“I had-- siblings,” Gabriel cut him off, blurting out what he felt was probably the closest term a human would understand, and emptied the glass. When he spoke again, his voice was beyond bitter. “We’re not on speaking terms.”

I understand you have no wish to see us, and we will not impose.

Daniel nodded, his expression grave. “... I understand.”

“I don’t think you do,” Gabriel muttered, more harshly than he meant to.

Daniel didn’t seem fazed. “Did they do something, or--”

“They cast me out,” Gabriel snapped, slamming the empty glass down. “They just-- they were told to cast me out, and they did. I...” he paused, and swallowed. He hadn’t heard from Crowley or Aziraphale in the past couple of months, but now the demon’s voice rang in the back of his mind, loud and clear as though he was standing right there before him.

Had it been you receiving the order and Michael the one on the ground, would you have refused to do what God asked of you?

All we knew was that we owed obedience, the letter read.

“... They cast me out,” he repeated, and leaned back against his seat. It still hurt to think of it; the scars over his shoulder blades ached at the memory. “And then they went and said I could call for them whenever, but I can’t. I won’t.”

“Maybe they want to make amends,” Daniel said slowly. He put down his glass, still half full; he spoke slowly, carefully. “Maybe they-- regret throwing you out.”

We never wished for any harm to come to you. I hope you know that.

“Maybe,” he finally said, gesturing for the waitress to bring him another drink by lifting up the empty glass. He was getting used to alcohol, sort of, but three drinks seemed to be his limit and he had no intention to surpass it, so that would be his last for the evening. “I doesn’t really matter. We’re through.”

“I’m sure that if you did take their offer and tried to call--”

“What, are you their advocate now?” Gabriel snapped again, and immediately regretted it. He groaned, rubbing his face. “... My apologies. It is a sore subject.”

“No, no, I get it,” Daniel immediately backpedalled. “I’m sorry. I pressed on without even knowing what happened. I just-- you know, sort of know how it is, wanting to make contact after… something stupid and cruel you wish you could take back, but can’t.”

Daniel’s wistful tone, more than his words, got Gabriel’s full attention. He stared at him across the table as another gin and tonic was put in front of him; he thought back at Aziraphale, how dignified he was while stepping into Hellfire, how hard facing him was when, even after all that, he went out of his way to help him.

“Do you regret what you did, or do you only regret where it landed you?”

“I regret it. I do. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” Gabriel finally said. “Guess I know what it’s like, too. Actually, everything happened because I did something stupid and cruel I did and can’t take back.”

“Mmh. Want to talk about it?”

Gabriel lowered his gaze back on the glass. “Not really.”

“I see,” Daniel said, and thankfully didn’t pry: he just took a long swig of his pint before putting down the glasses. “... Maybe there is still time to fix it. It’s what I tell myself all the time.”

Gabriel glanced up. “Fix what?”

“Whatever you did wrong.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” Gabriel muttered, then, “what is it you want to fix?”

For a few moments, Daniel said nothing. He stayed silent, seemingly debating with himself whether or not he wanted to answer, then he sighed. “Ah, you see - there is someone I-- well. I had a sister. I still do, I think, she can’t be that old but you never know. I’ll know for sure once I find her.”

“Oh?” Gabriel took a sip, frowning a little. Daniel had only ever talked about his wife, and not very much: he was tight-lipped when it came to his life before he found himself in the streets. All Gabriel had gathered was that his wife had died of cancer, and he had no other family. No mention had been made of an estranged sister before.

Daniel nodded, frowning down at his own glass. “Yeah. I don’t like talking about it, but-- she was my older sister. Her name was - is - Alison. She was way older than me, by almost fifteen years. She must be about seventy now, but I can’t picture that very well. She was twenty-five last I saw her. I was eleven. And Christ, I was a catastrophic dick.”

“I can’t picture an eleven year old boy being such a catastrophic dick,” Gabriel muttered. “Unless it’s the Antichrist, then I guess I can.”

Entirely unaware of the fact that statement was not a joke at all, Daniel chuckled. “Heh. I guess I was just following my parents’ lead. They were the ones who told her to fuck off, and I repeated every single shitty thing they said.” Another long swig. “I wouldn’t now. Those were different times, and I was a kid. But that’s the convenient excuse, isn’t it? Different times and all that.”

“What did she do?”

“She was into women.”

Gabriel blinked. “... Weren’t you as well?”

“What-- well, I was a kid, but-- well, yes, but I am-- a guy. You know? Adam and Eve and all that.”

Oh, right. That was a thing with humans, getting hung up on such insignificant things. “I’d wager their example is not one anyone should strive to follow. Adam and Eve’s, I mean. When you get kicked out of Eden, you know you’ve done something wrong.” He made a face. “Believe me.”

A chuckle, half-hearted. “Heh. Not a bad point, that. But that’s not the way people thought at the time. Our parents sure didn’t. And I thought whatever they told me to think. When you’re that age you still think your parents can do no wrong, you know? Like they’re God or something.”

There was a painful twinge in Gabriel’s chest that he did his best to ignore. “I understand.”

“So she-- stood there, and took the insults, and if not for the fact that her girlfriend was there I think our father would have tried to beat it out of her. But that woman looked like she could break him over her knee, so he didn’t. He just screamed. My mother screamed and cried. And Alison looked at me.” Daniel threw back his head, finishing the pint in one gulp.

Gabriel suspected he knew what he was going to say next, but he kept quiet and waited for him to speak again. When he did, his voice was tight. “I told her she was disgusting, and that I never wanted to see her again. It was stupid, and it was cruel, and… I didn’t even fully understand what was going on, I think. But I knew it was something that made our father furious, and it made our mother cry, and I hated her for it. I told her I never wanted to see her again,” he repeated, like he could scarcely believe it.

“... And you did not.”

“I did not. She was told to leave, and she left - they both did. Skipped town.” A pause. “... I got a letter from her a couple of years later. It was addressed to me only. I always picked up the mail, she must have known I would get it before our parents did.”

“What did it say?”

Daniel grimaced, giving him a look that was pained and ashamed in equal measure. “I don’t know. I recognized her handwriting and just threw the envelope in the fire. We moved home a few months later and I never got anything from her again.”

“And that was--”

“Forty years ago. I began looking for her about ten years ago. I figured it would be easier with all the technology - Facebook and Instagram and whatnot, if you listen to folks everybody is on it. But not her, apparently. I can’t find her anywhere. Maybe she’s too old for that crap. I tried with electoral registers, but… nothing. I guess she might have opted not to be on the public list, or changed her name, or…” he paused, the next words he’d clearly been about to utter - or she’s dead - never getting past his lips. In the end, he sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m starting to think it would take a miracle.”

As Daniel turned to gesture for the waiter to get him another pint, Gabriel looked back down at his unfinished drink, his brows knitting together in thought.

“Yes,” he said slowly, more to himself than to Daniel. “I suppose it would.”

“But maybe it’s for the best that I don’t find her,” Daniel said, turning back to him. He looked saddened. “Maybe she doesn’t want to see me ever again, either. I was awful to her. I didn’t know any better, never occurred to me to defy our parents, but-- yeah, I can’t take back what I did. I only wish I could let her know I’m sorry.”

We cannot begin to understand God’s reasons to order such a thing of us, and to punish you alone, the letter on his desk had said. All we knew was that we owed obedience. We never wished for any harm to come to you.

“You know,” Gabriel said slowly, “you shouldn’t despair just yet. Miracles do happen, after all.”

Should you ever need us, all you need to do is call out our names, and we’ll be there. Always.

***

“Ba’al.”

“Ah, Gabriel. I was wondering where--”

“Where have you been?”

“... I don’t like your tone.”

“You were with Astaroth again, weren’t you? And Lucifer, and--”

“Maybe. So what?”

“You know what! It’s… the wrong sort.”

“The wrong sort for what?”

“To be around. The things they say - it’s not an amusing joke anymore. Everyone is on edge. Patience is running thin. They have stopped short of declaring themselves above God so far, but it seems a matter of time before something happens, and when it does--”

“Maybe we are above God. Them, me, you.”

“What-- Ba’al!”

“We do all the work, no? God has done nothing but give orders in eons. Why shouldn’t we take-”

“Don’t you dare say such a thing! None of us is above--”

“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”

“I-- you--” Hesitation, because never before did Ba’al bring up their superior rank, but only for a moment. “You’re a Virtue because God willed so! You exist because God willed so! You can’t seriously think--”

“What I think is none of your business.”

An attempt at walking past Gabriel. Gabriel refusing to budge. “Please. I don’t understand what’s gotten into you.”

A pause. “... If you really want to understand, come with me one of these days.” A step forward, a hand held out in invitation. “Maybe you’ll change your mind once you listen--”

“I won’t! Are you out of your mind?”

No answer, for a few moments; only a long, icy silence. “... Perhaps you should be on your way, then, Archangel Gabriel. You wouldn’t want to be caught hanging with one of the wrong sort, would you?”

“What? No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--”

“And how would you know?”

More silence; not icy, but stunned. “I-- I know you.”

“... No. You do not.”

***

I knew him, before the Fall.

Of course, was nothing new: Beelzebub had known that annoying little piece of trivia for well over three months now, during which he had avoided that insufferable idiot like the pla-- no, wait. Not like the plague, they had quite enjoyed that despite part of history despite-- I was a healer once wasn’t I -- the sudden increase in the influx of souls in Hell. That had resulted in some serious pressure on the chronically understaffed New Arrivals department - the understaffing was intentional, of course, or else it wouldn’t be Hell - as well as a few headaches.

And speaking of headaches, there was one threatening to split their skull right now. Served them right, Beelzebub through, for trying to remember. Why do that? It was painful, and whatever they dredged up couldn’t possibly be worth it. Gabriel wasn’t worth the hassle of trying to change his mind. He wanted to live as a mortal? Fine then, let him live as a mortal.

He’d die eventually and when it happened, Beelzebub could bet a six hundred and sixty-six souls that he’d find himself in Hell - because God was no better than the worst of them, except when it came to PR - and oh, how they’d laugh, then. They’d laugh in his stupid face and throw him in some pit to be tortured for all eternity, because he could forget getting a nice, important role after rejecting the offer so many times. And then they’d never glance in his direction again.

They’d never have to remember. Just cast him down, like he’d cast them down, and… and…

But he did not. It was Michael.

“I had a spear, and your sword was broken…”

“Gabriel, what are you waiting for? Strike them down!”

But he had not. Neither of them had moved, which was… stupid. Why had they not moved? Why had he not struck them down?

“No, I didn’t mean you, you’re not--

Enough. Beelzebub shook their head to chase away the memory, expecting another spike of pain in their head, but nothing happened. Well, now that was… interesting. Memories were painful to pull up from the depths of their mind, but once they managed to do that thinking of them caused no more pain. Nothing to keep them from revisiting them.

“Lord Beelzebub? Is something the matter?”

Dagon’s voice seemed to come from a mile away. Sprawled on their throne, Beelzebub looked up.

“Nothing’s the matter,” they buzzed. Whether Dagon believed it or not, she knew better than to argue. “What is it?”

“We have received a report from the demon you assigned to watch the Archangel Gabriel.”

“Be quiet, Archangel! Remember it’s a Virtue you’re talking to!”

“That idiot is no angel,” Beelzebub snapped, straightening themselves. “He’s a mortal. He’s nothing but a waste of time and resources. Give the demon another assignment and forget about him.”

Dagon blinked a few moments, taken aback, but she was quick to recover. “Yes, my Lord,” she said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Beelzebub called out, and held out their hand. “... The report.”

May as well read it, and then forget all about that fool.

***

Sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the letter he’d found himself unable to throw away, Gabriel felt increasingly foolish as minutes passed and he did nothing, said nothing, called out for no one. He couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t do it.

Calling out names - or just one name, you don’t need several archangels for one miracle - was all that it would take, and they could make Daniel’s wish come true by finding out where his sister was, if she was even still alive.

Such a huge change to his life, with minimal effort… and no risk. He knew none of them would harm him again. He knew none of them had wanted to do it in the first place, but still he couldn’t will himself to do it. The mere thought brought him back to when he had last called out their names, cried out their names as he begged for the pain to stop, for them to stop hurting him.

“Michael, please! Uriel-- Sandalphon-- no, no, no, please please--”

Gabriel swallowed, trying to ignore the burning sensation over his shoulder blades, and forced himself to relax his grip on the letter before he damaged it. He threw it back in the drawer and slammed it shut, then reached to take his phone, and dialled the number to Aziraphale’s shop.

The thought of turning to him for help again left a sour taste in his mouth - after what I did, after all he’s already done - but it felt less unbearable than the alternative. He’d explain he needed to help a human and he’d help, or his demon would, and that would be it. Easy. Convenient.

Except that no answer came; the phone rang and rang, but no one picked up and Gabriel realized, belatedly, that Aziraphale had mentioned leaving London around Christmas time for a few days.

“Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” he’d said. There were few things Gabriel was better at than delivering messages, but this time he just ended the call without leaving any. He would just call back; there was no rush, after all. He could take care of that in the New Year.

He failed to take into consideration, even after living as one for months, how frail humans truly are - and how easily their lives are snuffed out, without warning.

***

“You did what!”

“Gave the wrong directions to the Wise Men.”

“Crowley, for the love of-- you did not!”

“Why do you think they only got there in January? They lost the star and asked for directions.”

“How do you lose a star?”

“Well, it was cloudy.”

“I see. And you absolutely had nothing to do with it, did you?”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale made a sound halfway between a snort and a rather undignified giggle.

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, you do. How long have we known each other?”

“Is that a trick question?”

“All right, that we can recall, we have known each other for some six-thousand years, give or take a few months. So yes, you can absolutely believe that I gave wrong directions to the Wise Men. It’s got my name all over it. In my defense, they did the worst part on their own.”

“The worst part?”

“Picking the gifts. Newborn shivering in the cold, and they bring incense and gold and whatnot. Not very wise of them. Why not a blanket?”

“Gold can buy many blankets.”

“Not in the middle of the night in Bethlehem, it can’t.”

“Maybe they wouldn’t have arrived at night if someone hadn’t thrown them off course.”

“Nice try, angel, but they were travelling at night, following a comet that just so happened to be heading the right direction. They wouldn’t have arrived during the day anyway.”

A sigh. “All right, fair,” Aziraphale conceded, and went back to looking up. The night sky was perfectly clear, the stars so very close. The valley below them was almost completely dark.

“Maybe we could visit Alpha Centauri,” Crowley said. “A vacation. But I like it here, for now.”

“A demon, enjoying a visit to the Devil’s Dyke? Who would have thought.”

“Did I just experience a microaggression here? The betrayal,” Crowley sighed in mock hurt, leaning back on the blanket they had lain on the grass. They both could keep their body temperature in check easily, but neither had wanted to really bother, so they were wearing thick coats and, in Aziraphale’s case, a woolen hat. “You know how this place came to be, right?” Crowley asked.

“Ah, I heard the myth. The devil was digging a trench to let the sea flood churches, but the noise disturbed an old lady who lit a candle. The devil thought daybreak had come and fled, leaving it unfinish-- wait. Oooh, wait. Don’t tell me…?”

“... In my defense, I was drunk.”

Aziraphale laughed, a gloved hand to his mouth. “That would have been amusing to watch.”

“You were busy running around with the Knight of the Round Table,” Crowley muttered, and looked up again, the glasses off his face. Aziraphale followed his gaze up to the stars.

“You know what would be nice? Snow would be nice.”

“Snow, on Christmas Eve? Groundbreaking,” Crowley sneered, but he was already lifting a hand to snap his fingers, and clouds began closing in above them. Aziraphale smiled and said nothing as the first snowflakes began dancing through the air, illuminated by the headlights of the Bentley.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want to come dine with us?”

“Yes. I’m tired.”

“It will be fun. Lukács is going to make carbonara, but he’s putting cream in it and we’re all going to watch Fabrizio have a full-blown meltdown.”

“Didn’t Fabrizio say his grandmother would kill him if he didn’t make it home for Christmas?’

“Couldn’t afford the tickets right on the day. He’ll go before New Year’s, if he survives the shock of eating carbonara with cream. So, did I convince you?”

Gabriel - who couldn’t begin to imagine what could be so bad about adding cream to carbonara, a position that would have severely disappointed Aziraphale and caused roughly sixty million Italians to froth at the mouth - smiled a little. “Do get his reaction on video for me,” he said, causing Daniel’s smile to fade.

“Are you really sure? It doesn’t seem right, being alone on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll live,” Gabriel said, his voice somewhat hollow. He tried not to think of the celebration they would hold in Heaven for the birthday of God’s son, tried not to wonder if it would be held that year too with him gone. He made an effort to smile. “If it gets bad, I’ll show up uninvited.”

“You’re already invited, idiot,” Daniel muttered with a laugh and one more worried look, but he did not insist further. When they parted ways it was already dark, and Gabriel just began walking, not really minding where he was going, barely even looking up. When he did look up, he found himself staring at the pier.

Well, good job I did look up, Gabriel thought, sitting on a bench. It was cold, but at least it hadn’t rained. Or I’d have walked right in the water and I am not entirely sure I would be able to swi--

“You know, this is where the Titanic set off. A good place.”

“Gah!”

“Oh, please. I wasn’t even trying to startle you.”

Gabriel turned to look up, so suddenly it almost made him dizzy, to see Beelzebub perched on the backrest of the bench he was sitting on. They tilted their head on one side, looking at him.

“You look aged.”

Gabriel clenched his jaw. It was the first he saw of the Prince of Hell since he’d stormed out of that café three months earlier, although he was fairly sure they did, at the very least, have him under surveillance.

“What do you want?” he asked, full expecting them to answer ‘your soul’.

Beelzebub didn’t reply: they just slipped down to sit next to him. They weren’t bothering to wear a coat proper coat, but then again it was probably for the best. Gabriel didn’t quite want to imagine what atrocity Beelzebub would consider a proper coat.

“They got some idiot to deal with the appeals,” they informed him, causing Gabriel to frown a little. He’d put the appeals system in place himself, for souls to make their case that Hell had claimed them unfairly - far more civilized than having a skirmish each time over a soul. Beelzebub hadn’t been especially keen on it at the start, but in the end they had agreed to it.

Needless to say, nearly everybody who found themselves in Hell filed an appeal, but there were very few cases, relatively speaking, that were truly considered and reached Gabriel’s desk.

Of course, Hell would fight tooth and nail to keep each soul, but he and the Lord of the Flies had always managed to keep those discussions in the ream of civility, meeting on neutral ground on Earth. Sometimes Hell kept the souls, some other times Heaven was able to snatch them, even more rarely it was Hell to put forward a motion to get someone’s soul out of Heaven and into Hell, claiming that significant sins had been overlooked. All in all, it was a challenge, and one that Gabriel had enjoyed, red tape and small writing as his weapons. There was a certain work ethic to Beelzebub, too, and he could respect that.

“They did?”

“Yes, some nondescript angel who tries to argue too many cases at once. Or so I’m told.”

Gabriel blinked. “You haven’t met them?”

Beelzebub scoffed as though insulted. “Don’t make me laugh, I am the Prince of Hell. No time to waste arguing with someone so below me. They sent a nondescript angel, and they got a nondescript demon to deal with it.”

“Ah. I see.” Gabriel fell quiet, and looked out towards the sea, a cold wind ruffling his hair. It had grown, and he’d needed to have it cut for the very first time; needless to say, having someone stand behind him with a sharp object had been… unpleasant, even with the backrest shielding his back from it. Luckily, the barber’s chatter had served well enough to distract him. Overall it had been less disastrous than his first attempt at shaving. “Did you come to tell me that?”

Beelzebub frowned and leaned back against the bench, arms crossed and glaring at the nearby street light. “I have a question. And I demand an answer. Why didn’t you strike me down?”

That was… not what Gabriel had expected to hear. He blinked, turning back to them. “What?”

A glare. “Are you deaf now?”

“I can’t strike you down, I have no powers--”

“Not now, idiot. During the Battle. Why didn’t you?”

Ah. That. “I-- I don’t know.”

You didn’t try to strike me, either.

A displeased buzzing sound. “That is not an answer. You can remember without your skull splitting in two, no?”

“Well, yes, but--”

“Then do better and remember.”

“Last we met, you didn’t want me to--”

“Don’t pretend you know me!” Beelzebub snapped, causing Gabriel to recoil. “I hate nothing more than a question unanswered, so you will give me an answer or else!”

“All right, all right,” Gabriel said quickly, still reeling a little. He… wasn’t precisely sure he wanted to remember himself - that past was dead and buried for a reason - but then again, you don’t say no to Beelzebub, Prince of Hell and Lord of the Flies, without repercussions he’d rather avoid. If they wanted answers, they would have them… but he should get something in return, too. With Aziraphale unavailable and not really wanting to see his former colleagues, at least he could get one question answered.

“There might be something I’d like to ask you,” Gabriel finally spoke slowly, fully aware of the fact that trading favors with Beelzebub was… an awful idea. Beelzebub raised an eyebrow, looking mildly surprised, and Gabriel continued. “It’s about a departed soul,” he said. He hoped, truly hoped that Daniel’s sister was not dead yet, but he didn’t want to explain too much to the Prince of Hell. They had already threatened a mortal to force him into a deal. “Alison Brown from Plymouth, born… sometime between 1948 and 1950, if my estimate is correct. I don’t know the date of death. I only want to know if she’s in Hell.”

“And why would you want to know if that particular soul is downstairs?”

Gabriel pressed his lips together, saying nothing. “Why do you want to dwell in the past?”

Beelzebub narrowed their eyes. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and you do not need to know.”

“Likewise,” he retorted. He got himself an annoyed glance, but in the end they nodded.

“Fine. Deal. I’ll have the records searched to find out if this ‘Alison Brown from Plymouth’ is in Hell, but when I return with the information I demand answers before I give it to you. And if she is one of ours,” they added, sneering, “I might be willing to trade her soul for yours.”

Ah, Gabriel thought. Of course. Not too long ago, he would have been outraged at the suggestion that his soul was worth that of a mortal and no more. Now he just smiled a little. Despite everything, it was almost a smirk. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d given up on trying to claim me.”

“No. You have well and truly pissed me off too many times not to want you in my trophy room.”

“You have a trophy room?”

“You’ll be the starting point.”

“That’s oddly flattering.”

“Shut up.”

Gabriel smiled faintly and said nothing, waiting for Beelzebub to leave in a cloud of sulphur and smoke, leaving him alone on the pier. But they did not, nor did they say anything themselves. They both just sat there in silence, staring out at the pier beneath a starless sky - and while it was no Christmas party, it was still better than being alone.

***

“Do you think Yeshua is going to show up?”

“Doubtful. He never does.”

“Why do we bother celebrating his birthday, anyway? That’s the sort of thing mortals do. And he spends every single one of them on Earth.”

“Tradition, I suppose.”

“Who started it?”

A pause, and they all lifted their eyes up from their papers to glance at each other, a grim sort of realization dawning in. They couldn’t remember, and were not supposed to ever forget things unless it was somehow related to the Fallen. As the Son of God had been born as a human long after the Fall… well, only one angel had been cast out of their ranks ever since.

Was it Gabriel who’d suggested they should celebrate the anniversary of the birth he’d announced himself as his best-known task? Did he enjoy celebrating it? How did he convince them? Michael couldn’t remember. It was nowhere in the notes she had written down.

Notes are not enough. They can never be enough. Anecdotes about a stranger we know we ought to care about, but cannot remember why.

“Maybe we could check on him,” Sandalphon spoke slowly. “Just to, er, check.”

“He didn’t call for us,” Uriel pointed out. “It would upset him.”

“He won’t know,” Sandalphon replied, and glanced over at Michael. She hesitated.

“Aziraphale is keeping his promise to keep us updated,” she said slowly. It was true, of course, but it didn’t help much now that another realization hit her - she was forgetting what his voice sounded like. How do you write down the sound of someone’s voice?

“But he hasn’t met him since he left London. He only relies on what Gabriel tells him on the phone, and-- we can find him. We can see how he’s doing, and... he won’t know it’s us.”

Michael stared a few moments and finally, slowly, she nodded. Uriel sighed, and nodded back.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Just to check.”

***

“For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up.” -- James 4:11

***

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#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #ineffable husbands #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #crowley #aziraphale #christmas chapter? christmas chapter #winging it

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living-in-translation · 4 years

Text

[tongues & homes]

a meditation on pakistan, language, and forgetting

In Diglossia (1) , Khatibi’s first proposition: A foreign tongue is not added to a native tongue as a simple palimpsest but transforms it.

My grandmother calls me to ask about my progress in self-studying Urdu, her native tongue. You’ll need it to find Home after I’m gone, she says. She could be referring to any number of homes: Paniput, India, where our ancestors lived for one thousand years, before a British man who’d never been east of Paris drew a line in the sand to part families, lovers, and neighbors. (This was the beginning of the forgetting). Lahore, Pakistan, where my grandmother was sent after the cleavage, the home she rebuilt her life and raised my father in. Heaven, the future home of all Steadfast Believers, but I’m pretty sure they speak Arabic there. I don’t ask for clarification.

Instead, dutifully, I ask my father to feed me new Urdu words every day. Mail, imperialism, cantaloupe. He can’t remember the right word for the last one. I don’t think we ate melons in Pakistan, he says, but he seems unsure. It’s been nearly three decades since he left home and a lot of the words won’t come to him anymore. His Urdu phone conversations with friends from home are sprinkled liberally with English vocabulary. I point this out to him, and he scoffs. He’s better than my aunt, he claims, another longtime emigrant. She refers to herself in the masculine first person when she speaks her mother tongue; a delicious gender subversion, but a minced pidgin, nonetheless.

I enter into the telling of amnesia, Khatibi writes, as little by little, my native tongue becomes foreign to me.

My father is the budding amnesiac, but I never knew enough in the first place to start the process of forgetting.

As a child it seems only natural that language is decided by bloodline. To identify as Malaysian Pakistani, I believe, is synonymous with claiming both Hokkien and Urdu as my mother tongues. But I only have one mother, and she speaks to me in Hokkien, that dying, beloved dialect of Chinese; no Urdu. My father, busy raising returns on mutual investments, has no time to impart any language besides English to me. Still, I convince myself that I understand his tongue: through the man behind the halwa store counter’s languid gesture, the tone of my grandmother’s voice over the landline, the facial cues on the Bollywood starlet’s simpering face, I can understand the meaning behind the words on a primal, ancestral plane if not a literal one.

It is only when my knowledge is put to the test that I realize what I’d thought native to me is, in actuality, completely foreign. My grandmother begins to ask more complex questions as I grow older, what do you think about the new Prime Minister and Did they teach you about partition and school, and I find my tongue betraying me in response. Someone tells me I am saying paratha wrong at an Eid party, rapping my tongue against the roof of my mouth too low, no, too high – I fear the sweet spot doesn’t exist in my treacherous mouth. The next Thanksgiving, I try to translate every Urdu sentence I hear at the dinner table into English, word for word. The sounds are familiar but their meanings are beyond me. I realize I was living in delusion.

Khatibi’s second proposition (paraphrased): everything is translation, the body mediating between voiced emotion and the written word.

I speak to Yzza about her realization, a few thousand miles from Morocco, that she wanted to start actively try to re-inscribe her Moroccan-ness, by re-learning Darija, a language she was dislocated from as a child. She’s been studying it a for a few years now, informally, through conversations with her family and people on the streets when she’s home in Casablanca. She wrote a Master’s thesis about women speaking Dareeja on the street, even. Because language, she says, is a symbol of genuine belonging to a people. (I wonder where that leaves me?)

And what about now? I ask. Now that she has some command over the language, does she feel Moroccan enough?

She says: It depends on my context. Language is a social thing, so to say that the conception of the self and its identity relies even in part on language is to say that identity fluctuates with the particular cultural and linguistic world the self dwells in.

Then, as long as the dislocated self is moving between geographies, can it ever find a space to which it fully and wholly belongs, a space in which it can express simultaneously every layer of its identity? Even if Yzza has learned Dareeja, being in Canada shaped her Moroccan-ness unalterably. It’s as she says: The place you’re in shapes the place you’re from. The body constantly mediates between the self and its particular cultural-linguistic context.

I don’t speak Urdu, and I probably never will fluently. I fear I won’t find the Home my grandmother and father speaks of so fondly, at least, not to the same degree that can call it their own. But I do have the unique experience of a constant translation that is only my own, articulating my own acute dislocation through my pen, onto the page, my body living in-between.

(1) Diglosia - Abdelkebir Khatibi, from Algeria in Other’s Languages

alia

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supervidyavinay · 4 years

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It’s probably safe to assume that you have by now heard of the Galwan river. Its valley is one of the flashpoints of the ongoing high-altitude standoff between the Indian and Chinese forces.The river, which runs 80 km westwards from its origins in Karakoram range through Aksai Chin and east Ladakh to join the Shyok river, a significant tributary of the Indus, is deemed to be of strategic significance in this region, with simmering border tensions between India and China. The valley was also a flashpoint during the 1962 India-China war.It is named after Ghulam Rassul Galwan, a hardy Ladakhi adventurer and explorer who assisted many famed European explorers at the turn of the 19th century. He later brought alive that world — of treacherous expeditions through high Himalayas during The Great Game, as Russia and Britain jostled for dominance in the region — in the book Servant of Sahibs.He was also my great-grandfather.Born in 1878, Galwan either led or was part of numerous expeditions into Tibet, Yarkand (now in the Uygur Autonomous Region of Xinjiang, China), the Karakoram range, the Pamirs and other Central Asian regions — mostly through inhospitable geographies with altitudes ranging from 5,000 m to 7,000 m above the sea level and where temperature plunged to -30 degree Celsius in the winter. At that temperature, an inadequately clothed person develops hypothermia in 10 minutes.Galwan assisted and travelled with the legendary names of those times. In 1887, he travelled with Major HH Godwin-Austen, the English geologist who determined the height of K2, the world’s second tallest peak, also known as Mount Godwin-Austen. In 1892, he travelled with Charles Murray, the 7th Earl of Dunmore, on a trip thought to be a diplomatic or espionage mission. In 1890 and 1896, he travelled with Sir Francis Younghusband, the architect of the Anglo-Tibetan Treaty of 1904, which ensured long-term trade concessions for the British government. In 1913, he accompanied Italian zoologist Filippo de Filippi. These were just the better known among the expeditions of a man who appears to have been travelling nearly all of his relatively short life — he died at 47, in 1925.During the 1892 mission with Murray, the 7th Earl of Dunmore, the group had hit a wall of tall mountains and steep gorges with no possible way out. Galwan, a 14-year-old boy at the time, went ahead searching for a possible route out of the labyrinth. To the group’s surprise, the boy found a relatively easier passage through the ravines that helped the expedition to go ahead without much difficulty or any casualty. Impressed, Dunmore decided to name the newfound passage through the edge of the gurgling water the “Galwan Nullah”, according to Ladakhi historian Abdul Ghani Sheikh.“I have never heard of an instance of naming of major geographical feature after a native explorer. British names have been given but never heard of one being named after a local,” says Harish Kapadia, mountaineer, author and long-time editor of the Himalayan Journal.The Ladakh of those days was a landscape stricken with poverty. Galwan was forced to go on risky, long-distance expeditions when he was just 12, to supplement the meagre and inconsistent income of his single mother, a winnower. But the path he chose due to compulsion later became a passion and he never looked back even after his material circumstances improved.Starting out as a porter and pony man, he rose through the ranks to eventually become the aksakal or the chief assistant of the British joint commissioner at Leh.For about 35 years, he assisted or led expeditions with British, Italian and American explorers. He spoke the native Ladakhi, Turki and Urdu and had working knowledge of Kashmiri and Tibetan, according to Ghani Sheikh. During the courses of his trips, Galwan also learnt English language and eventually wrote his autobiography. Ghani Sheikh reckons Galwan was probably the first person in the erstwhile state of Jammu and Kashmir to write an autobiography in English.“When he joined my husband, he had an English vocabulary of a dozen words, and therewith an ambition to write ‘the story of his happened’ in English,” Katherine Barrett, who edited the book, would write in the Editor’s Introduction. In a bid to increase his vocabulary, her husband, the American adventurer Robert Barrett, spoke to Galwan in his style of broken English, exchanged notes and gave him the King James Bible and a copy of a 17th century travel book to read. Galwan kept jotting down the experiences of his trips and about various sahibs on thin paper and kept shipping them to the American editor for more than a decade.“The thin sheets of manuscripts have been following us all over the world for fourteen years,” wrote Barrett. “Unintelligible early chapters have been sent back several times for rewriting. At last, Rassul has acquired a style with which we do not tamper.” The book, Servant of Sahibs: A Book to be Read Aloud, was finally published in 1923 by Cambridgebased W Heffer & Sons Ltd, with an introduction by Sir Francis Younghusband, then a British army officer who was dispatched by the British India government to gather intelligence on the strategic and trade routes of the Pamirs and Central Asia.During Galwan’s life, his homeland was part of the famed Silk Route, which was volatile (how some things never change), with different kingdoms and tribes trying to maintain their control over the lucrative paths, swarming with robbers.Galwan was born in Leh, possibly in 1878. He was raised by his single mother; both of them got by doing menial jobs and household chores for a government official. The book offers early glimpses of his doughty spirit. Once to protest being chided by his mother, he left home for a friend’s house, and walked defiantly for miles in the freezing winter, without shoes.During those days, Leh, the capital and principal town of Ladakh, was an important hub on the Silk Route, where traders from Kashmir, Punjab, Afghanistan, Tibet, China and Central Asia would congregate and barter their goods — teas to turbans, creams to carpets. The triangular town, situated at an altitude of 13,500 ft above sea level, was a melting pot of various ethnicities.Petty fights would often break out between them. In one such scuffle, Galwan and his friends were chased through the streets of Leh and were badly beaten by a group of Chinese traders and their aides, according to his autobiography.As he lay on the ground, Galwan recalled in his book, “I thought: ‘This people will kill to me.’” 76363896Dead Man WalkingThe same fear of being killed by the Chinese would be experienced by another member of my family seven decades later. This was when a hail of bullets from the People’s Liberation Army (PLA) rained down on a search party of Indian security forces in October 1959 near the Hot Springs check post near Aksai Chin, close to the Galwan river.In that patrol party was a 24-year-old recruited by the Intelligence Bureau — my father Abdul Majeed Bailay.Tensions were brewing between India and China that year. During the 1959 Tibetan Uprising, the Dalai Lama had fled to India in March and India had granted asylum to the Tibetan spiritual leader.On October 21, one of the three reconnaissance parties that had gone to the Hot Springs area did not return to the base. Sensing something amiss, a search team of about 20 members, comprising Central Reserve Police Force (CRPF) jawans and Intelligence Bureau (IB) men, including my father, went searching. At around noon, when the Indian search party was passing through ravines, looking for their lost colleagues, they were ambushed by the Chinese PLA forces. Bullets and grenades rained down from the PLA vantage on the high ridges. Despite their precarious positions and with their modest firearms, the Indian contingent fought bravely but 10 Indian lives were lost in the incident.My father was wounded but survived. The survivors were captured by the PLA, which made the hostages carry the bodies of their deceased colleagues back to the Chinese side. For more than a month, they were kept in underground bunkers. With no news from the border, my father was considered dead. My devastated grandmother performed his last rites as per Islamic rituals and local Ladakhi traditions.Then as part of an agreement after five weeks, China released the hostages and handed over the bodies of Indian jawans who died in the Hot Springs shootout.On a winter afternoon, children playing at Stalam, near the Leh Palace, saw an approaching party of security forces on horseback. When some of them recognised my father among the soldiers riding the horses, the children were stunned. Old-timers say the children ran scared, shouting, “ghost... ghost”, as he was believed to be dead.After that episode my father gained some notoriety in Leh as datlok, loose translation for “dead man walking”, in Ladakhi. He married Galwan’s eldest granddaughter (my mother) in the late 1960s.In 2018, a year before he passed away at the age of 84, my father and three other surviving members of the Hot Springs search party were honoured by Prime Minister Narendra Modi when he inaugurated the renovated National Police Memorial and Museum in New Delhi. The sacrifices made by the brave personnel of CRPF and IB at the Hot Springs in 1959 is remembered every year on October 21, observed as the National Police Commemoration Day.I grew up hearing the tales of my father’s hostage saga as well as the storied adventures of Galwan. The treks lasted months and ran through dangerous trails in gorges with the ever-present threat of snowstorms. While the European sahibs got mountains named after them, the porters and pony men did the backbreaking work. Poverty and lack of opportunities led many Ladakhi locals to take up dangerous jobs. Tours were so tough that many had to amputate all toes and fingers due to frostbites.But Galwan’s sacrifices bestowed good fortune on successive generations of his family. As Ladakh over the years became a highlight of the domestic tourism circuit, the land Galwan owned in and around Leh town became prime property and the clan produced a new breed of hoteliers.Whenever I build a modest hotel on the Galwan land I inherited in Leh, a friend suggested that I should name it after my greatgrandfather. But my uncle already runs an establishment across the road — Galwan Guest House. from Economic Times https://ift.tt/37rWRRP

#News #Economy #COVID19

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jvzooproductsclub · 6 years

Text

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cedrick27mcall · 7 years

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3 IELTS high scorers share their best exam tips

The best part about holding an IELTS results competition is… meeting the winners! As you know, we have a tradition that goes back more than a decade – we ask the winners these questions: “What in your opinion is important in IELTS preparation? What is a good way to study for the exam?”

Here is what 3 latest winners told us. But before we get to it, one important request – don’t just read this post. Think how YOU can follow the same steps in your IELTS preparation. Make a to-do list, and look at it every time before you study, to remind yourself what you need to cover in this session. And when this works for you, write back and tell us, so we can be very, very happy for you!

Our first winner is Rajatha from India (first language – KANNADA), who got Overall IELTS Band 8.5. She said:

“I am flattered to be chosen as the winner of the IELTS results competition. I would like to share some tips that would help the IELTS aspirants secure a good score if incorporated into their study plan:

1. Make reading a habit. Learn to be a voracious reader. Read blogs, magazines, and the newspaper and try to think of ways in which you can present the given information differently.

2. Look around you in order to identify issues of common interest, and try to speak/write about them. This helps to bolster your confidence.

3. Practice paying attention during the listening module as this section, if paid undivided attention to, will help you secure a good band score.”

Our second winner is Tina, also from India, who got Overall IELTS Band 7.5. She said:

“My best advice for all the IELTS candidates would be that they all should practise sample papers. Read, listen and write more in English, which will help them enhance their vocabulary.”

Our third winner is Zubaid (native Urdu speaker from India), who got Overall IELTS Band 7. He said:

“Listening – I used to practice very hard listening modules on YouTube and watching English movies without subtitle will definitely help.

Reading – The more you practice Reading the better Band you get, and don’t forget to time yourself. Just read the question and look for the answer, don’t waste your precious time on reading everything.

Writing – Here Vocabulary is very important and paragraphs should be linked to each other. Read multitude of sample essays/letters/reports so you will have a better idea and then practice.

Speaking – Be confident, speak clearly (don’t speak too fast). Structure your speech so that it has an intro, body and conclusion in Section 2 of the speaking test (Cue card). This can increase your score and certainly using rich vocabulary will be the icing on the cake.”

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from IELTS-Blog http://www.ielts-blog.com/ielts-test-results-competition/ielts-preparation-tips-from-winners/3-ielts-high-scorers-share-their-best-exam-tips/

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gabby32khangk · 7 years