#We tear divinity from the hells and heavens themselves or we die trying. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dothwrites · 4 years ago

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15.20 coda--at the end of the world

author’s note: while i am still reeling from the finale, this was my way of making some kind of personal peace with it. don’t mistake this for me agreeing with the choices made <3

---

“I would know him in death, at the end of the world.”--Madeline Miller

---

Castiel opens his eyes.

All around him is green. A moment later, he hears the soft sound of birds chirping in the background; from further away, the faint sounds of children laughing. The air is ripe with the smell of growth, damp in the air and life underneath his fingers.

He sits up. The sky is a perfect shade of blue, the kind found only in poet’s and painters imaginations. A few feet away, the shrubs grow, flowers spilling over themselves in their enthusiasm to be born. Everything is a riot of life and color.

“Cas.”

Castiel’s heart thumps against his ribs. He knows that voice.

He whirls around, already knowing who he’ll find. Several feet away, Jack waits, one hand raised in a short wave.

Castiel finds himself up on his feet, and within two short steps, he’s enfolded Jack in his arms. For a moment, he forgets about everything which came before, and allows himself this sheer comfort. If nothing else remains, then Jack is here.

Jack hugs him back, twice as fiercely, before they separate. Castiel holds him at arm’s length, trying to find injuries or hurt on him, but there’s nothing. In fact, it’s almost as if...

“Jack,” he says slowly, his arm falling away from Jack’s shoulder, “what happened?”

Jack smiles, a little lopsided, but still his boy.

“Well,” he says, gesturing towards a bench, “It’s kind of a long story.

---

For all that Jack said it was a long story, it ends up being remarkably quick in the telling. Castiel listens, sometimes grieving and sometimes proud, as he hears of how Sam, Dean, and Jack ultimately defeated Chuck. His heart grows in his chest as Jack recounts Dean’s words.

That’s not who I am.

A small part of him wishes that he could be there to see it, but he tucks that part of himself away. He said his piece. He relieved the burden which has been pressing down on his shoulders now for years. In his lifetime, it was nothing more than a blip on the map, but those years have made all the difference in the world to him. Finally, he can look back on them now without regrets.

“And so, I came here,” Jack finally says, shifting a little on the bench. He looks oddly guilty, like the times Castiel would find him sneaking snacks back into his room. “I thought...”

“What?’ Castiel prompts, after a few moments when it becomes clear that Jack has no interest in speaking.

“Sam and Dean don’t really need me anymore. I mean, I know that they want me, but the world is bigger now. And the people up here need me too.”

It’s then that Castiel looks around, scrutinizing his environment more closely. The nagging sense of familiarity hits and then he wonders how he didn’t see it before. His favorite Heaven, caught in an eternal Tuesday afternoon.

“It’s not right,” Jack says, his forehead wrinkled into an earnest expression of worry. “The people here are stuck. While I was on earth, we all talked about free will, but the people here don’t have it. They’re stuck forever in an endless loop of memories, and it’s all just...empty.”

Jack looks at Castiel, and Castiel doesn’t see God. He doesn’t see a divine being, or Lucifer’s son, or even an angelic being. He just sees his boy, lost and confused, but still so pure, still wanting to do the right thing, no matter what.

“Cas?” Jack asks. “Will you help me?”

---

Rebuilding Heaven is slow work, but time doesn’t really mean anything here. It’s delicate to rebuild the walls separating billions of souls so that nothing collapses. Castiel works alongside Jack, making suggestions as his mind trips along to potential problems.

Though it’s never said aloud, Castiel knows why Jack is working tirelessly. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the knowledge sits that Sam and Dean are going to die. One day, they will pass from the earth, and come to Heaven, and on that day, Castiel wants everything to be perfect for them. He wants to show them a true paradise, a place without walls or barriers, a place where emotion is genuine and not just a manufactured memory. Rebuilding Heaven is his last chore, the last of his penance to be performed.

He does make one stop, however.

When he walks in the door, Kelly’s head lifts up from the book she’s flipping through. Her smile is a balm to the hurt places inside him, the ones that he likes to pretend don’t exist, because he was happy, yes? That was the whole point of everything, was to be happy. “Hey, Cas,” she greets him, shifting over and patting the couch next to her. “I was wondering when you’d be by.”

“I’ve been busy,” Cas says, settling down on the cushions. In Heaven, his body is easier than it was on earth, more flexible, and he wonders if that’s because after all these years, he’s finally returned to where he was supposed to belong, or if it’s because he no longer has the shadow of his love pressing down on his shoulders.

“Jack told me. Rebuilding Heaven? Sounds ambitious.”

“The old Heaven was...not ideal,” Castiel says. “I thought it was at the beginning: each soul gets a paradise tailor made to them. But then, I realized that human life is meaningless without the connections we form along the way. Each soul, stuck forever in its own loop is...”

“It’s lonely,” Kelly says, reaching out and squeezing his hand. Castiel returns the gesture, grateful for the connection. Her eyes are kind as she moves closer to him, her shoulder pressing into his.

“So what happened?”

---

In their time together, Castiel never told Kelly about Dean, at least not explicitly. But she had a brilliant mind and was able to see the threads of his longing woven into everything he did. Relating the story to her comes easily, and he tells her things which he would never tell Jack.

“And I was happy,” Castiel says at the end. “I was.”

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Neither,” Castiel replies, bristling slightly. It was true that he might have been happier--he had performed a willful obfuscation of the original terms--but that doesn’t negate what he felt in that moment. The sheer love, the overwhelming gratitude, the incandescent happiness of being able, one last time, to proclaim to the world Dean Winchester is Saved.

Everything else is unimportant when viewed through those lenses.

“Why haven’t you gone to see him?” Kelly was always good at cutting to the heart of the problem.

“Dean has his life on earth. I have my work here in Heaven. I don’t...” Because, of course, he’s asked himself the same question many times. Why doesn’t he go find Dean and tell him of one last, improbable miracle?

“Cas, let me tell you: I didn’t know Dean all that well, but I didn’t need to if I wanted to know how he felt about you. It was all over his face.” Kelly turns to face him, suddenly serious. “Cas, you should go to him. At least allow him to speak his side. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then you’ll know. And if he does...”

Castiel shakes his head. Happiness in the being is what he’s told himself ever since he awoke to find himself in Heaven. Happiness doesn’t come from the having. He will live with himself and find contentment in the works which he does.

Kelly looks sympathetic, but doesn’t say anything as he walks out.

There’s work to be done.

---

Castiel sighs with satisfaction as he walks through Heaven. Slowly, the walls are coming down. Souls are mingling and interacting. There’s joy in the once quiet halls, the giddiness which comes from freedom after too long without. He moves through the different realms, silent as a thought, and goes unnoticed, at least until a gruff voice catches his attention.

“What the hell are you doing here, boy?”

A wide grin splits Castiel’s face. Only Bobby Singer would think to call an angel ‘boy’. He walks towards the old hunter, who looks the same now as he did in life, and is surprised when Bobby sweeps him up in a hug which would threaten to crack his ribs, were he human.

“You did good,” Bobby whispers, his voice thick in Castiel’s ear. “I heard what you and that boy Jack did, and you did real good.”

It means more than he would have thought, to have Bobby’s approval. After a moment’s pause, he hugs Bobby back.

When Bobby pulls away, he quickly knuckles his eyes, before clearing his throat. “So, you fixed Heaven on top of everything else? What do you have planned next?”

Castiel’s shoulders lift in a shrug. “There’s always work to be done maintaining Heaven. We don’t know what, if any, effects the restructuring will bring, so I suppose I will be traveling and making sure that everything is stable.”

“If that ain’t a load of shit,” Bobby scoffs. “From what I’ve seen, your boy has enough power in his pinky finger to do just about whatever he wants. Stop making excuses and get your feathery ass back down there.”

Castiel swallows. “It’s not quite as simple as that. Sam and Dean have a chance to live their lives, the way that they would wish for them to be lived. It’s not fair of me to intrude.”

“Now, if that isn’t the biggest pile of horseshit I’ve ever heard.” Bobby’s mouth twists underneath his beard. “Only one thing keeping you from going back down to see those boys, and it sure as hell ain’t concern for Heaven or some BS notion that they’re better off without you.” Castiel opens his mouth, but Bobby speaks over him. “And don’t tell me that you’re just waiting either. Something I learned a long time ago--you never have as much time as you think you do.”

Castiel closes his mouth and says nothing.

---

Bobby is wrong.

There’s still time. He doesn’t have to go yet. There’s still work to be done in Heaven, souls to be guided, walls to be broken. Jack still needs him.

There’s still time.

There’s still time, until there isn’t.

---

Castiel feels it before he knows what’s happening. It’s a rift, a tear, something which ripples throughout the universe and comes to hit him in the chest. He staggers backward, hand clutching at his shirt.

His first thought is that Heaven is under attack, but a second’s observation tells him that’s not the case. Everything is fine. The fabric of Heaven remains secure, the souls are unbothered. It’s only him that feels the blow.

With a flutter of wings, Jack appears beside him. His face is a mask of distress, tears welling in his eyes. “Cas,” he cries, clenching his hands into fists at his side. “Cas, it’s--”

“Dean,” Castiel says, finally understanding the bolt of pain which ripped through him.

It was too soon. He doesn’t know how much time has passed on earth, but he knows it was too soon.

It’s always too soon.

“Cas, what do I... I can heal him. I can go and heal him now. I can save him. I can...” Jack trails off, his feet still pacing in desperate circles. “What do I do?”

It’s a child’s question, and Castiel has no answer.

“Free will,” is all he says. “Whatever you do...It’s your decision.”

---

Castiel feels when Dean Winchester’s soul enters Heaven. He held that soul within his grace, he snatched it away from the filth and flames of Hell. He cradled that soul while he was reassembling Dean’s body, pulling atoms out of air to create skin, flesh, and bone. He would know that soul at the end of everything, and he knows it here, when it settles into the place which was created for him.

It was as perfect as Castiel could make it; down to the Impala sitting in the Roadhouse’s parking lot. He created every inch of Dean’s Heaven in homage, in apology.

It wasn’t fair. Dean deserved to live to a ripe old age. He deserved to enjoy the world for which he fought so hard. He should have grown old, should have found peace, should have discovered the foibles and pitfalls of normal, human existence. Dean worked too hard, for too long, and he deserved a kinder, softer fate. Instead, he’s here, and all Castiel can do for him is to craft his Heaven with painstaking care.

He pauses on the boundaries of Dean’s Heaven. Every fiber of him yearns to go forward, to rejoice in Dean’s presence, to see that beloved face again. He wants it so badly he can almost taste it, leather and gasoline and whiskey mingling together until he’s back in the bunker, listening to the sounds of his family--

Castiel takes a step away from the border. First one, then another. After three steps, it becomes easier.

Dean has his paradise, and Castiel won’t interfere.

---

Heaven moves as it always does, timeless and changeless. There is no turn of the earth to mark the passage of time. Instead, it moves like the ocean, rolling waves which are always moving and yet the surface remains the same. Castiel travels through various Heavens, observing the newly liberated souls, and taking his peace from their newfound enjoyment. It eases something within him to see his former home restored, better than it ever was before.

He’s inspecting a field of sunflowers when the sound of a car door closing surprises him. Immediately, his heart lurches in his chest, dipping down to somewhere around his knees before hurtling upwards to lodge in his throat. He swallows before he turns around.

Dean Winchester is there.

Castiel’s heart, always out of his control, performs a quick dance against the confines of his ribs. Dean looks...He looks whole and wonderful, vibrant and alive. The lines around his eyes look as though they’ve been carved through laughter instead of despair. His shoulders sit easier, no longer pressed down with the burden of the entire world.

Castiel licks his lips. “Hello, Dean,” he finally says, when it becomes obvious that Dean has no intention of making the first move.

Dean’s lips quirk up in a grin. “Cas,” he says, not moving from where he’s leaning up against the frame of the Impala. “You’re a hard guy to track down.”

Layers upon layers of subtext are placed within the seemingly simple sentence. Castiel remembers Purgatory as well as anything else, the desperate year of keeping one step ahead of Leviathans while close enough to Dean to protect him if need be.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says faintly. “I wasn’t aware anyone was looking.”

Dean’s face performs a series of interesting maneuvers, dropping and rising and twisting. It finally settles into an expression like stone as he pushes off the car and storms towards him. Castiel waits, caught up in breathless anticipation of the oncoming storm.

“Look,” Dean growls, reaching out and snagging the lapel of his coat, almost like he wants to ensure that Castiel doesn’t escape. Castiel doesn’t even dream of it; there’s no other place he’d rather be than caught in Dean’s grip. “There was a lot of shit going on at the time, so I didn’t get to say it then, but there’s nothing happening now, so you are going to sit here and listen, all right?”

Castiel nods, but Dean doesn’t seem to notice. “I can’t believe you didn’t...” He runs the hand which isn’t still wrapped up in Castiel’s coat over his face. “You idiot,” he finally breathes. “A couple of dumbasses. You’ve had me, Cas. All along, you’ve had me.”

Castiel looks up at Dean in sharp surprise. When he meets Dean’s eyes, there’s nothing but the infinite compassion which he fell in love with. “You... You’re this force of nature that came bursting into my life. All this time, you’ve always been there, always helping, and I took that for granted, I know I did. But, god, Cas, I should have told you every day how thankful I was to have you there with us. I should have let you know what a miracle you are. You never gave up on me, not once, not even when I deserved it.”

Castiel’s breath hitches in his chest as Dean lets go of his coat. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reaches up to cup Castiel’s cheek. “You never stopped believing. You never stopped trying. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Dean.” The name bursts out of Castiel’s chest in a harsh breath. Dean’s words are working their way underneath his skin, to the point where his body can’t contain them.

“Cas.” Dean gently angles his face up so that there’s no escape when he says, “I love you.”

“I’m sorry,” explodes from Castiel’s chest, the helplessness and grief he felt when he felt Dean’s soul leaving earth erupting in a single quick sob. “Dean, I’m so sorry, I should have been there, I should have done something, I never should have left you alone--”

“Cas.” Dean’s fingers press into his cheek, not hard, but firmly enough to get his attention. “It sucks, all right? There was so much I wanted...” The corner of his mouth drops. “I was going to get you out, and you, me, and Sam were going to head to the beach. I was going to get you drinking out of a coconut, maybe a Hawaiian shirt. We were going to do Christmas, I was going to take you to a theme park and see if you puked on roller coasters. I wanted...” For a moment, grief so overwhelming that it can’t be touched crosses Dean’s face, but then, with effort, he pushes it away. “There’s so much that I wanted, but it’s done now. And besides, you’ve been busy.” Dean raises his eyebrows. The grin on his face invites Cas to smile as well. “Reforming Heaven?”

“I wanted...There was so much I did wrong here. I thought if I could make it right, that maybe...” Castiel leans his cheek into Dean’s hand. “I wanted it to be perfect for you. You weren’t supposed to be here yet.”

“I know. I know. And it’s not okay, but you’re here, all right? Mom’s here, Bobby’s here, Charlie, and Jess, and Kevin, and Ellen and Jo...They’re all here, and thanks to you, I’m going to see them. You did that, Cas.”

“Jack did most of the work--” Castiel begins, but he’s cut off by the soft press of Dean’s lips against his.

Sparks burst in his chest as Dean’s hand slides around to the back of his neck to cradle his head. His other arm slides around his waist, and suddenly, Castiel is held by Dean Winchester, by this miracle of a man. Dean’s kisses consume him, until he’s no longer Castiel. Instead, he’s heat, and friction, and more.

“You and me,” Dean pants against his lips, pulling away just far enough to run his nose along Castiel’s. “We’ve got time now, Cas, we’ve got so much time. I’m going to take you apart, going to show you how much I love you, every single day. I’m going to show you everything.”

Castiel is drowning in the outpouring of Dean’s devotion. He’s helpless in the riptides. All he can do to save himself is kiss Dean again, tasting salt on their lips from where their tears trace down to their lips. Castiel cries partly for Dean’s missed opportunities and the fact that life is so cruel. But he also cries from happiness. Dean is right. Here, they have all the time they could ever want. There’s time to explore every feeling and desire, time for them to become themselves, without the pressure of the world around them.

They part. Somehow, Castiel’s hands have found their way onto Dean’s waist. One of his thumbs is braver than the rest of his whole body, as it sneaks underneath Dean’s shirt to touch bare skin. Dean grins at him.

“Hey, Cas,” he asks, pressing his forehead to Castiel’s. “Do you want to take a drive?”

Their fingers entwine as they walk towards the Impala. Castiel’s chest feels light, like Dean’s hand is the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. “I’m still trying to figure out the roads here. It felt like I was driving around for forty years to try and find you.”

They settle into the Impala, where they’ve been so many times before, but now Castiel can enjoy every squeak of the leather seats. He can revel in the imperfections of the car because of the perfection that’s next to him. Dean Winchester reaches across the seat and takes his hand, as easy as breathing.

“I can’t wait to show Sam everything,” Dean says, as he guides the Impala back onto a road which Castiel is almost certain wasn’t there when he arrived. “I, uh...Hope it takes him a while to get here. But. Yeah, when he gets here, I can’t wait to show him everything.”

“We’ll see it all together,” Castiel finally says. It’s all he can say, his heart too busy dancing in his chest.

They have all the time they want.

---

Time slips and passes and stops. In between his time with Dean, Jack, and the rest of the residents of Heaven, and performing maintenance throughout Heaven, Castiel watches the earth. He sees those left behind grow older. Claire and Kaia start a family, Claire finally having set aside the kernel of anger in her heart. Castiel watches Sam and Eileen’s family grow, smiling when Sam finally goes back to law school and gets his degree. He spends the rest of his career fighting for justice for children lost in the system, those who can’t fight for themselves. Saving people, hunting things, indeed.

Several times, Castiel thinks about going to visit Sam, if only to assuage the grief he can still see the man carrying, but each time he stops. It hurts, but grief is a facet of life. This grief is natural. It comes honestly. It’s not manipulated by a sadistic higher being for a voyeristic pleasure.

Eileen comes out to the Impala and brings Sam back into the house with gentle touches. Throughout the years, she’s learned how to navigate Sam’s moods, and knows how to bring him back. They lay in bed, foreheads pressed together, Eileen’s body curved into Sam’s.

“I just,” Sam begins, twisting slightly so Eileen can read his lips, “I just miss him so much sometimes.”

“I know,” Eileen answers. It’s all she needs to say.

After a while, Sam gently wraps his fingers around Eileen’s wrist, partly for comfort, partly to grab her attention. “Dean’s baseball game is next weekend. Do we know yet if it’s going to conflict with Beth’s dance rehearsal?”

“It shouldn’t,” Eileen answers, and with that, the normal routine of their life is reestablished. The grief is always present, but it’s part of the human condition.

Castiel turns his eyes back to Heaven, where Dean waits for him. Despite it being Heaven, he insists on making repairs to Bobby’s house as well as the Roadhouse, even when Castiel reminds him, for the hundredth time, that if he truly wanted to, he could fix these imperfections with a thought.

“Sometimes, you just have to do things the hard way,” he answers, through a mouthful of nails.

Castiel rolls his eyes and goes to help him.

---

The morning dawns, quiet and gentle. The dawn is silvery-gold as it stretches across the grass leading up to the cabin. In the distance, the birds start singing. Castiel can smell the fresh scents of spring, dew clinging to the grass, the clean, bright potential in the air. His toes stick out from underneath the comforter, but a quick flip of his foot flicks the corner of the blanket back into place.

A warm, heavy arm winds over his waist. “Babe, it’s too early,” Dean mumbles into the nape of his neck. “Go back to sleep.”

Castiel strokes over the back of Dean’s hand. The words are tempting, but something has woken him up, and now that it has, he wants to know what it is. He props himself up on his elbows, ignoring the chill of the air as it bites at his bare skin, and concentrates. After a second, he startles.

“Dean,” he says.

Though he doesn’t put urgency or fear into his voice, something about his tone makes Dean open his eyes, suddenly alert. Castiel looks at him, and Dean rolls over onto his side. After their time together, they’ve mastered the art of the wordless conversation, much to the chagrin of Charlie, Kevin, and anyone within ten miles of them, at least according to Jo.

“It’s time?” Dean asks. He rolls closer to Castiel, stealing his warmth, as he trails his fingers over Castiel’s ribs.

“Yes,” Castiel answers, taking Dean’s hand in his and pressing kisses to each of Dean’s fingertips. “Won’t be long now.”

Dean’s fingers slide across his cheek before he curls his fingers around the bolt of Castiel’s jaw, pulling him down. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss which still manages to make fireworks explode in the pit of Castiel’s belly. He doesn’t think the thrill of kissing Dean will ever fade. Castiel doesn’t want it to.

“I should get going,” Dean murmurs, rubbing against the bristles on Castiel’s cheek. “You want to come along?”

Castiel relaxes back into the mattress, only reluctantly parting from Dean. “No, you go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

“I know.” Dean slides out of bed, and Castiel takes a moment to appreciate the play of his muscles underneath fair skin. He lets out a small, disappointed noise when Dean slides into a pair of jeans and a jacket, causing Dean to roll his eyes at him over his shoulders. “Yeah, keep it in your pants. Definitely wearing clothes to this particular meeting.”

“Shame,” Castiel murmurs, waggling his eyebrows.

“Shameless,” Dean corrects, leaning over the mattress to kiss Castiel once more, short and sweet. “We’ll be back before too long.” Another kiss to Castiel’s forehead, and then Dean murmurs, “I love you,” into his hair.

Castiel smiles. Much like kissing Dean, hearing those words will never grow old to him. He’ll revel in them, roll in the simple syllables, allow them to sink into him, with the simple truth that Jack tells him, that Charlie tells him, that Kelly tells him, that even Bobby and Ellen and Jo tell him.

You are valued. You are loved.

He smiles at Dean Winchester, this impossible, miracle of a man. “I love you too,” he replies.

Dean out of the bedroom. The door to the cabin opens and closes. Castiel rolls over onto his back and stretches, staring up at the ceiling.

There’s work to be done today. He’ll need to travel through Heaven, informing the various interested parties that Sam Winchester has arrived. There will be a party tonight at the Roadhouse, a celebration instead of mourning. Then he and Dean will get to show Sam their Heaven, will listen to Sam relate through his years.

There is so much work to do.

But they have time. They have all the time they need.

---

“Life never ends when you are in it.”--Lemony Snicket, The Beatrice Letters

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vizkopa · 4 years ago

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Celestial (FallenAngel!Doflamingo x Reader) CHAPTER 11

Chapter 11: Forget-Me-Not

It didn’t take long for you to have a roaring fire crackling away merrily in the hearth. You had shed your wet and blood stained clothes and replaced them with dry ones, and Doffy’s rain-drenched feather coat was hanging by the fire to dry. He sat on the couch, staring unseeing into the flames.

You were rummaging in the cupboards, searching for the bottle of whiskey you knew your father kept hidden away in the cabin, and when you found it, poured two generous helpings into glasses. You passed one over the back of the couch to Doffy, who stared at it in mild disgust before taking it from you. You sat on the opposite end from him, curling your legs up beneath you, and took a long sip from the whiskey. It burned on the way down but in that moment it was exactly what you needed.

Doffy watched carefully as you drank, then raised the glass to his face to sniff the amber liquid. He wrinkled his nose.

“I will never understand why humans choose to poison themselves for fun.”

“You’re the one who’s always complaining about how complicated human emotions are. Sometimes humans need to dull the pain for a little while too.”

He looked thoughtful and, after a few seconds, took a hesitant sip. Watching the rollercoaster of emotions pass across his face made you let out an involuntary giggle. He glared at you but in the end, went back for a second sip.

The two of you sat like this in silence for a long time, each of you absorbed in your own thoughts. Finally, you asked the question that had been eating away at you since you had gotten here.

“So, what do we do now?”

Doffy did not immediately reply. He took another sip of his whiskey—his glass was still mostly full while you were already down to the dregs of your own.

“I don’t know,” he said simply.

You felt a flare of annoyance at his words. “Well, you might be able to stay here forever, but I have a life and a job and—”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite plan on becoming a fugitive of Heaven,” he said bitterly. He was really getting a hang of this sarcasm thing.

“Neither did I,” you retorted. “I didn’t plan on having an angel land in my back yard either, but lucky me, I guess.”

“It’s a little hard to aim when you’re hurtling through the atmosphere.”

You sighed. You were too tired to argue at this point. “I know. I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Silence fell between you once more. Then something occurred to you. You jumped up suddenly, almost sloshing whiskey down the front of your shirt, and ran to the duffel bag you had thrown unceremoniously into a corner. You dug around in it until you pulled out your Dad’s old gun and brought it back with you to the couch. Doffy was eyeing the revolver suspiciously as you turned it over in your hands.

“So… I thought angels with their Grace intact were supposed to be invincible?”

“They are.”

“So then why was this,” you waved the pistol and Doffy flinched, “able to kill Rosi? I mean, that’s what happened, right?”

“…Yes.” Doffy shifted uncomfortably. “When an angel’s wings are broken, their powers do become diminished and they may be harmed, but nothing is able to truly kill an angel. Not anything in possession of a mere human at least.”

“What can kill them?”

“Certain weapons that are imbued with divine powers, most of them long lost to time. And demonic weaponry.”

“Demonic?”

“Forged in the fires of hell. As I suspect the bullets in that gun were.”

You looked down at the seemingly ordinary weapon in your hands with disbelief. Why would your father of all people come to own something like this? Swinging out the cylinder, you plucked out one of the five remaining bullets and held it up to your face. It was heavy—much heavier than the rifle rounds you were used to. You turned it over between your fingers so that it caught the firelight, and you noticed that dozens of tiny symbols were etched into the metal, so small and delicate you almost missed them.

“Look at this,” you said holding the bullet out to Doffy. He didn’t take it, letting out a low hiss as if merely being close to it scalded him.

“I cannot touch it.”

“But you’re not an angel anymore, technically.”

“I may not have my Grace, but I am still a divine being, and that,” he nodded to the bullet, “is pure evil.”

You snorted and replaced the bullet in the revolver, swinging the cylinder closed and tucking the gun safely back in your bag. “If that thing is pure evil, I don’t know what that makes you.”

Doffy gave you a dirty look. “Divinity and goodness are not always synonymous.”

“Oh, believe me, I’ve come to know that.” You sighed and settled back into the couch cushions, draining the last mouthful of your drink. “So what’s your deal, anyway? How did you come to be so… not good?”

“I was always like this.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“You find many things hard to believe.”

You let out an involuntary bark of laughter. “Ain’t that the truth,” you said, holding your empty glass up to him. “And yet here I am, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, drinking with an ex-angel. If I didn’t know I was awake, I’d swear this was a dream.”

Doffy said nothing for a long while. You could feel the whiskey start to take over and your body start to relax. You were on the verge of falling asleep when Doffy’s voice roused you.

“You are an unusual human.”

You stared at him, bemused. “In what way?”

“You know what I am. You know what I’ve done. And yet you’re still willing to help me.”

“Well, you didn’t really give me much of a choice back there—” you began, but Doffy shook his head.

“You always have a choice. That’s what makes you human. You could have walked away at any time but you chose not to.”

Heat began to creep into your cheeks. “I mean, yeah I guess. But leaving someone to die? Someone who I can help? That’s not a choice for me.”

Doffy hummed thoughtfully.

“Humans aren’t all bad, you know,” you said softly. “I know it may seem like it with everything going on in the world, but you have to believe that there are people who want to be good. Choose to be good.”

Doffy was watching you with rapt attention now, his drink forgotten in his hand. You sat up a little straighter, watching for any kind of expression behind his glasses.

“If you focus on everything wrong with the world, of course your going to be overwhelmed with negative emotions. Humans aren’t immune either. The only way to survive is to look for the good, to let yourself feel happiness and hope and… love. Because it’s those emotions that make being human worth it.”

Unnoticed by Doffy, you had scooted closer to him on the couch. You supposed it was the liquor that was making you so bold, but hadn’t a part of you been thinking about what the angel would be like as just a man for a while now?

“I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your home, lose the prospect of eternity… but humanity has it’s perks.”

Doffy had finally noticed you shifting closer and was watching you closely. You swung a leg over him and straddled his thighs, well aware that your face was burning up, but the whiskey urged you onwards. You took the half-full glass from his hand and set it on the side table beside you, and leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“I can’t take you home, but I can make you feel like you’re there. For a little while.”

Then you kissed him and it was like something that had been building for weeks finally broke and flowed free. His lips were warm and uncharacteristically soft, and still held traces of whiskey that made your head spin.

Doffy remained frozen for a long moment but, finally, you felt his hands on your waist, his grip uncertain, and he began to kiss you back. It was clumsy and hesitant, but grew more confident as he let instinct take over. You felt his hands at your waist, unconsciously pulling you closer so he could feel more of you against him and—

He broke away, breathing heavily, and shoved you aside as he jumped to his feet. The two of you stared at each other for a long time. A vein was throbbing dangerously in his temple, and you were blinking back tears, the sting of rejection fresh and raw.

“You… this…” He seemed to be unable to get the words out from between his clenched teeth. “How dare…”

Without another word, he stormed off to the dark bedroom and slammed the door sharply behind him. You sat staring after him for a long time, trying to slow your breathing. You felt foolish. You had thought—hoped even—that the feelings beginning to stir within you were starting to be reciprocated. That what Raziel had hinted at earlier that same night had been true. But you’d let the liquor get to your head. You let the adrenaline and thrill of being on the run together become something more than it was. You put too much faith in a fallen angel.

You felt the sudden need to breath and without so much as glancing at the door to the bedroom, you escaped out onto the porch, gulping in great lungfuls of crisp, cool air. It had stopped raining at some point during the evening and a glimmer of moonlight was just visible behind the retreating storm clouds. You had been so distracted you hadn’t even noticed. The woods around you were still and quiet, and filled with the thick, woodsy scent of damp soil.

How many years had it been since you’d last been out here? You’d made a point even after your parents died to take a trip out here each year. But soon your work at the high school had taken priority, and when you started publishing papers, forget any free time you used to have. You thought it might be nice to start visiting again. The stars, after all, were far brighter and more beautiful so far from town.

A rustling down amongst the trees cause you to whip your head in the direction of the noise. Your heart pounding in your throat, your mind jumped to the worst conclusion—they had found you. Silently cursing yourself, you realised the protection spells Doffy had cast probably didn’t extend beyond the walls of the little cabin.

As you stood, frozen, debating whether to run inside and grab the gun, or to call Doffy, a figure stepped out of the trees into the weak moonlight.

“Coby?!”

The angel made a shushing motion, and you hurried down the steps to meet him at the dark tree line.

“[Name], I’m so glad to see you’re safe,” he said in a hushed tone. “When I saw the state of your house and that you were gone, I thought, for a moment…”

“Doffy is a dick—er, sorry, I mean… Doffy is far from a gentleman, but he’d never hurt me.” It surprised you to hear how certain you sounded saying those words.

Coby looked relieved. “I don’t have long. The Powers do not know I’m here and if I was found helping a fugitive…” He shuddered and you did not need him to elaborate. “Before he died, Raziel told me to watch over you if anything should happen to him. He said you should be given a choice.”

“A choice? I thought I made my choice pretty clear when I ran away with a known fugitive.”

“Well, yes,” Coby said. “And the Powers will not show you mercy for it. But you never were meant to be caught up in this. Rosi said you should be able to choose, to leave all this behind and go back to your life.”

“How am I supposed to do that? With everything I’ve learned, I can’t just… go back to everything being normal again. I can’t leave…” Your lips had formed the word ‘Doffy’, but after what had happened between the two of you only minutes before, you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it out loud. But Coby seemed to understand.

“You can’t help him anymore. And even if you could, he has made it clear he does not want your help, correct?”

“He may not want it, but he sure as hell needs it.”

“Your loyalty is admirable,” said Coby and you felt your face flush in the darkness. “And if you choose to stay, I will not stop you. But if you should like to return to your life, to live as though none of this ever happened to you, I can do that.”

You stared, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“I can modify your memory; make you forget everything from the past few weeks and leave behind a false memory to fill in the blanks.”

“You can do that?”

Coby nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, but only if you give your consent. I will not take your memories from you by force.”

You hesitated. Hadn’t you thought on multiple occasions how much you wished you could go back to how your life had been before? To never have learned of the existence of angels or devils or Heaven and Hell, and maybe date a cute biology teacher like a normal, science-driven woman?

“What’s going to happen to Doffy?” you said, though you thought you already knew the answer.

“When they find him, he will be executed.”

You closed your eyes. “And if they don’t find him?”

“They will.”

“But if I’m the only one who knows his location… and you erase my memories…”

Coby sighed. “He may be able to remain hidden for a while. But the Powers are relentless. They will find him eventually, even if it takes them a thousand years.”

You gazed, unseeing, at the lit windows of the cabin. What was better: a life as a fugitive, or death at the hands of those who were once family? The Doffy who had urged you to run, to hide from your pursuers had chosen life. But the Doffy who had stood before that jury had said he would rather have died than become mortal. You weren’t sure which Doffy was currently shut away in the dusty little bedroom of the hunting cabin. Possibly neither.

You turned back to Coby. “If I let you modify my memory, do I have your word you won’t reveal this place to the Powers?”

Coby hesitated. “I… can try.”

“Your word, Coby.”

He closed his eyes and shuddered. “All right. You have my word.”

At least this way, you could buy Doffy some time, even if you didn’t know you were doing it. You felt a sharp pang of anguish as you tried to imagine your life without the angel. But if you had no memory, would you even miss him?

“Okay. I just need to grab something.”

You hurried back into the cabin, glancing at the bedroom door to make sure it was still firmly shut, and grabbed the bag holding the gun from the floor. You lingered at the threshold a moment longer than was necessary, secretly hoping Doffy would hear you leaving and would come to stop you. But he didn’t.

You took a breath and stepped out into the night, conjuring up one last image of forget-me-not-blue eyes before you let them fade from your mind, forever.

#one piece #doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo #doflamingo x reader #FallenAngel!Doflamingo #fallenangel!doffy #one piece fanfic #one piece fan fiction #one piece imagines #one piece scenarios #alternate universe #celestial

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ladyhallen · 4 years ago

Text

Unsaid Words and Unsung Hurts

Read in AO3 | FFNET

Sansa had a problem.

Sitting across her arch nemesis - her assignment and trying not to stare so obviously, Sansa felt her stomach flutter and scowled.

She was not supposed to feel those annoying fluttering’s. It had been going on for decades now, and she wanted no part in it.

Being a demon of hell, one of Lucifer’s generals, technically, meant that she had no time or place for dwelling on feelings, good or otherwise. Lucifer, or Ramsay, as he’d taken to calling himself these days, had named Sansa the demon of hatred and that meant she didn’t have feelings of the sweet and fluttery kind.

Sansa slumped in her chair, ignoring the angel’s look of admonishment at her posture. His own back was ram rod straight, but somehow conveying relaxation as he slowly and methodically consumed a chocolate truffle.

“Angel,” she sighed. “Any adventures you’re going to get up to, today?”

“It’s called good deeds, Sansa,” he told her, somehow not sounding condescending. He sounded gentle and stern. As he always did. It did terrible things to Sansa’s stomach, must be the ulcers making it flutter.

Right.

Sansa sighed again, quieter this time. She would leave in a moment, she thought while staring at Cor’s lovely blue-gray eyes and punishing herself. She would leave. Just...until Cor finished eating. It would be rude otherwise.

Sansa hadn’t meant to fall, is the thing.

She hadn’t been Sansa then, but with a different, more angelic name. Working under the lovely angel Raphael and being compassionate. What an angel of compassion was supposed to do, Sansa always wondered.

Raphael had encouraged her to make more friends and Sansa had agreed. Free will wasn’t quite a thing, merely a concept that Father had brought up in the weekly meetings and whatever Raphael ordered, she would always do.

So she roamed around, looking for friends. Groups of angels congregating, was still the description, because that’s what friends did? Sansa hadn’t been sure then.

She’d joined the first group of angels congregating and talked to them.

They were nice, Samael and nir friends. They welcomed her readily with bright smiles and heady laughter. Too bright she would realize later. Too sharp edges carefully hidden away from the newbie.

She hung around them because they always made her feel welcome and Sansa adored them for listening to her questions and her confusion about compassion.

“What is compassion?” she would ask the archangels.

“It is concern for misfortune,” Father told her when all her siblings couldn’t answer.

“What is misfortune?” she asked Samael, because even then, Sansa had tact not to ask God that.

“It is the absence of God,” Samael’s friend would answer.

How can there be an absence of God, when God was everywhere? She wondered then.

After being cast out simply for being with her friends at the wrong time and place, Sansa understood. There can be an absence of God, for God had abandoned her.

Sansa’s best work, so far in Eos, was traffic jams.

No matter how hard city planning worked to keep the cars moving fast, Sansa always managed an inconvenience that made people curse and work up a temper, damning their souls.

Once, she’d short circuited connections in all the banks in the entire world, causing a drop in the market. The amount of chaotic fury she’d felt that day made her laugh, even as guilt shimmered in her stomach.

Cor had looked at her and sighed that day and Sansa had wanted to cry. If demons could cry.

Sansa still caused tempers to go high, hatred to go up, simply because she existed in their general vicinity. She tried to tamp it down just to enjoy a bit of light reading, but inevitably, there would be an argument by someone or the other and she would have to leave to work off the excess energy.

Cor helped, simply because, as angel, he radiated such immense goodness that they balanced each other out.

That was what Cor had told her when he’d hunted her down in Accordo during the executions and her mere arrival in the city had incited the mobs to tear apart their king limb from limb with their bare hands.

She’d wept with relief when he left her, but still stayed in her general area. She had watched that King die and felt his fear, his hatred and wanted to vomit. She never wanted it to happen again.

Cor helped. Maybe that’s why her stomach started those strange convulsions and fluttering’s.

The Fall started, not with anger, as the bible like to say, but with a question.

Samael asked, “Why should we care for these lesser creatures? Look at all their imperfections!”

God talked and Samael argued. Angels and archangels gathered around and Sansa hovered near her friends, confused, frightened. Because Samael’s white wings were changing. The symbol of his soul, his very existence, was changing.

After that very blasphemous debate, God cast out Samael and ripped nir’s name away.

Sansa’s Fall was not quite so dramatic, just quieter.

Raphael, always doting on Sansa, had tried to tug her away. But she’d stayed. Confused but loyal, she’d stayed.

“My friends,” she said, tugging at the hand Raphael had on her.

Raphael had eyed her wings and gasped in horror.

“Then you have betrayed us all as well,” her dearest mentor whispered in grief.

The gates of Heaven opened and the command entered the Psyche of all the angels. To toss out the betrayers.

Without concept of free will, siblings turned on siblings and obeyed. Raphael as well, despite nir’s reluctance.

Sansa was one of the last, and all heard her scream out in despair, “Father! I don’t understand!”

Her scream followed her as she fell through the ether and into the depths of despair. God had indeed abandoned them.

Cor liked to visit the orphanages in the city since his mentor, the Archangel Michael had taught him to guard the children.

Sansa, of course, had followed him around for good deeds to thwart at first. Then, it turned out, it was exceedingly difficult to thwart that good deed. How was Sansa supposed to subvert children? Children had malleable souls, true, but that also meant that they had their own guardians and Cor himself being there…

Sansa should have deemed it a lost cause. Except.

Except…

Sometimes, when Sansa had no sins planned that day, she would watch Cor playing with the children and ached.

All of the Fallen woke at differing intervals, wings trembling and limbs malformed.

Sansa herself had found she had deformed jaws to make way for her newly large teeth. Like a wolf. Her own beautiful white wings had burned on the way down, the color turning into burning ember, flames of her anger licking the feathers, a fire that never died.

It hurt.

All of it hurt, all of their souls did. A change that happened like that, no matter how sturdy their very beings were, still ached. They were beings of perfection, formed without blemish. They were not made for changes. Their very psyche rebelled against it.

There was also the absence of their Father to contend with. For the first time in millennia, they were without him.

There was a great cry that rose up then, a great weeping.

Sansa stood up and howled her agony, her pain and her rage.

Everyone followed with their own screams, and perhaps it was because of that howl that none of the Fallen succumb to their despair.

Lucifer stood in the ashes of Samael and Sansa looked to him as did everyone, because while his wings were black, his eyes still shone with the light of creation. He, among all of them, had Light. Perhaps he led them to their downfall, but he also shone with the familiarity of home.

Sansa had a guilty secret from the forces of hell.

She loved to sew, to embroider.

Runes of protection, runes of love. Not Enochian, because no human made cloth could hold that majestic language, but the old Language of Solheim. It was enough to warm the cloth for winter and Sansa would drop it in strategic places where the homeless slept.

Sansa didn’t really care about the homeless, she just needed somewhere to dump old projects. She hated clutter and her apartment had very little space.

Cor was not to know.

Sansa sewed and did it without heaven or hell knowing.

Sansa and Cor had ‘dates’.

Well, Cor called it Equilibrium Meetings, to balance out Sansa’s aura. Sansa called it dates in her mind, because she loved to torture herself.

Cor sat across her and read a book and Sansa muttered irritably about Cor’s book. If he was reading, he wasn’t looking at her and she couldn’t see his lovely eyes. An irritated Cor would have eyes that flashed with his anger and divine light. It made his already lovely features breathtaking.

Then…

“What are you reading?” Sansa said, her usual question during the start of the meetings.

“Wolves, and how to take care of them,” Cor said in his lovely voice.

Sansa felt her metaphorical ruff stand up. Her more wolf-like features were hidden under carefully sewn glamours, but she and the wolf were one, he never went away.

“Are you thinking of getting a pet?” Sansa asked despite herself.

Cor looked at her, just a second of his attention, but Sansa felt it. “I don’t think you’d like it if I did,” Cor said.

Was he implying…? Sansa did not know what he was implying, but it was probably nothing good.

“’Wolves are cunning and extremely intelligent’,” Cor suddenly said, reading from the book. “’Some wolf hybrids are docile but most and all wolves are stronger, smarter and more independent than dogs.’” He snorted. “Smart indeed.”

Sansa, who had relaxed listening to his lovely voice, bristled again. “Are you implying that wolves are dumb?” she demanded.

He smiled, that quicksilver flash of humor that vanished quickly. “So dumb.”

Sansa raised her nose into the air in offense, turning away from him. Her stomach fluttered like mad when she heard him laugh.

Sansa felt her insides melt.

Lucifer was their rock in the strange new world they’d found themselves in, but soon, his very presence turned Sansa’s stomach.

She hated the sight of his eyes, for they reminded her of Father and the complete and utter absence of him.

“There is a new world that Father has created,” Sansa told Lucifer eventually, when she could no longer bear the sight of him. “I wish to corrupt it.”

Lucifer smiled. “Of course, my dear. I thought you would volunteer for it, your hatred still burns in you.”

He referred, of course, to the flames that danced in Sansa’s deep red wings.

Sansa climbed out of hell and met Cor.

That he didn’t immediately draw his sword was perhaps due to his mercy.

But Sansa was all out of mercy and attacked him immediately in rage.

Jeyne was, perhaps, Sansa’s only true friend.

That she was a wolf-child, borne of Sansa’s blood when she bled for the first time, was irrelevant. The child immediately decided to be Sansa’s friend.

A millennia of companionship and Jeyne had ideas about Cor.

“How was your date?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa harrumphed. “It was not a date, as I keep telling you. It is to mitigate my aura.”

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “Excuses. Did you enjoy yourself at least?”

Sansa couldn’t help the blush. Jeyne cackled and Sansa strategically retreated to her room. Sansa would own to being a coward and she had no shame in retreating.

In one of Sansa’s once a week schedule for chaos, she caused a shortage of coffee and switched what was available to decaf.

This time, the outcry made her laugh until tears dripped from her eyes.

“Inspired,” she giggled. “Their outrage.”

Cor landed outside of Sansa’s balcony and she would swear she didn’t squeak.

“Angel!” she exclaimed. “Hi.”

He leveled an unimpressed look at her. “I was drinking coffee. Sansa. I was enjoying my coffee.”

She giggled. “Perhaps it is time for you to switch to tea? I have some lovely chocolate tea you can try. May I tempt you with some?”

He softened, winching back his wings. “Alright. It better be good. I liked that coffee.”

She served him tea with a smile and he smiled back. The fluttering’s increased.

Oh no.

Cor talked her down from her anger.

It took ages and ages before she would show him her back and even then it made the hairs at the back of her neck prickle.

It was worth it though, because for the first time, someone preened Sansa’s wings.

She would never trust anyone in hell with her wings and her wolf-child didn’t know the first thing about wings. Cor, angel and tentatively trusted, knew to work the down into her feathers and to pluck the ones that needed loosing.

She settled into a puddle of contented demon on his lap and felt Cor turn stiff.

Immediately, Sansa launched herself away from him.

She had made him uncomfortable.

She thought.

She thought he didn’t mind her mouthful of fangs. Of the extra ribs that made her lungs bigger and more suitable for howling.

He minded. By the look in his face, he minded very much.

After that, Sansa never allowed Cor to touch more than her wings. If her body made him uncomfortable, then she would just hide her body from him.

During one of their not-dates, as Jeyne had taken to calling it, Cor held her hand.

Sansa was so stiff, he could have shattered her if he pushed her over.

“Cor, what are you doing?” she asked quietly.

Equally quietly, he said, “I’m holding your hand.”

Sansa took in a breath. Held it. Let it out through shuddering lungs.

“Alright,” she whispered.

“Shall I let go?” he asked.

Her grip tightened. “No, it’s alright.”

“It’s alright,” he agreed.

For a decade, Sansa ran away from Cor.

After that disastrous preening, Sansa ran and didn’t look back.

She caused several disasters without looking and hid away from Cor for a decade.

It took a few more years before she would trust him again and he touched her gently, almost achingly gently.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” she replied.

She didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but Sansa was sorry.

Sorry for falling, and sorry for making him uncomfortable.

Cor’s eyes burned with the light of creation and Sansa just hurt.

When Cor locked the window, Sansa was suspicious.

When Cor sat her down and asked, “May I kiss you,” Sansa wanted to run. So that’s why he locked the window. But there was still the door.

“Sansa,” he said, tugging at her hand, held loosely in his large one, where she can escape if she really wanted. “Centuries ago, during that first preening,” he said, finally talking about that moment, where he turned away from her in disgust.

Sansa turned stiff and tensed, ready to launch herself out of the window and damn the glass.

“No wait, listen,” he pleaded. “I haven’t. I wanted to touch you for ages, long before you fell and when I saw you again, I thought I was dreaming.”

“You’re serious?” she said through numb lips.

“I’ve loved you since you were following around Raphael in heaven!” he exclaimed. “Of course I don’t mind your extra additions, your teeth are lovely now too!”

Sansa wasn’t sure what size her eyes were, but she was sure they were wide. “I thought. We, heaven that is, were sure that you and the rest of the Fallen were dead. Then I saw you climb out of that hole and I was so happy, I could have cried,” he said. “You were still you, but you were different. I loved you still, and I wanted to know you again.”

“You were stiff,” she said. Sansa doesn’t know how she keeps talking.

“Because you were adorable and I wanted to hug you!” he said seriously. “I had to hold back. And then you ran away. For ten years!”

Sansa just. Blinked at him in surprise.

“So, may I kiss you?” he asked.

May I kiss you? Sansa thought incredulously. Is he serious????

Sansa climbed into his lap and carefully kissed him.

And Cor. Cor, battle angel and Michael’s right hand man, melted.

#fanfiction #SanCor #Sansa stark #cor leonis #ffxv #asoiaf #crossover #angels and demons #au #angst #prepare for tissues #ffxvxasoiaf

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erideights · 6 years ago

Text

You won't leave me behind so easily.

Request by anon: What would happen if, when Crowley went to the burning bookshop looking for Aziraphale, he instead found Y/N?

Pairing: Crowley x Fem!Reader (Good Omens)

Word Count: 2072.

Warnings: Mentions of fire, I guess. And maybe a typo, I'm sorry.

Everything happened so fast.

Before anyone could really react.

The days until the prominent arrival of the end of the world were less and less and progressing faster, suffocating the throats of those few who knew about the great event and who, at all costs, tried to get out of it alive.

There was no way to stop it, Crowley thought.

There must be something we can do, Aziraphale argued in his head.

And Y/N? She was one more human, a victim of crossfire, with more knowledge than she could ever accept about the events to come and how her life would end in not that many hours.

The clock was running and she felt stuck, lost, drowned by the great plan that showed little mercy to her existence.

That the angel and the demon were now mad at each other because of their argument of how to proceed not too long ago did nothing to help in this apocalyptic scenario; it made things worse, divided the team of three, thus diminishing their hopes not only for saving the world, but for saving themselves.

And again, Y/N was only human...what could she do but watch everything happen and feel an oppressive impotence in her chest that made it difficult for her to breathe with each beat of her heart?

The scene in which Crowley and Aziraphale argued was playing over and over again in her head as she walked nervously and anxiously through the living room of her apartment, looking for a way to solve things with the few —small, minimal, null— resources that she had.

What could she do to make that pair of idiots come to good terms again and seek together how to get out of all that without dying trying?

Not finding the way to flee, because Y/N wasn’t 100% agree with Crowley's plan to go to Alpha Centauri, but the way to save the planet where they lived, as many millions more humans and thousands of animals and plant species that they deserved, in fact, to be able to continue their lives.

Because a war between Hell and Heaven to see who’s stronger? What a fucking joke, they looked like 10 year olds arguing in a school.

———

The characteristic siren of a fire engine sounded in the distance, not too far away, barely audible above Queens's You’re My Best Friend, as a 1933 Bentley moved through the streets of London at such speed anyone could think it defied the laws of physics imposed by the universe.

If only they knew.

The first sign of alarm for the demon was seeing the truck parked right in front of the bookshop that he knew so well thanks to the long afternoons and even longer nights spent there in company of the only two living beings for whom in reality, he would give his life.

The second, were the flames devouring the facade of the building, destroying everything in its path, without mercy for everything that housed its interior, not only physical but emotional. What happened to the laughter accumulated there? With the empty wine glasses and the existential crisis talks?

With his memories?

The third, and this was the trigger that forced Crowley out of his flat and start the car, was to stop feeling the presence of the angel on the face of the earth.

He couldn’t explain it even if he wanted to, he supposed that it was some divine thing beyond his comprehension, but Aziraphale had disappeared from his demonic radar and the idea of the march of his best friend in times of crisis shrank his heart in a fist that only tightened more with every second of the clock.

To suspect that the woman he loved —a frail human prey to the terrible and countless facilities that she had to die— was with the celestial being until his disappearance, made everything worse.

His thoughts were running over each other in panic inside his head as he slammed the passenger door and his quick steps headed for the shop.

A snap of his fingers was enough to open the doors as well as to stop hearing the voices of the firemen trying to get his attention and save him from what would be an imminent death for an ordinary mortal. And once the doors were closed, Crowley's screams and cries for his best friend were muffled by the chaos around him; the wooden beams that supported the place wouldn’t last much longer, the shelves had already begun their fall across the entire floor.

There was no book that could survived that disaster.

Or so he thought before glimpsing from the corner of his eye a large copy whose green cover seemed practically intact, ends slightly scorched but no damage serious enough to give the book for lost.

But then he heard it.

A distant cough, a dull groan, a choked voice asking for help.

Y/N was laying on the floor, sweat coating her forehead and cheeks vaguely tinted with black dust thanks to the ash mixed with the air.

To the naked eye, she didn’t seem to had an ugly burn or a mortal wound that Crowley couldn’t heal with a little demonic miracle of his own, but that didn’t stop him from falling to his knees beside her and hugging her against him, promising once and again that everything would be okay.

She was conscious, but she’d breathed too much smoke to be able to move on her own foot, so regardless of whether her heart had flip in her chest when she saw the mischievous demon that she had fallen in love so hopelessly years ago, because that was the effect he always had on her, she felt relief that it was him who came to save her.

The last thing she could remember before falling into a terrible and suffocating unconsciousness were the golden eyes of the redhead, whose anguish —caused by the events— had flooded them at the verge of tears, and she couldn’t help feeling a sharp pain through her chest escorting her to the most absolute darkness.

———————

‘’Aziraphale?’’ For a moment Crowley thought his tired eyes were playing tricks on him and making him see things that weren’t really there, because a distorted reflection of what he considered his deceased best friend’d appeared out of nowhere in front of him and… that couldn’t be, right? ‘’Are you here?’’

But, contrary to the expected reaction —none under the premise of hallucinations— the demon frowned in confusion when the angel's voice reached his ears. ‘’Good question. Not certain. Never done this before. Can you hear me?’’

‘’Of course I can hear you.’’

‘’Afraid I’ve rather made a mess of things.’’ Aziraphale looked confused, disoriented and, more importantly, pained. Crowley supposed that, in his condition, —whatever it was since he couldn’t understand it—, the angel couldn’t see him; their gaze never crossed, the blue one of the platinum blond lost somewhere in the ceiling. ‘’Did you go to Alpha Centauri?’’

‘’Nah, I changed my mind. Stuff happened. I lost my best friend. And I... nearly lost her too.’’ Unconsciously, the demon's hand squeezed softly the one intertwined with his, although she probably wouldn’t feel it. In that moment, the redhead's peculiar eyes traveled to the calm face of the young girl, asleep and at peace in his bed; the damage she received wasn’t serious enough to feel the need to be taken to a hospital, it was rather obvious that he would end up taking care of her.

He wanted to.

‘’Her?’’ The angel looked even more confused for a split second, eyes widened and voice soaked in horror at the sudden realisation of the person they were talking about. ‘’Oh, wait, you mean Y/N? Did something happen to her? Please do tell me she’s okay.’’

‘’Your bookshop. It burned down. She was there.’’

His bookshop? Burned down? Reduced to ashes ...? He would ask, but his concern was not especially focused on one place, but on ‘’Did she? But I thought… I thought she was with you—’’

‘’She wasn’t.’’ Crowley cut off quickly, a bit annoyed with his lack of knowledge about the whereabouts of the girl before finding her where he found her; he supposed that both had been so focused with the whole ''end of the world'' thing that, after the argument between him and the angel, when the three seemed divided by different urges, none cared about the only living being that, by her own, couldn’t escape. ‘’But don’t worry, Y/N’s here and she’s fine. She’s the strongest human I know, she’ll be okay.’’

And so the conversation between the two went on, the revelation of Aziraphale about where the end of time would begin, his relief knowing that his friend also rescued Agnes' book —that would give them a chance to save them all— and the promise of meeting there once the angel found a new body.

And in the same way he had appeared a few mins ago, he disappeared, returning the silence to the dark room of the fallen angel, who was in a heart dilemma; he couldn’t leave Y/N alone, not when he didn’t know for sure if he would see her again. But take her with him, in her state, and to such an extremely dangerous situation?

What he didn’t know either, was that the girl had been awake for a while, listening partially and in pieces his conversation with Aziraphale because, unfortunately, she wasn’t a celestial being, she couldn’t catch the presence of her white winged friend, but she did catch enough to know that she needed to ignore the faint pain that his body had and go with them to save the damn world.

So when Crowley sighed again, still shuffling his options, she sat up in bed without warning, causing her favorite demon to slightly jump in his seat in the chair next to the mattress.

‘’C’mon,’’ she said with much more vitality than one could expect, her voice stressing her impatience, for there was no time to lose. ‘’we need to go.’’

‘’We?’’ He asked, incredulous, snorting a bitter and dry chuckle from the deepest point of his throat. ‘’You’re not going anywhere.’’

‘’And will you be the one to stop me?’’ God, he was helplessly in love with that woman who only knew how to make snarky and sassy remarks when she wanted to piss him off. Was he a masochist or something?

But deep in thought, adoration written all over his face, he didn’t get the chance to really stop her until she was out of bed and heading towards the door of the flat down the corridor full of plants that, at Crowley's sight with that look of pure rage on his face, began to tremble.

Holy shit, she was fast.

‘’Y/N, for fuck’s sake,’’ he grabbed her left wrist and spinned her around, making the girl look at him straight in the face. To prove his point and try to intimidate her with his annoyed expression? Maybe. ‘’You don’t really have any kind of preservation instinct for your own life, do you? Don’t you know how dangerous it is?’’

But instead of being afraid of him, being the good girl he expected her to be and agreeing to stay away from all that, Y/N slipped out of his grasp, searching quickly for the lapels of Crowley's jacket. In a second she pulled these towards her own body to counteract the immense height difference and trapped his parted lips in a passionate kiss.

Oh, she wanted to do that for a long time now.

For a brief instant, Crowley was completely frozen, unaware that his feelings were indeed returned and of course, the moment in which he wanted to kiss her back and searched for the hips of the girl to bring her closer to him, she pulled back and fixed her deep eyes on the golden ones of the demon.

‘’We're leaving, both of us. And don’t you dare try to stop me, Crowley, I won’t leave you.’’

#good omens #good omens prime #crowley #crowley x reader #ineffable husbands #good omens one shots #crowley good omens #crowley x fem!reader

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fuwafuwamedb · 5 years ago

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The King in the Tapestry (Hakuno, Gilgamesh)

He couldn’t remember the details.

Not well.

Not anymore.

Siduri had come running into the palace, panicking hard about a rebellion.

“Where’s Enkidu?”

Siduri shook her head, pushing him deeper into the palace, towards where the prayer rooms were. He tried to pull her the other way, but something met his hands. The stickiness, the warmth-

“Siduri-“

“Please! My king!” Siduri pushed him harder, knocking him into the prayer room.

The doors slammed open on the other end of the hall. Arrows shot through the air as Siduri looked to him and shook her head.

“My king, please!”

She slammed the doors before a series of staccato sounds hit the door. He could see the arrowheads make it through the wood, a pained sound coming from the other side.

What was happening?

It didn’t make sense, not at all. The guards should have been able to protect Uruk. The walls around the city kept out enemies that could try to invade the innermost part of the kingdom. His palace had guards all around it.

“FINISH THE GODS OFF WITH THE LYNCHPIN! NO DIVINITY MAY SURVIVE!”

They were killing gods?

The fools. Even if they did, that meant that there would be no means for their people to survive. No one would be able to live for long. They needed gods to pray to. They needed the gods and the goddesses to bless the fields and make the lands cooperate. The weather, the land, the animals; everything needed the gods to some capacity.

The gods needed humans for their power as well, but-

The gods weren’t calling war upon the humans.

He rushed forth, moving to the altar.

“Mother.”

A silence met his ears.

“Mother! Come forth! What is happening?!”

Silence.

He’d never heard silence. He’d never been-

“Ereshkigal? …Enki?”

The next two were not answering.

“Ishtar?”

It was the last thing he wanted, but…

He pounded on the altar. “ISHTAR! ANSWER ME!”

The doors were thrown open. Gilgamesh cast a hand out behind him, deciding enough was enough.

“I will bring forth the power to kill you all for this,” he swore to them. “Your descendants will learn that your bloodlines will never be able to prosper on these lands. You will die if you try.” His hands cast behind him, pulling his ace in the hole.

A casting circle emblazoned upon one of his tapestries.

He’d drawn it himself, knowing that he could use it to turn back the very hands of time themselves. He could go back, grab the ancient power of the gods, and come back to when this raid had begun if possible. If not, he’d come back to this moment and slaughter the people. He’d make their children and their children’s children learn that Uruk was no place to invade.

They’d-

He was feeling something going wrong.

Glancing down at his torso, he could see the arrow shoot straight through his body, never hitting. His whole physical person was turning into a fading golden dust, heading back… back to the tapestry with the circle on it.

I should have learned more magic.

The thought came with a wall of darkness. The confines of the world around him pressed up against him, until he could see and feel nothing more then a void of an abyss. He screamed out for justice, for space. The darkness gave him naught.

He tried to move.

He could not.

What was this?

A figure came into fruition, holding the tapestry. He could see their eyes drift up to him as they stood in an alley.

“…A-a d-d-d-demon…”

Demon?

Gilgamesh went to speak, but the man screamed in terror.

“I WISH I WAS AT HOME!”

They were suddenly in a hovel of a place.

The man before him blinked, staring up at him. Gilgamesh himself found himself staring at his hands, feeling… weaker.

He went to speak.

“I WISH I HAD WEALTH!”

His treasury opened, wealth raining down around the man. The cackles came a moment before the man hugged the tapestry closer.

“I wish… I had a woman.”

The woman appeared, but she looked none too pleased. In fact, the fear in her eyes at suddenly being in a new place was only reflected in the sudden panic that he felt as the walls of darkness came back.

More time passed.

More fools.

Wealth.

Women.

Men.

An army.

He watched them happen, feeling more and more power flowing through his veins. Divine power, at that; but he wasn’t sure what was going on.

Over and over he would find them rattling off their demands, hugging the tapestry to themselves and then vanishing after wish three.

Three wishes.

Each and every time.

The woman before him now though…

“Who are you?”

The woman stared up at him, crossing her arms. The tapestry he’d used his spell on was draped across her shoulders, torn and stained. It looked more like an ancient keepsake rather than a proud fabric that had hung upon his palace walls.

Still, he found himself stilled at her question.

“…You have not heard of me?”

That was normally what the people called him when he was summoned.

Was she sick?

Dying?

What had brought him to her this time?

“…Weirdo.” The woman shook her head, pushing the tapestry into her back. “Here I’d thought that I was going to summon the demon god. Instead I find you. Are you from the Ur kingdom or the Nippur kingdom?”

Ur? Nippur?

He laughed.

“Try Uruk.”

“Haha,” she drawled. “Fine. Go home soon. I need to protect the people in these lands and you’re not going to help me… By the way, how the hell do you survive in these lands like that? Are you one of the cursed Nippurians?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Fine, don’t answer. When the winds bite at you though, it ain’t my fault.” She pulled up the fabric around her neck, wrapping it around her lower face and pulling on glass coverage for her eyes. The fabric was wrapped higher and higher until it covered the rest of her plain features.

She pushed the door to the darkened room open and Gilgamesh felt himself thrown back.

The winds and the sand blew their direction.

The building, which looked like his last summoner’s home, was showing ancient wear and tear.

What the hell is this?

“You’ll die like this!”

Gilgamesh found the woman yanking him in close, slamming the door shut again before she pulled a fabric from her bag. She wrapped it around his head, blocking out the sights around him, pulling him into the howling storm outside.

Miles they went, through it all, until they reached the edges of the area and everything went silent.

“HAKUNO!”

Gilgamesh yanked the fabric down, watching his companion pull her glasses up and her scarf down.

Her hand was raised in a wave.

“Emiya! Cu Chulainn!”

The two men leaned against their mounts, regarding them.

“Who’s this?” The blue haired one asked.

“Cu this is… ah…”

“Gilgamesh.”

“Weird,” the other muttered.

“He’s someone I found,” Hakuno told them. “We’ll be seeing him home since he’s without protection near the Uruk ruins.”

The two hissed at that.

“Yeah, probably was caught by some looters I found while investigating the kingdom ruins.”

Gilgamesh turned, staring back towards the direction he’d felt them come. His eyes landed upon the land.

Sands met his eyes, with rampant beasts roaming this way and that. The thickness of a sandstorm covered most the view, but there was a thinning.

His stomach bottomed out at the sight.

His kingdom was in ruins.

“…Wish for Uruk to be cleared.”

The woman glanced his way, her eyes going to the kingdom next.

“…Wish it, woman.”

Where were his people?

Had anything survived?

“Cu? Emiya?” Hakuno motioned a moment before one of them dismounted, climbing onto the horse of the other’s. The reins were given to her before they muttered about going back to the campsite.

The woman came closer, glancing at him carefully.

“We need to go-“

“Wish for Uruk to be growing and clear of this sand,” he demanded again.

“…What use is there for that? Wishes don’t mean anything. Wishes, like pleasure, are for children.”

Dear gods, what a world to be in.

“My traveling tribe will help you home,” she told him. “Once you’re home, I must move my people.”

He grabbed her wrist, earning a sigh.

“Fine. I wish the lands of Uruk looked once more like they had when the kingdom was in its prime, with flowing waters, fresh vegetation, and a rainfall that will make the area no longer a desert.”

His divinity pierced through him, magic cascading out towards the world before them.

The sands flew up into the skies. Sweet rain poured forth from the heavens, the sunlight diminishing away to let the rain have its piece. The buildings, as the rain fell and the sands flew, grew more and more like that he’d seen before.

The ziggurat at the center, as he found it coming back into fruition once more, showed more and more of those floors that he remembered walking so many times before. The rooftop overlooking the kingdom once more was touching the skies.

And the woman at his side fell to her knees.

“…I did not introduce myself,” Gilgamesh murmured, looking at his world once more set to rights… somewhat. “I am the king of Uruk, the golden Demon god to which your people mention when they see me. I am Gilgamesh.”

Hakuno looked up at him a moment before she shook her head.

“You’re a god. I don’t know how, but…” Hakuno glanced at the kingdom before nodding. “We need to gather my people. As this land’s only living citizen, this is my rightful home.”

Hmm?

“Thank you,” she told him.

The smile itself was Siduri’s.

He didn’t even respond when the woman took his hand, whistling louder than the winds for the two that had just left her.

Who was this woman?

How long had he been gone?

#drabble #drabbles

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girlobsessed21 · 6 years ago

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The 100 6x06 analysis: A night-without-blood, only tears

Loved this episode. We got a glimpse of the old Bellamy, albeit small, but he was there. The pacing was better. We finally got to meet Sheidheda. And, I called it in my predictions post last week, Clarke Griffin’s coming back.

Is it weird to watch this show knowing Bob and Eliza are married? Not for me, I separate the characters from the actors easily. Just once again, I’m thrilled they found their happily ever after. Please check out the wedding gift donation.

Madi crossing to the dark side

Obviously, this is the worse to come out of the whole body-snatching ordeal. Josephine couldn’t care less about her new daughter. Although Gaia is Madi’s teacher, she’s still her subordinate. Without any guidance, sweet little Heda falls straight into the exploiting claws of her evil predecessor.

I didn’t think this would rise so soon, but I fear we might have a new Bloodreina on our hands. The Sanctumites killed Madi’s mother, she will retaliate with full force and who could blame her. If you took mine for self-serving reasons, I’ll want vengeance too.

Somehow, I still think those machines strapped to her head is Josephine’s handiwork, wanting something from the flame. Or maybe it’s a way to pull Madi back from the dark hole she’s fallen into.

Either way, it looks like she’s becoming a villainous character who wants revenge and I hope she succeeds. Russel may have goodness inside, yet he still murdered an innocent person to bring his daughter back. Ryker, on the other hand, is a quizzical one.

The 100 episode 6 - Return of the cockroach

We all knew he would take that deal but, as expected, terms and conditions apply. Clarke’s dead, there’s nothing they can do about it. Teaming up with Josie means they get the Sanctumites’ help with survival and he earns eternal life.

It makes sense for him, Clarke wasn’t his favorite person and what’s done is done. Obviously, he knows convincing Bellamy will be a lot harder.

That was all of our reactions. And then he goes and spoils it all by saying some stupid like it’s what Monty would have wanted. Oomf the trump card. No violence, no eye-for-an-eye, just look forward and do better. Oh, and it’s what Clarke would have wanted too.

In some twisted way, he’s right. His way saves everyone else including Bellamy and the planet or moon or whatever. Both Murphy and Josephine’s manipulation this episode is vulgar yet brilliant. Richard and Eliza, you killed it.

Meanwhile, in the woods, the badass trio is being summoned

May I just highlight this line: “Forty vestil virgins and a side dish of none of your damn business.” Man, I love Diyoza too bits. And Xavier. And Octavia. And I hope Marie gets that Emmy nomination because she deserves the hell out of it.

So, Diyoza learns about Gabriel’s rebellion but refuses to join in order to save her daughter’s life. She’s not your conventional mother hen but the way she looks out for Octavia and her child is a clear depiction of her ability to care.

How did Xavier know Diyoza is expecting a girl???

There are tons of rumors that Xavier is Gabriel. I don’t think he is. Or rather, I hope he’s not. I want Gabriel to be an anomaly as much as he “lives” in one. Perhaps he can only exist inside it because of his age? But he’s calling them for a reason and I bet that reason is “death to primes” and Clarke’s resurrection.

I’m still sticking to my time travel theory of Diyoza meeting Hope and Octavia facing off with Bloodreina. I’d love to see what Xavier’s battles might be. Also, I’m pretty sure these three’s journey is the conclusion to all of their problems and the Blakes’ reconciliation. The villains of earth become the heroes of Sanctum was foreshadowing, I'm certain.

Abby, wtf is wrong with you?

How on earth does she not see through the inconsistencies in her daughter’s behavior? Echo figures it out before she does for heaven's sake. And after everything they’ve done in the past, she decides it’s alright to resurrect the man she loves at the cost of someone else.

Will she resort back to drugs after this too? Clearly, she can’t deal with the thing’s she’s done. Turning Jake in. Becca’s lab. The dark year. And now she’s doing it again. All because her daughter tends to think it’s okay and doesn’t want to lose her. Open your damn eyes, Clarke would never ask you to do something that selfish.

Raven and Ryker

Can someone please shut Raven up. Her self-righteous attitude this season is sickening. She did bad things too. Asking Clarke to kill Lexa. Sacrificing Murphy so Finn could live. Refusing to give Abby medicine for radiation poisoning. Has she forgotten? But worst of all, she left the hard decisions up to Bellamy and Clarke and now she’s mad because they made them.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the piece of her mind she gave Ryker. But the condescending way in which it’s done is annoying. He clearly needs to hear it and she touched where it hurts. Is it wrong to like him and hope he survives? Out of all the primes, it seems like he and Gabriel are the only ones with a conscience. Russel’s is debatable.

They are not gods. What makes them so special? Knowledge? Intellect? Wisdom? And creating a realm of worship so people would sacrifice themselves for you is revolting and everything but divine or remarkable.

Yes, Echo gets a narrative!

The woman is smart, dangerous and loyal. So far, she’s been nothing but Bellamy’s girlfriend and subject, so I’m glad she finally got a storyline of her own. I’m sure the mercy kill of the guard was used purely to show her compassion, which her boyfriend questioned a few episodes ago. Many people still do not like her.

Being an amazing spy, she extorts Jade for information and figures out that Clarke’s gone. Her natural inclination is to attack which Bellamy, to my surprise, shoots down. That look in her eye suggests she’s not done though. She’ll probably save Jade’s life in exchange for being a double agent. Which could be a great asset to our heroes.

Tasya Teles said that her favorite dynamic of the show is yet to come and that Echo is bisexual. I can see the two of them partnering up and that’s a team I both route for and ship. They’re equals, they have similar backgrounds, they’re caring in a complex way. Why not be those things for each other?

In the end, it all boils down to Bellamy and Clarke

Bellamy’s tears, tears, and more tears this episode was heartbreaking. Don’t hate me, it wasn’t as convincing as, “We can’t lose Clarke, we can’t lose her!” or “I left her to die and we all die anyway!” though. Why is his mourning stressed this way? Maybe because he lost someone he loves like Russel suggested.

Acting out of anger, he tried to choke Russel for killing her and I imagine the following stopped him: “You have such a big heart Bellamy... but to make sure we survive, you have to use this too.” Especially because he later states that we survive, it’s what Clarke would have wanted.

Tears welled in my eyes when he told Madi. And that hug gave me painful father-daughter feels. At least he’ll try to keep his promise to Clarke and take care of her. Bellamy, you better, that girl is taking a wrong turn. Even if I agree with her cause, following a venomous lead will land her in scorching hot water.

I really would have loved to see Miller, Jackson and Jordan's grief too. And it looked like Spacekru didn't care much after she saved their lives countless times. That scene was underwhelming, truly.

Now, as I predicted, Clarke appears in Josephine’s dreams when she finally sleeps. Which images haunt her? Roan, Abby, Madi, Lexa, Bellamy. I saw tweets of other’s but those were clear to me. Accompanied by Abby, Bellamy and her own words to Lexa. The most important people in her life, right?

I knew this would happen, something obviously went wrong with the insertion or Clarke is just a fighter. I don’t think it has anything to do with synthetic nightblood. Josephine, honey, you’re in for the wildest and scariest rollercoaster ride of your life. Clarke Griffin is a force to be reckoned with and she won’t stop until her prison break is successful.

I cannot imagine the experience of living in your own mind to be pleasant. Especially not while fighting Josephine Lightbourne for power. Poor, poor, Clarke.

Bellamy was the first to notice Josephine isn’t Clarke and I’m sure he’s gonna realize that she still exists too. The devil will let something slip or act weird and he’ll pick up on it. Either that or Jade informs Echo. Once he solves that puzzle, he will stop at nothing until she returns to him. But Bellamy, please keep your eye on Madi throughout, do not follow in Abby’s footsteps.

Will Clarke’s dreams hold a confession of feelings? Will Bellamy confess to Josephine? Will there be any sort of confession?

Last week someone called my Becho theories typical. Fine, I may be biased but I only write what I see on my screen and if you disagree, I’d love to know why.

#the100 #the100 season 6 #the100 s6 #the100 spoilers #the 100 season six #the100 6x06 #memento mori #the100 season 6 spoilers #bellamy blake #clarke griffin #madi griffin #john murphy #echo #raven reyes #josephine lightbourne #abby griffin #octavia blake #octavia x diyoza #charmaine diyoza

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pamphletstoinspire · 5 years ago

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An Exorcist Describes Death, Judgement, and Our Everlasting Life

Heaven, the Kingdom of Love

I wish to include some basic notions of Christian eschatology, which, because of the Resurrection of Christ give a reason for great hope to everyone — in particular, to those who suffer from evil spells. Our life, our earthly pilgrimage, and our suffering are not the fruit of a blind randomness; rather, they are ordered for our greater good and definitive friendship with God.

Let us begin, then, precisely from paradise, the final goal and the reason for which we have been created. “Those who die in God’s grace and friendship and are perfectly purified live for ever with Christ. They are like God for ever, for they ‘see him as he is,’ face to face,” (CCC 1023).

Our Faith guarantees that in paradise we shall enjoy the vision of God; that is, we shall become participants in that same happiness that the divine Persons enjoy among themselves:

“The life of the blessed consists in the full and perfect possession of the fruits of the redemption accomplished by Christ. He makes partners in his heavenly glorification those who have believed in him and remained faithful to his will. Heaven is the blessed community of all who are perfectly incorporated into Christ” (CCC, no. 1026).

A question arises spontaneously: What need did the Trinity have for creatures, for men and angels, when It was already perfect and absolutely sufficient in Itself? The Trinity did it solely out of love, gratuitous and unconditional love for us. The advantage is solely ours: love, joy, and happiness, for all, in paradise.

There are degrees of participation in the joy and love of God. This degree of rank is given according to the level of sanctity each person has reached during his lifetime: the joy of St. Francis of Assisi, for example, will be different from that of the good thief. There is a difference between men on earth, and there will be a difference in paradise.

It is similar to what happens with the stars in heaven: there are those that shine brighter and those that shine a little less. So also it will be with men in the glorious resurrection: all of us shall be resplendent, but each one with a different proportion. Each one will have that maximum of splendor and happiness that he is personally capable of, based on how he has lived his life. Some will have a greater capacity and others less, but without envy or jealousy toward each other.

Indeed, each one will know complete joy. A verse from Dante’s Divine Comedy comes to mind: “In his will is our peace.” In paradise there is no jealousy; each one is in the will of God, and in His will there is peace. Eternal peace is definitive, where each tear, each sorrow, and all envy will be wiped away.

The Souls in Purgatory

Purgatory is the place, or, better, the state to which come the souls that have need of a purification and therefore have not been immediately admitted to contemplate the face of God. This purification is necessary in order to arrive at sanctity, the condition that heaven requires. The Catechism speaks of the souls in purgatory: “All who die in God’s grace and friendship, but still imperfectly purified, are indeed assured of their eternal salvation; but after death they undergo purification, so as to achieve the holiness necessary to enter the joy of heaven” (no. 1030).

We can understand that there are gradations or diverse states in purgatory; each one accommodates the situation of the soul that arrives there. There are the lower strata, more terrible because they are closer to hell, and the more elevated that are less terrible because they are much closer to the happiness of paradise. The level of purification is linked to this state.

The souls in purgatory are in a state of great suffering. We know, in fact, that they can pray for us and that they can obtain many graces for us, but they can no longer merit anything for themselves. The time for meriting graces finishes with death.

Purged souls can, however, receive our help in order to abbreviate their period of purification. This occurs in a powerful way through our prayers, with the offering of our sufferings, paying attention at Mass, specifically at funerals or at Gregorian Masses, celebrated for thirty consecutive days.

This last practice was introduced by St. Gregory the Great in the sixth century, inspired by a vision he had of a confrere who died without confessing himself and, having gone to purgatory, appeared to him, asking him to celebrate some Masses in his favor. The pope celebrated them for thirty days. At that point, the deceased appeared to him again, happy for having been admitted to paradise. One must take care: this does not mean that it will always work this way: that would be a magical attitude, unacceptable and erroneous toward a sacrament. In fact, it is solely God who decides these matters when He wills it through His divine mercy.

On the subject of Masses, it is necessary to say that they can be applied to a particular deceased, but, at the last moment, it is God who destines them to those who have a real need. For example, I often celebrate Masses for my parents, whom I believe in my conscience are already in paradise. Only God in His mercy will destine the benefits of my Masses to those who have more need, each one according to the criteria of justice and goodness reached during his life.

Regarding all that I have said, I wish warmly to advise that it is better to expiate suffering in this life and become a saint than, in a minimalist way, to aspire to purgatory, where the pains are long-lasting and heavy.

The Pains of Hell

The book of Revelation says that “the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the Devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world — he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him” (Rev. 12:9).

Why were they hurled down to the earth? Because the punishment they were given is that of persecuting men, trying to lead them to eternal hell, rendering them their unfortunate companions for an eternity of suffering and torment.

How can this drama, which involves everyone, enter into the plans of God? As we have said, the next reason is the liberty granted by God to His creatures. Certainly we know that the mission of Satan and his acolytes is to ruin man, to seduce him, to lead him toward sin, and to distance him from the full participation in divine life, to which we have all been called, which is paradise.

Then there is hell, the state in which the demons and the condemned are distanced from the Creator, the angels, and the saints in a permanent and eternal condition of damnation. Hell, after all, is self-exclusion from communion with God. As the Catechism states: “We cannot be united with God unless we freely choose to love him. But we cannot love God if we sin gravely against him, against our neighbor or against ourselves” (no. 1033). The one who dies in mortal sin without repenting goes to hell; in an impenitent way, he has not loved. It is not God who predestines a soul to hell; the soul chooses it with the way [the person] has lived his life.

We have some stories about hell that, because they are taken from private revelations or experiences, do not bind the faithful, but, nevertheless, have a notable value. I have spoken on more occasions in my books and in my interviews of the experience of St. Faustina Kowalska, who in her diary writes of her spiritual journey to hell.

It is shocking.

Stories and visions like these have to make us reflect. For this reason Our Lady of Fatima said to the seers: “Pray and offer sacrifices; too many souls go to hell because there is no one to pray and offer sacrifices for them.”

Being in the kingdom of hate, damned souls are subjected to the torment of the demons and to the sufferings they reciprocally inflict on one another. In the course of my exorcisms I have understood that there is a hierarchy of demons, just as there is with angels. More than once I have found myself involved with demons who were possessing a person and who demonstrated a terror toward their leaders.

One day, after having done many exorcisms on a poor woman, I asked the minor demon who was possessing her: “Why don’t you go away?” And he replied: “Because if I go away from here, my leader, Satan, will punish me.” There exists in hell a subjugation dictated by terror and hatred. This is the abysmal contrast with paradise, the place where everyone loves one another and where, if a soul sees someone holier, that soul is immensely happy because of the benefit it receives from the happiness of another.

Some say that hell is empty. The response to this affirmation is found in chapter 25 of Matthew’s Gospel, where it speaks of the Last Judgment: the upright will go to eternal life and the others, the cursed, will go to the eternal fire. We can certainly hope that hell is empty, because God does not wish the death of a sinner but that he convert and live (see Ezek. 33:11). For this He offers His mercy and saving grace to each one. In the Gospel of John Jesus says: “If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained” (John 20:23); thus He insists on our continuous conversion supported by the grace of the sacraments, in particular the sacrament of Penance.

Returning to the question of hell, whether it is empty or not: unfortunately, I fear that many souls go there, all those who persevere in their choice of distancing themselves from God to the end. Let us meditate often on this. Pascal said it well: “Meditation on hell has filled paradise with saints.”

The Judgment on Life

The Catechism speaks of the particular judgment: “The New Testament speaks of judgment primarily in its aspect of the final encounter with Christ in his second coming, but also repeatedly affirms that each will be rewarded immediately after death in accordance with his works and faith” (no. 1021).

And further on it adds: “Each man receives his eternal retribution in his immortal soul at the very moment of his death, in a particular judgment that refers his life to Christ: either entrance into the blessedness of heaven — through a purification or immediately — or immediate and everlasting damnation” (no. 1022). Then it adds the criterion with which this judgment will occur, taken from the writings of St. John of the Cross: “At the evening of life, we shall be judged on our love.”

The first thing that I would emphasize is precisely this last: the final criterion of our judgment will be the love that we have had toward God and toward our brothers and sisters. How, then, will this particular judgment occur?

At times, I run into persons who are convinced that immediately after death they will meet Jesus in person and that He will give them a piece of His mind for some of their dolorous affairs. Frankly, I do not think that it will happen like this. Rather, I believe that, immediately after death, each of us will appear before Jesus, but it will not be the Lord who will review our lives and examine the good and the bad each of us has done. We ourselves shall do it, in truth and honesty.

Each one will have before himself the complete vision of his life, and he will immediately see the real spiritual state of his soul and will go where his situation will bring him. It will be a solemn moment of self-truth, a tremendous and definitive moment, as definitive as the place where we shall be sent. Let us consider the case of the person who goes to purgatory.

It will involve the sorrow of not immediately going to paradise that will make him understand that his purification on earth was not complete, and he will feel the immediate need of purifying himself. His desire of acceding to the vision of God will be strong, and the desire for liberation from the weight of the pains accumulated during his earthly life will be compelling.

The Last Judgment: It Will Be Love That Will Judge Us

Let us end with the universal judgment:

The Last Judgment will come when Christ returns in glory. Only the Father knows the day and the hour; only he determines the moment of its coming. Then through his Son Jesus Christ he will pronounce the final word on all history. We shall know the ultimate meaning of the whole work of creation and of the entire economy of salvation and understand the marvelous ways by which his Providence led everything towards its final end. (CCC, no. 1040)

This is one of the most difficult realities to understand. The Last Judgment coincides with the return of Christ; however we do not know the precise time it will occur. We know that it will be preceded immediately by the resurrection of the dead. In that precise moment, the history of the world will definitively and globally end. The Catechism again specifies: “In the presence of Christ, who is Truth itself, the truth of each man’s relationship with God will be laid bare [cf. John 12:49]” (no. 1039).

The essential question is: What is the concrete rapport that each man has with God? As I have mentioned, the solemn response is found in the Gospel of Mathew. The saved and the damned will be chosen on the basis of their recognition or rejection of Christ in the infirm, in the hungry, and in the poor (Matt. 25:31–46). Two essential elements emerge from this. The first is a division, a schism, between those going to paradise and those going to hell, between the saved and the condemned. The second regards the manner in which this judgment will be accomplished — with love. God’s Commandments and every other precept are summarized solely in one commandment: “[L]ove one another as I have loved you” (John 15:12).

We can easily understand that this command is addressed to each human conscience in every age, including those who lived before Christ and those, who today, as in centuries past, never heard anyone speak of the Son of Man. Therefore, the finale of this stupendous passage is the beautiful passage from Mathew: “Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me” (Matt. 25:40).

If each man — apart from his religion, his culture, his epoch, and any other circumstance — has loved his neighbor, he has also loved the Lord Jesus in person. Any rapport with our brothers and sisters in any locality, any age, or any situation is, all in all, a rapport with Jesus Christ in person. Each human creature who achieves fulfillment in his human relationships is, at the same time, relating to God. For this reason, the love of neighbor is the fundamental precept of life. John the Evangelist helps us to understand that we cannot say that we love God, whom we cannot see, if we do not love our brother, whom we can see (cf. 1 John 4:20).

The love that will judge us will be the same love that we have (or have not) practiced toward others, the same love that Jesus lived in His earthly experience and taught us in the Gospels, the same love to which we are entitled through the sacraments, through prayer, and through a life of faith. The ability to love comes from grace, and it is much reduced in those who do not know Christ; and even more so in those who know Him but do not follow Him, a choice that assumes a serious sin. Indeed, Jesus said: “He who believes and is baptized will be saved; but he who does not believe will be condemned” (Mark 16:16).

On the other hand, in announcing the extraordinary Jubilee of Mercy, Pope Francis reminds us that the other fundamental aspect of the question is that the love with which we shall be judged will be the Love of mercy. “Mercy is the ultimate and supreme act by which God comes to meet us.” This mercy, he says, “is the bridge that connects God and man and opens our hearts to the hope of being loved forever despite our sinfulness.”

God’s compassionate glance and His desire to live in total communion with us opens our hearts to the hope that each sin and each failure inflicted on man by his great enemy, Satan, will be looked upon with the eyes of a loving and accepting Father. Therefore, let us live full of hope, because we know that, even in the difficulties of our life’s journey, God will wipe away all the tears from our eyes. On that day “death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away” (Rev. 21:4).

FR. GABRIELE AMORTH

#final judgement

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eotheria · 6 years ago

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The World of Eotheria according to Lady Valentine

Part 9: Celestials, Fiends, Aasimar, and Tieflings

Angels and demons are known in Eotheria, though few have actually seen any, and it’s far too easy to make assumptions about what they are. To the layman, angels are divine beings of pure goodness that protect the weak and fight against evil and impurity. Demons are hideous and blasphemous creatures that seek to corrupt everything they touch and dominate the world and its people. A struggle between good and evil, heaven and hell, black and white, as old as time itself.

Let’s get this out of the way right now. Neither the celestials of Empyrea nor the fiends of Sheol have the best interests of the mortals of Eotheria in mind. The angels are truthful when they say they want to protect us. Unfortunately, their idea of protection is to protect us from ourselves by stripping away what free will and individuality we have, leaving us all as nothing more than cogs in a great machine, until our world resembles a graveyard where the corpses happen to be mobile. The demons aren’t in all honesty much better; things like murder, rape, and theft are considered personal matters to demons, who abhor the very concept of law and order. Such a way of life would turn Eotheria into a bloodbath where only the strongest would survive. The struggle between Empyrea and Sheol is not one of good and evil on Eotheria. After all, if there is one thing I’ve learned it’s that you don’t have to be evil to commit evil acts; you only have to believe you’re good.

Empyrea and Celestials

Empyrea is an echo world created by the Primordials when they banished the celestials from Eotheria. I sadly have very little first hand knowledge of it. I visited only once, for about six seconds, before my skin caught ablaze and I was forced to return to the material world. Vampires as old as I are harmed by very few things, but Empyrea carries with it a vast light as pure and bright as a hundred suns. My acquaintances who have visited the echo world tell me it is a beautiful mirror of the angels themselves; serene, regal, and holy. Not so much as a shadow or even a sunset to be found. Because it is an echo world, things that appear in the material world have equivalents in Empyrea. For instance, the great lake that borders my city of Roselake appears in Empyrea, where I am told it is a wondrous spring of pure water where beautiful flowers and warm light are abundant.

Actually getting information about how Empyrea is run is difficult. The celestials seem to know of outsiders coming in almost immediately. Attempts at deception or persuasion fail under the critical eyes of the angels, who punish such transgression with extreme prejudice. Even if you do come to Empyrea with noble intentions, your safety likely depends on what sort of angel finds you first. Some angels are kinder than others, and will give you the option to leave Empyrea of your own volition. Others take no chances, and slay (or purify as they like to call it) intruders on the spot. The best i can tell is that the angels are run by a council of seraphs, but how many there are, what roles they play, and what other ranks are in the hierarchy are anyone’s guess. If I had a contact in Empyrea it would be easier, but getting an angel to act as a spy is like pulling bulette teeth.

Angels do not often appear in Eotheria, but when they do, it is always through a summoning spell. The more powerful the celestial being, the greater the scope of the spell required. The most powerful celestial to appear in Eotheria, the arch-celestial Malakhi, was one of the aforementioned seraphs, and reportedly his summoning took four years to complete and required components of such rarity that I doubt anyone would dare to try it again. Like all extraplanar beings, celestials that die on Eotheria are not completely destroyed. Rather, their spirits are returned to Empyrea where a new body slowly reforms for them. And yes, this means that Malakhi is indeed still alive, though I’ve not heard any mention that he’s attempting to pull a stunt like he did forty-five years ago.

In the past, celestials have had a better reputation than fiends, as most tend to associate them with goodness and purity, as opposed to the evil and chaos of fiends. Of course, the reality is much, much different, but it is primarily the reason why the celestials have had relations with mortals good enough for their mortal progeny, the aasimar, to have a nation of their own, whereas the mortal progeny of the fiends, the tieflings, are very rare and widely scattered throughout Eotheria.

Sheol and Fiends

Unlike Empyrea, I do have some knowledge of Sheol, having visited the plane many times in the past. It is the polar opposite of what others have told me Empyrea is. A world of darkness and chaos, rather than light and serenity. Like Empyrea, it is an echo world. Going back to the example I used before, the great lake that borders my city of Roselake is a lake of blood, over which floats a crimson sky with a bright moon, with decayed and dead trees around the lake shore.

Despite the rather horrid picture I paint of this world, it’s really not that bad. Not compared to Empyrea, at least. Unlike the angels, fiends generally don’t care much about outsiders coming to Sheol as long as they don’t try to mess things up for everyone. I still don’t recommend a vacation there, however, unless you’re particularly strong. Fiends can smell weakness over a thousand miles and will be more than happy to make you their playthings if you’re not able to stand up to them. Still, if you can prove yourself, you could do a lot worse than having demons for acquaintances.

The law in Sheol is quite simple: there is none. Just as angels are sticklers for order and structure, demons just tear that all down and do whatever the hell they want. If there are any leaders in Sheol, they will invariably be the most powerful of demons, those who can hold their power through strength and might. Other demons, such as the yugoloths, make their living by selling their skills to the highest bidder, acting as mercenaries. All demons absolutely despise rules and restrictions, and for that they hate the celestials most of all. Unfortunately the only way to Empyrea from Sheol is through Eotheria, and vice versa. Perhaps you can see now why we have the Primordial Ban, ere the angels and demons use our world as a war zone.

Like angels, demons must be summoned in order to come into Eotheria while the Primordial Ban is active, and the stronger the demon, the greater the ritual needed to summon it. Perhaps the most common demons found in Eotheria, though most don’t realize it, are the succubi and incubi. These demons are able to assume humanoid form at will, and tend to blend in disturbingly easily in the urban areas of Eotheria. Most are just shameless hedonists looking to get their rocks off, but some are actually employed as spies by some of the more important people in this world. And yes, I employ a few in the Blood Pact as well. I've actually taken a succubus as a lover before, and while they are very good at what they do, I ultimately would not recommend it. At best they sleep with your entire house staff behind your back. At worst they become faithful and plot to violently murder anyone who so much as looks at you, but I digress.

Aasimar and Tieflings

Aasimar are native to the small nation of Avaniel, which split off from Laguna roughly a hundred years before the coming of the goddesses. The humans of central Suvitha of the time were notable in making pacts with angels, ultimately resulting in the birth of the aasimar race. Aasimar are easily identified by their ashen white skin and platinum blond hair, making them look similar to albinos, though with bright yellow eyes rather than red. They have a rather rigid form of government that is quite similar to what I imagine the celestials of Empyrea would use, being ruled by a council of nobles, with several different castes below.

Avaniel has had a rocky relationship with the human kingdoms since its founding, having a number of on-again, off-again wars, with Laguna and Pecra both often trying to reclaim Avaniel, but to no success. The fact that the aasimar allied themselves with the Kordran did nothing to help their relationship with humanity, though many would argue that they only did so as a means of self-preservation. After the Cataclysm, everything changed. The Kordran violently turned against the aasimar, who turned to the Kresnik empire for aid. Avaniel now exists as a vassal state of the growing Kresnik empire as a result. While many aasimar are not happy about this new state of affairs, few are willing to outright betray their new allies of the Kresnik empire, as their honor will not permit it. However, not all aasimar follow the strict code of law that their angelic ancestors do. Call it a trait of their human ancestry, but some aasimar choose to live more individualistic lifestyles away from Avaniel. These so-called “fallen” aasimar can take many roles: that of bandits, rogues, or even freedom fighters looking to bring down Kresnik and liberate Avaniel.

Tieflings are comparatively rarer. It’s not that the populations are much lower, so much as that they’re far more widespread and disorganized than aasimar. Then again, that seems to be a recurring theme: chaos vs. order. Their demonic heritage is easily noted, often manifesting in horns, red or light blue skin, cloven hooves, and tails. Some of the more exotic tieflings have even more drastic mutations such as intense body heat or scaly skin, but these are very rare. While tieflings have no nation of their own, they are most common in what was once Laguna, having small villages peppered throughout the region. Laguna had always been the most magically inclined of the Seven Kingdoms, and many of its archmages made pacts with demons, resulting in the tieflings.

Though treated with suspicion everywhere else, tieflings had good relations with humans in Laguna until the Cataclysm, when the leaders of Laguna summoned fiends to counter the celestials summoned by the Kordran. After the Cataclysm and the subsequent destruction of the kingdom of Laguna by the Church of Galan the remaining Lagunese humans blamed the tieflings for the Cataclysm, even though they had almost nothing to do with it. It got so bad that Kresnik and the Church itself stepped in to absolve the tieflings of any wrong doing. While the tieflings are generally grateful to the Kresnik empire for this, the recent acquisition of Avaniel, and the subsequent alliance with the aasimar, has worried the tieflings considerably. Needless to say, the two races do not get along at all, though I have succeeded in getting an aasimar and a tiefling to work together in the Blood Pact without killing one another, so I suppose they can get along.

The Baatezu

There is one last thing about Sheol that I am hesitant to talk about, though I suppose it’s best if you know rather than not. Most beings in Sheol are highly chaotic with little regard for rules, social structure, or order. Most beings, but not all. There exists, in the deepest corners of the echo world, a group of fiends that stands in defiance of the chaos that has manifested itself in Sheol. The demons fear and despise these creatures, who are alternately called “devils” or “baatezu”. According to a number of arch-demons, they were caught in Sheol when the demons were. The two races immediately turned on one another, with the demons emerging victorious, but the baatezu remain in Sheol still, plotting and planning for the day when they will bring their dominion over not only Sheol, but Eotheria as well.

I personally have not seen a devil, but I know they exist. They are the demons’ opposite: orderly and efficient rather than chaotic and savage. They seek to dominate rather than cause destruction, bending weaker creatures to their will. Some particularly unfortunate warlocks may find themselves unknowingly entering a pact with one. It is often through these warlocks that the baatezu plan their moves, playing a long game of chess and subtly manipulating events throughout Eotheria to suit their needs. And the truly frightening thing about them is that most do not realize the work of a devil until it is far, far too late.

In the next chapter I will talk about two of the less common races: gnomes and kobolds.

#eotheria #angels #demons #dungeons and dragons #homebrew

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hellomissmabel · 7 years ago

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Of Dusk and Dawn part 1

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Apollo/Steve x reader, Bucky x reader

Warnings: None.

Word count: 1.602

Summary: Y/N is the Pythia, the Oracle of Delphi, blessed by the God Apollo with the gift of foresight. Yet one day a hunter sets foot in her temple and she is struck by a dark vision. With the blood moon approaches fast, higher powers take the upper hand and shake up Y/N’s life and love. Is she strong enough to survive the wrath of a Goddess? Or shall she wither and die in the aftermath of a God’s sorrow?

A/N: Written for @marvelous-fvcks her challenge. My prompt was Greek God AU.

Series masterlist can be found here

Steve’s POV

My love has been dusted to sleep, coaxing into the land of dreams after our bodies intertwined in the moonlight. Her chest rises and falls softly in the rays of dawn that shine like a halo around her rested body. Trailing my lips over her exposed shoulder, I feel time is ticking away from us and I will have to return soon. Reluctantly, I kiss her skin one last time, weaving my fingers through her hair knowing the caresses will bring her to open her eyes.

“Steve…,” she mumbles my mortal name groggily, the hands of sleep clinging onto still. “Is it morning yet?”

Pecking her temple, I whisper lovingly into her ear. “Yes, my sweet. It’s time.” Followed by a barely there kiss to her cheek.

Opening her eyes as she rolls onto her side, I watch as they fall on my face and a tender smile erupts from her lips. She holds out her hands for me to fold into her loving embrace. “Come here, my Apollo. Let me hold you close.”

Any resistance is futile as I’ve lost my heart to this mortal woman, my sweet Y/N. My human form finds a purpose so divine whenever I connect with her, in spirit or in body, that it must be none other than true love. “As you wish, my sweet,” I yield to her request.

Y/N hums contently once my arms have wrapped themselves around her and my head lays on her bare chest. Pecking the crown of my head, her melody alters gradually into a worrisome tune. Craning my neck to look up at my beautiful lover, I see her eyes have turned a paler shade of Y/E/C. “What is on your mind, my sweet?,” I inquire with a slightly nervous tenor.

“Nothing, my Apollo,” she replies after some time has passed agonisingly slow, a sad smile tarnishing her full lips destined for joyous laughter only.

She has never withheld anything for me before and it inspires great concern for her well-being. Promptly, I detach myself from her affectionate arms and charm her into my soothing embrace. “Is it more gold you wish, my sweet? For the poor and the sick and others that seek our help? Because I can bestow upon you all the richness in the whole of Greece if you want me to.”

Shaking her head, she cradles my face in her hands. I smile down at her and her fingertips follow the crinkles of my eyes. Her touch is still sincere in its love and not lacking in heart, yet the gesture has lost some of its former playfulness. “Your hair is the only gold I will ever need.”

“Is it beauty you wish, my sweet?,” I try again, uncertain of where her mind lies and her thoughts wander to as she eyes me with that same sad smile. “Are you worried I will not love you as you grow older, because I can assure you that I will. And I’m sure Aphrodite will be very forthcoming with her blessings if you offer half of this week’s gifts to her.”

“Your beautiful blue eyes are all I will ever need,” she answers instantly, pecking my lips briefly. No further reply follows and her state of mind continues to leave me puzzled.

“Then it must be power you wish, my sweet? Have the people been asking too much of you again?”

“It is not power, neither beauty or gold that I desire, my Apollo,” she sighs softly as she drops her hands to my chest, gently pushing herself away from me. Y/N sits on the bed, her back facing me, slow tears lazily cascading down her cheeks in a woeful blues.

Pressing her back flush to my chest, my arms encircle her waist as I allow her to lean into me. I pepper small kisses down her cheek, her jaw and her throat, drawing soft moans from even softer lips. “Then tell me, my sweet Y/N, what it is your heart desires.”

With careful consideration, she speaks in a quiet whisper. “I am carrying your fruit in my womb, my Apollo.” Y/N laces our fingers laces together, squeezing them gently when she senses my confusion. “I am with child, Steve,” she clarifies affectionately, her voice breaking under the confession of such a fresh truth.

As it slowly dawns upon me, the impact of a new life growing inside her, I press a lingering kiss to her lips. “I am going to be a father,” I mumble to her lips before kissing her languidly and gingerly laying her down onto the cushions of the bed. “I, Apollo,” I smile joyously to her bare stomach as she caresses my hair away from my eyes. “Am your father, little one.”

“My Apollo, look at me,” she requests with kindness yet urgency. I beam at my love with obvious delight at this wondrous news, ignorant of all the thunderclouds gathering in the sky above. “I desire a father for this child. A father that will be there to see his son or daughter grow up. Not a father that visits his family once every fortnight.”

“I promise I will be there for our child, my sweet,” I pledge sincerely, pecking her tummy one last time before bringing my lips up to meet hers in a chaste kiss. “I will visit you more often and bring presents and sweets and…”

Her finger to my lips prompts me to silence, and there is that sad smile again. “That’s exactly what I am afraid of, Steve.” Y/N sighs dejectedly, averting her eyes from mine as she speaks more to the pillows than to me, her words emphasised by the early morning light.

“You visit me once every fortnight and in the few faint hours of the evening, we make love. Afterwards, we fall asleep in each other arms, only to wake up the next morning for you to leave me until another eleven moons pass and you can be mine again.”

Our eyes lock and there are relentless tears staining her cheeks. “I want you to stay here with us.” She takes a deep breath, uneasy in what she will request of me. “I want you to stay here with us, in your human form. This way your child will know its father, really know its father. Not through whispers and rumours or the tales I will tell it at night before bedtime.”

I hear what’s she’s saying, I understand what she’s asking of me. I do. But I am a God and I have a divine duty towards the people and my family at Mount Olympus. I would give it all up in a heartbeat, believe me, but I cannot forsake my immortality for the sake of a mortal woman. Even if that same mortal woman is carrying a demi-god in her womb.

It is with grave sadness that I utter the following statement, tearing my heart apart for the good of the universe. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my sweet,” I state regretfully as I move away from her, rolling onto my side and to the edge of the bed. As I sit on the edge of the bed, I expect her to follow and wrap her arms around my shoulders like always when we have to part ways. But she remains frozen, laying on the bed with her eyes staring at the sky above.

“My sweet,” I exhale in a sharp and shuddering breath, “I love you. I love our child. I love you both so much.” I stand up from the bed and walk to the other side, where I sit down next to my love. She still refuses to look at me, her face pale and drained of her natural blush. “My feelings will never change and our child will only strengthen our love.”

“I understand why you would be opposed to a union or any other kind of matrimonial bond,” she reasons with me, finally returning her gaze towards me. “But we’re not just talking about my life or your life anymore,” she points towards her stomach as she sits up on the bed, “We’re talking about an unborn life, this unborn life.”

Resting her hands on my shoulder, she looks at me with earnestness. Her touch is both abysmal as it is elysian, luring me into her earthly spirituality with celestial tenderness. “Your judgement is clouded by your hormones, my sweet. You don’t realise the severity of what you are demanding of me.”

Her touch lingers for a moment longer, fingertips digging into my skin with dissolving determination as she senses the finality of my words. Eventually she retracts her hands from my shoulders and the immediate coldness of the air pulled taut causes goose bumps to rise in an instant.

Wetting her lips, she distances herself as she crawls further onto the bed, yet her soul is still locked with mine. There are silent tears and hands that serve no purpose other than covering her face as she sobs into them. Not another word falls from her lips as she cries solemnly over a lover that can never truly be hers.

“I will come again in a fortnight, my sweet. I can’t bear to be so long without you, especially now you’re pregnant,” I tell her calmly, honestly and with care. “I love you, my sweet, and I hope you will feel different by then.”

As I shed my human form, right before vanishing into a thin veil of light, I hear her mumble through strangled cries and muffled sobs. “I won’t, my Apollo. I won’t.”

Tagging: @avengerofyourheart @a-little-hell-to-raise @marvelingatthewonder @mrshopkirk @hardcorehippos @knittingknerdy @winterboobaer @italwaysendsinafightt @viollettes @hymnofthevalkyrie @feelmyroarrrr @justareader @austinamelio @volklana @4theluvofall @themcuhasruinedme @theoneandonlysaucymo @caplanbuckybarnes @nenyakj @amrita31199 @emilyevanston @minervaem @howlingbarnes @buchananbarnestrash @youandb @you-and-bucky @fvckingsteverogers @thatawkwardtinyperson @that-sokovian-bastard @abovethesmokestacks @marvelrevival @marvel-fanfiction @justanotherbuckydevotee @barnes-heaven @heartmade-writingbucky @buckyywiththegoodhair @captnbarnesrogers @mellifluous-melodramas @its-not-a-phase-hux @melconnor2007 @ivvitm1109 @toofuckinfabulous @ailynalonso15 @hollycornish @delicatecapnerd @camigt1999 @learisa @curlyexpat @palaiasaurus64 @fanndas-snow-goddess @crisssivonne @yourenotrogers @tomhollandzs @supernaturaldean67 @beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep @aletheladyinred @beyondbarnes @xbergiex @reniescarlett @promarvelfangirl @capbuckybuchanan @lovemarvelousfics @yknott81 @rrwilson66 @pegasusdragontiger @mizzzpink @salty-holographic-stickers @sammyissassy @sebstanchrisevanchickforever19 @kudosia @bellejeunefillesansmerci @lumelgy @southernbellestatues @daringtodreamawake @neurotic-narwhal @cokamarie24 @blue1928 @movingonto-betterthings @breezy1415 @isnt-the-blog-youre-looking-for @jesspfly @weenie-butt @debzybrazy @fuckingchaotic

Series tag list: @nativesebby @taylorjacksonandtheolympians @sad-af1121@throwingup-rainbows @thegreentgirl @jughead-wuz-here @redroomproperty @sgtbxckybxrnes @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @lifeofmarvvel @amiarealfan @captainsbestgal @whiskeyandwashitape @kimistry27 @superpaperclip @acunningstargazer @heyitsaznfangirl @follow-the-freeway @mo320 @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @katalina-from-hellbound @grantsgorgeousgirl @winterwolf57 @lycanmomma @caffeinatedcellist @yknott81 @thefandomimagines @lostinspace33 @jasmineladjevardi @majbritsr @dinorapreira @naturalistamisslyn @winenighthoe @aliasauthor @heneed-somemilk @quoththe-raven @thelostswan @2017booklover @suz-123 @lumelgy @magellan-88

Strikethrough means I couldn’t tag you!

#of dusk and dawn #greek god au #steve x reader #bucky x reader #amarvelousfvckingwritingchallenge

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not-a-space-alien · 7 years ago

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Falling Hazard, Part 16: As Below, So Above

This is the finale! Thanks so much for reading! Please enjoy!!

Series masterpost

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Uriel slammed the doors of the inner chamber of the Book of Life open. She had no reason to be here, none except it was where she felt most comfortable, and she needed comfort.

She stomped around the pedestal upon which the holy relic sat, cursing and muttering angrily. Metatron came in after her. “Uriel.”

“Who does he think he is?” Uriel snapped, as though Metatron would answer her. “That little snake. That filthy little demon. Trying to lie to me about something like that. Save my life? Save my life?”

“They weren’t lying,” said Metatron. “I saw him laying hands on you while Mykas attacked me.”

“You saw him?”

“…In between being mauled, yes.”

“Who does he think he is!” she repeated. “To lay hands on me? Me? The Keeper of the Divine Aura?”

“Uriel,” said Metatron.

Uriel kicked one of the support pillars in the room. “I’ll kill him. I’ll skin him alive. I’ll rip off his wings and drop him into the Lake of Fire.”

“Uriel.”

“I was ready to die!” Uriel wailed, tears brimming over and rolling down her cheeks. “What am I supposed to do without Him? What good am I? What is my purpose?”

Uriel pointed her hand at the center of the room, and a pit of fire opened up, crackling.

“Doesn’t matter who is an angel and who is a demon!” Uriel roared, stepping up to the pedestal. “Fine!”

She seized the Book of Life and took it off the pedestal.

Metatron felt the fabric of Heaven shudder with the movement, and they immediately leapt in between Uriel and the holy fire she had summoned. Just in time; Uriel stepped forward, holding the Book aloft, as if to toss it in.

“Put it down,” Metatron shouted, grabbing her arms and trying to wrestle it off her.

“Let go of me!” Uriel said, struggling to move the Book to its intended destination. “I’m going to destroy it! You can’t stop me!”

“Uriel, compose yourself!”

Uriel went slack, dropping the book. It hit the floor with a ground-shaking thump. Metatron caught her as she collapsed to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

“He made me cast them out,” she cried. “He made me do that and then He just left. I could feel their every emotion as their pages burned, that same fear and pain over and over, one after the other, and God said He would do something worse to me if I didn’t cast them out! And then they were just gone, and the only way to live with myself was to make myself believe they deserved it, because they were all horrible anyway, and then that snake—”

“Uriel,” said Metatron, wiping her tears.

“That snake—” she screamed. “Does that. And proves himself more merciful than half the garrison.” She finally looked up into Metatron’s eyes. “And I’m supposed to just pretend everything is fine?”

She waved her hand, and the abused Book of Life, lying on the floor, went rigidly upright, pages whirring past like cards in a deck being shuffled, and then fell open to the page belonging to Uriel herself.

Metatron caught her hand and wrenched it away before she could rip the page out. She broke free and tried again, but they pinned both her hands to the floor.

“Uriel.”

She let out an anguished cry, and her head thunked onto the floor.

The Metatron let her cry onto the tile, closing the Book of Life and hefting it back onto its podium. The relic safe from her tantrum, they came back over and knelt beside her, putting an arm around her shoulders.

“Uriel,” said Metatron. “He’s gone. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”

“He was the only one who loved me,” she said. “Because everyone in the universe hates me. Everyone. Even everyone in Heaven would rather risk being killed than stand me any longer, and I don’t know how to make them un-hate me, and—”

“Uriel, maybe you could start by not being such a prick,” Metatron snapped.

She scrunched her face angrily, crossing her arms and looking away.

“Look,” said Metatron more gently. “I get it. You think this hasn’t been hard on me? The Voice of God? To try and figure out what my purpose is now without Him?”

She sniffled.

“The past doesn’t have to matter, if we don’t want it to. You asked what you’re supposed to do now without Him. Decide for yourself.”

“For myself?” she repeated, astonished.

“Have you ever asked yourself…What do you want to do, Uriel? What kind of person do you want to be? Because He’s gone. There’s nobody to tell us not to.”

She hugged her arms more tightly about herself, casting a forlorn glance at the Book of Life.

Before going their separate ways, Aziraphale and Crowley asked Maltha what they should do. Maltha told them they were free to do whatever they liked, because the natural order of the world had finally fallen apart, and they had no Gods or masters anymore. Aziraphale and Crowley had just been asking about her will if they should tell anyone what they had heard at the meeting, but they accepted the answer and went home to Soho while Maltha went back down to Hell.

They tried to watch telly, but neither absorbed any of it. Eventually Aziraphale suggested they go for a drive to Mayfair, but Crowley reminded him he didn’t have the Bentley anymore. Aziraphale suggested they hop on the train and go somewhere to distract themselves for a few hours, but Crowley said he would rather die than be caught on public transportation.

They were saved from their idleness by a letter from Maltha, arriving a mere two hours after they had parted.

Aziraphale and Crowley,

Do you have any information regarding the whereabouts of Angelo? In the chaos of the raid, I lost track of him. I have heard a suggestion that he went up to Earth. I am asking the other field agents, but I suspect they are still mad at me, so I expect minimal cooperation from them.

-Maltha

“Oh, dear,” said Aziraphale. “I hope he’s all right.”

They wrote back in the negative. When Maltha’s response came, it read:

Then would you be willing to come down to Hell for a few hours? I am trying everything within my power to reduce Mykas’s distress, but nothing is working. He is under control, but he is not happy.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale repeated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“We should go,” said Crowley.

“You’re sure?” said Aziraphale. “Nobody will force you if you would rather stay away.”

Crowley shook his head. “Aziraphale, I remember what it was like to fall…He’s going to need all the support he can get.”

They packed their bags for a day trip and opened the circle back to Hell. Maltha met them in limbo with open arms.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, starting to lead them down. “I think Mykas needs some sort of comfort I cannot provide.”

“What’s the matter with him? Is he still ill from what was troubling him before the fall?” said Aziraphale.

Maltha shook her head. “His bloodlust is gone, but it’s been an awful lot to take in. The adrenaline rush from the raid on Heaven is finally wearing off, and he’s struggling to come to terms with what’s happened. And I keep telling him that his confinement in the infirmary is temporary, but he doesn’t seem to believe it no matter who tells him.”

“He was kept confined in Heaven,” said Aziraphale. “He’s scared you’ll do the same thing.”

“I know. But I can’t let him go free until I’m sure he’s stable.”

Aziraphale nodded glumly. “We’ll see what we can do.”

The trip down to Hell was quieter this time. Everything seemed much calmer, the tension that had been building all vented at once. Maltha took them to the third layer and waited outside the infirmary.

“I’ll stay out here,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll want to see me again so soon. Thank you, Aziraphale, Crowley.”

They went in. A smattering of warrior angels lounged in various places in the lobby.

“Hello,” said Aziraphale tentatively. “We’re here to talk to Mykas.”

“Go ahead,” said the one nearest the door. “But if I hear you’re distressing him, I’ll remove you myself.”

“…Thank you.”

They went in. Mykas was within, resting in a hospital bed with a blanket pulled up around him. He still hadn’t managed to change his shape, and his eerie canine eyes snapped up to them as they entered. He had a selection of parchment spread out on his lap and several broken pens scattered about.

And they could not help but notice the heavy, sigil-laden iron chain around his ankle.

“Aziraphale!” he said, tail wagging faintly. “Crowley!”

“Hey,” said Crowley, seating himself beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Mykas held his paws in front of him, picking at his claws nervously. “Better.”

“That’s great,” said Aziraphale.

“Um…” said Mykas, lifting the leg that was bound in iron. “Do you know when they might take this off?”

“I can’t imagine it’ll be too long,” Crowley tried. “You did what they wanted you to in Heaven, and it’s not like you’ve done anything else, right?”

Mykas tapped his claws against each other.

“Ah…have you?”

Mykas flattened his ears and lowered his head. “I bit Maltha.”

“Uh-oh,” said Aziraphale. “Why’d you do that?”

Mykas wrung his hands. “I-I was just caught up in everything that was happening, and I didn’t realise what I was doing, and I got scared when we were in Hell again…. She’s really mad at me, isn’t she?”

“Don’t worry about her,” said Crowley. “What’s this you’re working on?”

Mykas picked up one of the pieces of parchment, which had some attempt at writing scrawled on it. “I was trying to write letters. Apologies to everyone that I hurt.”

Crowley leaned over and saw most of the attempts had been addressed to various members of Aziraphale’s legion of demons.

“That’s great,” said Crowley. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.”

“I can’t write any to anyone who didn’t come back to life, though…”

“You could write one to Uriel and Metatron,” said Crowley. “They’re still alive.”

“Hmmm… No, I don’t think I will,” said Mykas. ��You shouldn’t apologise unless you’re actually sorry, you know?”

Aziraphale put a hand over his mouth to try and stop the laughter before it happened.

“That’s fair,” said Crowley, struggling to maintain a straight face. “So who are you writing to first?”

“Oryss.”

“Oh, that’s great.”

“But…”

“But?”

“My hands are too big for the pen. Angelo usually does this…”

“I’ll write them, if you want to dictate to me,” Crowley offered.

“Really?” said Mykas, perking up. “That would be great!”

Crowley picked up a parchment and one of the unbroken pens.

“Okay,” said Mykas. “Write this down. Dear Oryss, stop. I wanted to apologise to you, stop.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Crowley. “Why are you saying ‘stop’ like that?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do to end the sentence?”

“No, that’s just for telegrams. Nobody’s used those for a while. This is just a regular letter.”

“Oh. It’s…been a while since I’ve done this. Angelo usually handles the mail for me.”

“Have you…sent telegrams?”

“Yeah,” said Mykas with an enormous, toothy grin. “Once. It was super fun. Okay, so write this down. ‘Dear Oryss, I wanted to apologise to you. You and Beth helped me at the store, and you cooked a nice meal, and I stabbed you. That was not an appropriate way to thank you. If you accept my apology, I would like to be friends with you, but if not, I understand, and I won’t bother you again. Signed, Michael. Mykas.’”

Crowley gave Mykas the letter back to sign his name, but his signature turned out illegible, so Crowley wrote (Mykas, former archangel Michael) underneath of it so there would be no ambiguity.

Crowley took the letter out into the lobby and found the outbox on the empty receptionist’s desk, then sent the letter out. “Okay,” he said, coming back in and picking up another parchment. “Another?”

“Yeah!” said Mykas. “Write this: Dear Botis. I am sorry I cut off your head.” He paused. “That seems like enough, doesn’t it? Botis strikes me as a straightforward sort of guy.”

“All right,” said Crowley. “I think he’ll like that.”

Mykas tried his very best to make his signature legible this time. “I wish I had my seal,” said Mykas. “But I think it’s still on my desk back in Heaven.”

“Your signature should be enough,” said Aziraphale. “I think they’ll know it’s you.”

Crowley wrote under his signature in plain writing again, just to be sure. He went to send the letter out, only to see they had already gotten a response to their correspondence from Oryss. He brought it in and showed it to Mykas.

Mykas:

Oryss is waiting for a bit to respond, but I think she understands. I know in my heart she’ll come around right away if you come over for dinner and compliment her jollof rice. And I’ll take us out to get our nails done.

-Olivia

Mykas held the letter to his chest like it was a treasure. “Did you hear that? We’re going to get our nails done. …done how?”

“It’s when you paint them,” said Aziraphale. “It’s very luxurious.”

“Oh, like yours!” said Mykas, obviously excited.

“Yes, exactly.”

“That’s great!” He folded the letter up and handed Crowley another piece of parchment. “Crowley, will you write one more?”

“All right,” he said, readying the pen. “Go ahead.”

“Start this one, ‘Dear Crowley.’”

The pen froze on the page. “You want me to transcribe my own letter? You could just…say it to me.”

“No!” said Mykas, looking like he wanted to throw a fit. “A letter is the proper way to do it! I want to do it right!”

“All right,” said Crowley. “Go ahead, then.”

“‘Dear Crowley, I wanted to apologise to you. I am very sorry that I stabbed you, and I am very glad that Noah brought you back to life. The world is better with you in it. If you accept my apology, I would like to be friends with you. I would like for you to be my demon mentor.’”

“Mentor?” said Crowley.

“You’re not supposed to talk while someone is transcribing!” said Mykas. “Finish it, ‘You are a cool guy. You can show this letter to Aziraphale too, because I should apologise to him as well. Love, Mykas.’ Or maybe ‘Sincerely.’ Do you think ‘love’ would be all right?”

Mykas peered at him with genuine worry.

“I think either would be fine,” said Crowley with a smile.

“Okay.”

Crowley handed him the letter. Mykas licked the enveloped, sealed it, and handed it back.

Crowley opened it and made a show of reading it. “Wow, thanks, Mykas. But what do you mean you want me to be your demon mentor?”

“Well,” said Mykas. “I can’t lounge around in Heaven anymore, and I don’t think I’ll be able to go up to Earth, so I’m going to be spending a lot of time in Hell now. So I need someone to show me where the best lounging spots are…And things like that.”

This was said with barely-contained tears. Aziraphale said, “Maltha isn’t going to force you to stay in Hell.”

“Yes she is!” Mykas wailed. “I already know that’s what’s going to happen! Something like that always happens! So don’t try and talk to me like I’m stupid!”

Aziraphale drew back.

“Ah…” said Crowley, “Okay then. Well, once you’re well enough, I can show you where the best spot to go swimming is.”

“Swimming?”

“Yes. There’s only one spot in all of Hell with liquid water the right temperature to swim in. It’s in the fourth circle. We can have a day at the beach there. The three of us and Angelo.”

Mykas burst into tears.

“Oh no, we don’t have to,” said Crowley. “It was only a suggestion…”

“Angelo,” said Mykas, hiding his face. “I can’t let him see me like this. He ran away because he d-didn’t want to see me…Aziraphale, Crowley, do you think he’ll still love me? Surely he won’t. I’m awful like this. How am I going to survive like this? I’m horrible.”

“Hey,” said Crowley, daring to lay a hand on his arm. “Mykas, every demon has had to go through this.”

Mykas sobbed anew on the word demon, but Crowley continued on, “And you’re already off to a better start than most. You have some of your angel friends here with you; they stepped out of line to save you. And you don’t have to be around the other archangels anymore.”

Mykas still looked sullen. “But Hell is horrible,” he said. “And everyone down here already hates me. I mean, everyone is afraid of me. No one will want to be my friend down here… Even Angelo is too afraid to get near me…I’m going to just be alone here…in this horrid place.”

Aziraphale thought of Michael repeatedly asking to be transferred to Earth, and understood why he would hate Hell. It was the same reason why Maltha would be dissatisfied with Hell after falling in love with the Earth and then being sent packing back down here. Michael had been deprived of the kind of stimulation he craved so much for millennia.

“I’m sure Angelo isn’t staying away because he hates you now,” said Aziraphale. “He probably just got scared and hid somewhere.”

“That does sound like something he would do,” said Mykas with a sniffle.

“Come on,” Aziraphale said. “It’s going to be all right. Maltha is in charge of Hell now, not Satan. Things are better now than they were when you came down to get Crowley out. It’s not so bad.”

“But Maltha hates me too,” cried Mykas. “Everyone hates me, and it’s my fault.”

“Oh come on,” said Aziraphale. “Now you’re just being melodramatic.”

Crowley made a “cut it out” motion with his hand. Aziraphale eased back. “Ah…I mean, you’ll see, Mykas. Angels and demons don’t have to fight the same way they used to. The lines are blurring. I’m sure Angelo will still stay with you.”

“Thank you for coming down to visit me,” said Mykas. “Now, please just leave me alone.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. But we can come back later if you want.”

Mykas pulled the blanket up over his head as they left.

“That could have gone better,” said Aziraphale out in the lobby.

“Could have gone a lot worse, too,” said Crowley. “I think he just needs time to adjust. He…oh my somebody, is there going to be a fight right here in the lobby?”

This last exclamation was prompted by the sudden realization that Maltha, still loitering by the main entrance, was standing facing the archangel Victoria. Raphael was hovering by her side, as though afraid to get between them.

Maltha stuck her hand out, and Victoria shook it.

“Oh,” said Crowley with a breath of relief. “Oh, good.”

Maltha went back outside. Victoria and Raphael came over. And when they both looked at Crowley, they began to look shame-faced.

Suddenly remembering their behaviour in the ventures leading up to this whole debacle, Crowley crossed his arms and tapped his foot.

“Er,” said Victoria, grimacing. “Hi, Crowley, I think the last time I saw you was…”

“When you came over to my flat to call me a vile creature,” said Crowley, and then to Raphael, “And you, lying about me to Gabriel right in front of me. You nearly got me killed or worse.”

Raphael rubbed the back of his head. “Ah…sorry about that, Crowley. It was the best plan I could come up with. I really thought we could get this all sorted out before you came back from vacation…”

“I’m really sorry, too,” said Victoria. “I…” She held her hand out. “I want to make it up to you, Crowley. And I’m an archangel now, so there’s more things I can do. If you need anything, let me know, okay?”

“All right, I guess,” said Crowley, shaking her hand. “The proverbial friends in high places, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t lying about wanting to make it up to you after this was all over,” said Raphael. “I meant that. Can you and I talk up on Earth later? We just came down here to see Mykas.”

“Sure,” said Crowley. “That’s why we’re here, too.”

“How is he?” said Victoria.

“He seems a little better,” said Crowley. “He just needs some time to adjust. I think he’ll be glad to see you.”

“Then we’d better go in,” said Raphael. “I mean it, Crowley. Later. I’ll send you a letter.”

Aziraphale and Crowley stepped back to allow them entry.

“What do you think Raphael has for you?” said Aziraphale. “To make it up to you?”

“I don’t know,” said Crowley. “But it’d better be good.”

Raphael and Mykas must have made up without Raphael getting mauled, as evidenced by the fact that Raphael was still alive enough to send a letter to Crowley asking him to meet him under the M25.

“Wonder who told him the name of the highway,” said Crowley. “Can’t imagine he gets down to Earth often enough to know the roads. Oh, he said you can come too, Aziraphale.”

Luckily it was good weather for once. Aziraphale and Crowley ended up flying over, simply because Aziraphale could take the bickering about the bus no longer and gave up trying to convince Crowley public transportation didn’t have it out for him.

They loitered around the spot Raphael had specified at the time specified. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen…

Finally: a black car looped off the road and came around towards them.

“Hey!” said Crowley, hands on his head, a big smile breaking over his face. “It’s the Bentley! I don’t believe it!”

The Bentley was still a little beat up where it crashed into the gates, but it was moving.

“Who’s driving it?” said Aziraphale. “I’m positive Raphael has never used a car before.”

“Are they…ah…going to stop?” said Crowley when the car showed no signs of slowing down even as it entered the proximity of one of the cement support pillars.

The Bentley hit it going about twenty, not enough to cause more damage to the frame, but just enough to make Crowley wince.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale, jogging over. “Come on.”

Two figures emerged from the vehicle: Raphael from the passenger’s side, and in the driver’s...

Crowley stopped dead in his tracks. Ramial got out and ran to the front, fussing and wringing her hands.

“Oh no,” she said. “I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined everything!”

She looked over and saw Crowley staring at her.

“Ramial?” he said.

She bit her lip. “I’m so sorry!”

Dumbfounded, Crowley’s gaze roved over his car, then back to her face. “Who…Who taught you how to drive?” was what he managed.

Ramial looked at him with watery eyes. “Nobody. I’ve never driven before.”

Tears were brimming in Crowley’s eyes now. “It shows,” he choked out.

“I’m sorry I wrecked it even more,” said Ramial, sniffling. “I wanted to…I thought if I brought it back down…If I drove it right to you…”

“First time I drove it I flipped it over,” said Crowley, wet tracks spilling down his cheeks now. “So you did a decent enough job.”

“Good,” said Ramial, lip quavering. “Cralael.”

“It’s…It’s Crowley now.”

“Hi.”

Ramial ran over and body-slammed him with a hug. Crowley just barely managed to stay on his feet. Ramial squeezed him.

“I’m so sorry,” Ramial sobbed. “I’m so sorry it took me so long to find you. But I kept my promise. I never once forgot. I thought about you every day.”

Crowley looked over Ramial’s shoulder to see Raphael leaning on the roof of the Bentley, a self-satisfied look on his face. As Ramial cried on his shoulder, Crowley flashed the archangel a quick thumbs-up behind her back.

“Sorry,” said Ramial, drawing back, wiping her face. “Sorry. I told myself I wouldn’t lose it, and here I am.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” said Crowley. “Under better circumstances.”

“I’m so sorry for what I did,” said Ramial. “They told me afterwards why that happened when I touched you. If I had known, I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t ever touch you again if it meant hurting you like that.”

“Well, don’t worry,” said Crowley, holding out his hand. “You can touch me.”

She took his hand.

“Crowley,” said Raphael. “There’s something Ramial and I would like to offer you.”

“All right. What’s that?”

Raphael came over and stood by Ramial. Before he could speak, Ramial broke in, “We can make you an angel again.”

Crowley blinked at her.

“We can try,” Raphael said gently. “I’d gladly accept you back into my ranks. I know a lot of angels would be happy to see you as a real healer again.”

Crowley stared at the two of them. “But... But I’m a demon. I mean, I have a commendation, but it was never official, because…well, I mean, you can’t really do that. My page is gone from the Book of Life. You can’t un-burn it.”

“You don’t have to give us an answer right now,” said Raphael. “You can take some time to think about it. But it’s a real possibility. I’ve already talked to Uriel, and she’s willing to try and write you back into the Book of Life. We don’t know for sure if it’ll work, but…”

Crowley gaped at him. Raphael smiled hopefully.

“Uriel said that?” said Crowley.

“Shocking, I know.”

“Uriel?”

“Yes.”

“We are thinking of the same Uriel, right? Brown hair, about yea high, constantly looks low-level pissed…”

Ramial squeezed his hand. “What can we say, Crowley? You make quite an impression.”

Sylvia was not looking forward to this.

For the first time in weeks, she stood on the front doorstep of the house she and Adramelech rented together, nervous to see him in a way she hadn’t been in millennia. She somehow managed a knock.

She immediately heard things slamming around inside, frustrated sounds making their way steadily towards the door. When it cracked open, a small dog bolted out, yipping and jumping on Sylvia excitedly.

“Hey, girl!” said Sylvia, trying to pet the dog, but it was full of too much energy and motion to sit still for long enough.

She looked up when she sensed the presence in the doorway. Adramelech stood there with his phone against his face, looking astonished. He was wearing a shade of eyeshadow Sylvia had never seen before, an electric blue that stood out vividly on his brown skin.

That wasn’t good. Going out and buying new makeup was usually what Adramelech did when he was feeling really awful.

“Botis, I’ll call you back,” Adramelech said, then hung up his phone.

“Hi,” said Sylvia tentatively.

“Wh-where have you been?” said Adramelech, sounding like he was on the verge of blubbering.

Sylvia stuck her hands in her pockets, kicking a rock with her foot. “I…Ah…had something I needed to do…with Maltha.”

“That,” said Adramelech. “When I heard what had happened, I had my suspicions, but I didn’t think you’d actually…”

“So you…ah…heard about it, then?” said Sylvia sheepishly.

“It was very brave,” said Adramelech woodenly.

Sylvia sighed. “Come on, Adra, I know that’s not what you want to say about it.”

Adramelech’s lip quivered, then he howled, “I was so worried about you! Why didn’t you tell me where you had gone?”

“Maltha insisted we keep it under wraps,” said Sylvia. “It was of the utmost importance all our activities be kept secret. It would have been a disaster if word had gotten out beforehand.”

Adramelech wiped his face.

“You’re smudging your makeup,” said Sylvia.

“Oh, so I am,” said Adramelech with a sniffle.

“I see you finally managed to find a shade that matches your wings.”

He crossed his arms. “So what happened, Sylvia? Everyone in creation knows about the attack on Heaven by now, but nobody can seem to figure out what went wrong.”

“Maltha pulled out,” said Sylvia. “Nobody can figure out why. She was really spooked. Some of the other angels are angry at her for pulling the plug early. Personally I’m more scared of whatever could scare her so bad, and I’m glad she pulled us out.”

Their dog, who had been circling around in the yard, came back and jumped on Sylvia again.

“Can I come in instead of standing on the stoop?” said Sylvia hesitantly.

Adramelech sighed and drew the door open fully. Sylvia hung her coat on the hook and kicked her shoes off.

“Adra, this place is a mess,” she tutted as she came in. “Now I have to clean this all up.”

She turned back to see that Adramelech was still hugging his arms to himself by the door. His mascara had smudged.

Sylvia sighed and went over to him. “Come on, you big baby. I was only gone for a little bit. Were you really that worried about me?”

“Of course I was,” he snapped. “Don’t act like it’s my fault somehow.”

“Okay,” said Sylvia. She reached down and took both of his hands in hers. “Adramelech, I’m sorry. I know it wasn’t fair to up and disappear on you like that, even for a good reason, and you must have been upset by it. I’m sorry. I’m back now, and I’ll keep you in the loop from now on. Okay?”

He nodded.

“Now, how about we have a nice cuppa, hm? I’ll even use that wretched coffee machine that you’re so wild about.”

“Actually, now that you’re back, I was hoping you could help me with something.” He produced a piece of infernal parchment.

“What’s that?”

“Maltha’s looking for Angelo. Apparently he’s missing. I’m sure Michael—or whatever his name is now—really misses him. And I think I know where he might be. Will you help me go look for him?”

Sylvia smiled at him. “I’m glad to back. I’ll do anything with you.”

It took some searching, but they did find Angelo eventually. He was sulking under an apple tree in a certain spot with his head buried in his knees.

Adramelech, who had been perching in the tree above him, flapped down but bungled the landing, falling face-first into the dirt. Sylvia descended a bit more gracefully. Angelo looked up at the two of them with apprehension.

After Adramelech had righted himself and dusted himself off, he squatted next to the angel. “Been quite a while since we’ve been here, hasn’t it? Millennia.”

“Go away, you accursed bird,” said Angelo miserably.

“Hah,” said Adramelech, giving him a little punch on the arm. “Sorry, that won’t work this time. At least you remembered I’m not a chicken this time though, right?”

“Angelo, everyone’s looking for you,” said Sylvia.

Angelo hugged more tightly to himself. “I’m a coward. I ran as soon as Michael left.”

“You’re not a coward. No one should have expected you to stay in Hell by yourself.”

“I ran and even when Michael came back I was still too afraid to go to him.”

“You can go now,” said Adramelech, touching his shoulder gently. “We can escort you down. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’ll make sure you get there safely.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Angelo.

Adramelech sighed and plopped down. “He’s not going to be that different, Angelo. You might actually like him better now.”

“I’m so afraid,” said Angelo. “I’m so afraid that I’ve lost him. I can’t even think about the possibility. I don’t even want to go find out. What if…what if I don’t love him anymore? What if he doesn’t love me anymore? Can an angel and a demon really do that? Can a little clerical angel like me really be with an archdemon?”

“Angelo,” said Adramelech. “What do you think we’ve all been doing? Me and Sylvia care for each other. Aziraphale and Crowley care for each other. Why do you think you and Michael won’t be able to do it?”

“I’m just so scared it won’t work out like that,” said Angelo. “And then what happens?”

“Come on, get up,” said Sylvia grabbing his arm. “What kind of talk is that? Michael is alone in Hell right now and he needs your help. He’s always been there for you, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need to do the same! You can’t just mope around being afraid of what might happen.”

“Some things you can’t hide from,” said Adramelech. “You need to just give it a try.”

Angelo sighed, looking worried. But he looked up and made eye contact for the first time. “You said you would escort me down?”

They handed Angelo off to Maltha in limbo. Maltha offered to give Adramelech a promotion for his good work. He politely declined, saying he thought promotions in Hell were just for show. Maltha was a bit surprised at this, because she also thought they were just for show, but she had thought everything Adramelech did was for show and therefore he would love it. Maltha offered to make Sylvia an honourary demon solely for the sake of also offering her a promotion, but she also politely declined.

The pair went back up to Earth, and Maltha took Angelo down further into Hell.

“How are you doing, Angelo?” Maltha asked him.

“I’m fine,” he answered shame-facedly. “I just hid while everyone else risked their lives.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and Maltha circled around to stand in front of him. “Angelo. Come on.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m not fine. I’m scared as Hell. I’m scared this won’t go anything at all like I imagine it, and my best friend of six-thousand years is gone.”

She squeezed his shoulder. “It doesn’t change you as much you think, Angelo. Falling. You’ll get him back. There will be differences you’ll have to work out over time, but he’s still in there. Which is more than we can say for his original fate.”

Angelo looked away. “I know. I suppose I should thank you. You didn’t have to risk yourself to save him, but you did anyway.”

“Angelo, do you remember when I diagnosed Michael, you demanded to know why I’d want to help him?”

“Yeah. You were enemies. It didn’t make sense.”

“I am a doctor, Angelo,” she said, eyes sparkling. “I’ve always been a doctor. It’s what I love to do most.”

A demonic figure hobbled towards them as they spoke. Maltha sighed and turned away from Angelo to face the newcomer.

Duke Jezebel stood in front of them, looking haggard and beaten. “You.”

She had definitely seen better days. Her injuries inflicted by Mammon had begun to fester, and the fresh ones overtop of them from Botis looked infected. Not even Angelo found Jezebel frightening in this state.

“Jezebel,” said Maltha pitifully.

Angry, indignant, Jezebel slowly lowered herself down to one knee in front of Maltha, bowing her head.

Maltha smiled, putting a hand on her head. “There. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“I beg of your mercy,” said Jezebel. “Otherwise I will be dead within a week.”

“Of course,” said Maltha. “Just one thing first. I want you to apologise to Angelo here.”

Her eyes shifted over to Angelo. “Him?”

“You threatened him on the way down.”

“For which I have already been punished.”

“Just two little words, Jezebel. That’s all.”

“But he is an angel!” Jezebel said. “And not even a powerful one! He’s not important! He’s nothing!”

“He is my friend,” said Maltha. “And a very brave angel, and if you think you can get out of this with your lordly dignity intact, you’re wrong. Either apologise to him, or go die of your wounds. It’s that simple.”

Grudgingly, Jezebel bowed her head to Angelo. “I’m sorry.”

“There,” said Maltha. “Thank you. Go wait for me in the infirmary. I’ll meet you down there after I see Angelo off.”

Jezebel rose and limped away.

When she was out of sight, Angelo said tentatively, “Maltha, do you…really consider me your friend?”

“Perhaps that was a bit presumptuous of me,” said Maltha. “But I’d love to have your friendship, if you’ll give it to me.”

Angelo refused to meet her eyes. “I’m not brave.”

“Look at me.”

He did.

“You came into Hell without Michael, to face demons you knew could crush you, to supplicate to the ruler of Hell, just for a chance to get near Michael to help him. That is incredibly brave.”

Angelo flushed.

“Bravery isn’t not having fear, Angelo. It’s facing your fears. Which you’re doing right now. Now, I need you to do something for me. I have an important job for you.”

“Okay…what’s that?”

“Mykas is going to want to go up to Earth as soon as he can. And I want to let him roam free to his heart’s content. I need someone to keep an eye on him. Just watch him, make sure he behaves himself, doesn’t hurt anyone, and report back to me if he starts showing symptoms again. Can I count on you?”

Angelo nodded unsurely. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

“Then let’s go,” said Maltha. “I’m sure he’s eager to see you.”

A few layers down, Mykas was having a worse time than Angelo.

“Come on,” said Beth. “I’m positive you can do it. Just keep trying.”

“Show him again,” said Kyleth.

Botis took his boots off. “Okay. Are you watching?”

Mykas nodded vigorously.

Botis’s shape wavered, and after a second, there was a huge, fat walrus standing where he had been.

“See, nothing to it!” said Kyleth, gesturing to Botis grandly. “Easy as pie!”

“There you have it!” said Beth, joining Kyleth. “At this point even I could do it!”

“Try it again, sir, I’m sure you’ll get it eventually,” said the walrus with Botis’s voice.

Mammon, lurking in the background like a babysitter, gave a low of encouragement.

Mykas strained and growled, but could not force his shape to change in the slightest. Botis shifted back and forth between his human and bestial forms to try and encourage him, to no success.

“It’s no use,” said Mykas, plopping down on his rump. “I’m going to be stuck like this forever. Not that it makes much difference.”

“Aw, don’t say that, sir,” said Botis. “You can’t go up to Earth looking like that! You just need to master one form that won’t alarm the humans. It doesn’t have to be both!”

“It is not uncommon for demons to struggle controlling their form,” said Mammon.

“Is that why you stay like that instead of human form?” said Beth.

Mammon flared her nostrils. “…No. I was merely giving Mykas some encouragement that he is in good company.”

“You’re a dog of some sort, I’m positive,” said Beth. “Try that. It might be easier than trying to shift all the way to human. You’re…mostly there already.”

Mykas looked at them with watery eyes. Then, his ears perked up as he saw someone walking towards them behind Botis and Kyleth.

“Angelo?” said Mykas, getting to his feet and trotting over. “Angelo? Angelo?”

“Hi,” said Angelo.

Mykas started forwards with arms open, then stopped, wringing his hands. “Angelo, I… Well, I don’t want us to be together if you’re afraid of me. I know I’m—Well, I know with everything that’s happened—”

“I’m not afraid of you, you big dope,” said Angelo tearfully. “I’m afraid of losing you. That’s exactly something you would say. God, does that sound just like you.”

Mykas dashed forwards, nearly knocking Angelo over in his haste to embrace him. But the archdemon tempered his enthusiasm, enough that his arms came around the small angel with enough gentleness that he was merely squeezed.

“I’m so glad you came down to see me,” said Mykas.

“I’m glad I did, too,” said Angelo.

“Hey, look, you did it!” said Kyleth.

Mykas withdrew and looked down at his body, which was now almost entirely human.

“Hey!” he said, with a smile that still had just too many sharp teeth. “Hey!”

He scooped Angelo up and twirled him. Angelo laughed, trying not to cry.

“This is great,” said Mykas. “Great…”

“You know,” said Angelo. “I’ve been thinking, and I know I didn’t like it at first, but the Earth has been growing on me. I don’t think it’d be so bad if I was there with…with someone that I loved.”

Mykas no longer had a tail, but if he did, it would have been wagging. In the background, Beth snuck in a few more of all the kisses she had lost from Maltha.

It took five days of searching, two of which were spent tracking down a demon named Ritze, to find the demon Yulera. She was very well hidden. She was also very well fortified. Her hideout had been protected with a smattering of anti-demon sigils, so Aziraphale eventually had to be the one to go in while Crowley waited outside. Aziraphale was the less skilled of the two at negotiation, so it was difficult to convince her to come out with just him and Crowley yelling an occasional addition down the mouth of the entryway. This was doubly true after Aziraphale recognised the book on her shelf, and demanded to know how she had gotten his copy of the Key of Solomon.

“Just let her keep it!” Crowley shouted. “I’m sure you can find another one! She’s making better use of it than you are!”

“But this one is signed by the author!”

Eventually they coaxed her out, but their progress was all erased when Yulera saw that Crowley was the same demon she had confronted in the first layer and ran back in, convinced he was going to retaliate.

“I didn’t mean it!” she yelled out. “I could never kill anyone! I’m too much of a coward! Now leave me alone!”

A few more hours of pushing and pulling, and they convinced her to come out again. Their progress was all erased a third time when she found out Kabata was dead and ran back inside, crying.

They left her alone and came back the next day, spending several more hours to successfully coax her out again.

She stood in the entryway of her tunnel, arms crossed. “What exactly is it you two want?”

“We want you to come up to Earth with us,” said Crowley.

“Why would I do that!”

“Kabata said you would like it,” said Crowley.

“And you killed him!” said Yulera.

Aziraphale laughed. “We didn’t kill him! Oh my Heavens.”

Yulera glared at him.

“He was a terrible person, you know. Kabata.”

“He was the only one who ever gave me courage!” Yulera yelled. “Why did you come all the way down here just to speak ill of him to my face?”

“We came down here to fulfill his last request,” said Crowley. “Which you’re…you know, not being very helpful with.”

“You could be tricking me!” said Yulera. “How do I know you ever even talked to him?”

“His favourite was the cockatrice,” said Crowley.

Yulera blinked at him.

“Out of the bestiary. His favourite was the cockatrice.”

Yulera burst into tears. “It would be the cockatrice. Of course it was the cockatrice.”

“Oh my word,” said Crowley.

Yulera collapsed to her knees, crying. “He’s gone! I’ll never see him again! What did I do to deserve this?”

Aziraphale snuck past her and slipped into her hideout. She turned around, tears drying instantly. “Hey! What are you doing in there?”

She ran in to follow him. Crowley heard the sounds of a scuffle. And then a second later, Aziraphale’s footsteps pounded back up the exit, and he heard the angel shout, “Crowley, catch!”

He held his hands out just in time to catch the Key of Solomon as Aziraphale chucked it at him.

“That’s mine!” Yulera yelled. “Kabata gave it to me! Give it back!”

Aziraphale charged out full speed, Yulera right behind him. Remembering what Yulera had done to him earlier, Crowley saw the fire in her eye and said, “Oh shit.”

“Run!” said Aziraphale, pushing him. “Let’s go!”

All three of them pulled their wings out, and the chase was on.

Crowley tossed the book back to Aziraphale when Yulera threatened to reach him, and she darted towards the angel to try and pluck it from his hands, but he tossed it back to Crowley over her head.

“Give it back!”

Yulera chased them all the way up to limbo, where Crowley handed the book off to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale pumped his wings to get up to the exit of Hell.

Yulera folded her wings in and looked up at the cavern ceiling forlornly. Crowley, still hovering by the exit, shouted down to her, “Come on, don’t you want to catch up?”

“Give it back!” she said. “It’s all I have left of him!”

“Come up here and take it back!”

“I can’t go up there,” said Yulera, crying again. “It’s too scary.”

“Oh, bollox,” said Crowley. “Nothing up here is half as scary as the first circle of Hell, and you braved that perfectly fine.”

He flew up into the ceiling, disappearing. Yulera watched him go unsurely.

Crowley popped his head out from the ground, dragging himself up out of the exit to Hell. Aziraphale was still waiting nearby, the book in his hands.

Crowley looked at the scene. They were on a grassy hill, filled to the brim with beautiful flowers of every kind, rolling under a gentle breeze as far as the eye could see. They stretched all the way up to a mountain in the distance that rose to pierce the sky, majestic clouds drifting around the top.

“Oh, yeah,” said Crowley. “This’ll do it.”

Yulera’s upper body appeared from the hole in the ground, blinking in the bright light, peeking out like a groundhog.

“Well?” said Crowley.

Yulera pulled herself up and out of the hole, crawling forward in the grass. She looked around at the flowers, the mountain, the blue sky, absolutely dumbfounded.

“How do you like it?” said Crowley.

She just stared at the grass, turning over a flower in her hand. A tear dripped down from her eye. “This is…beautiful.” She looked up at them. “This was here the whole time?”

Crowley nodded.

Someone shouted in the distance. Aziraphale and Crowley turned to see a faint brown shape moving through the tall grass, tail stuck up like a shark fin. When it was close enough, it resolved into the shape of an enormous dog, bounding through the undergrowth with a mouthful of flowers, holding them like a bouquet.

The dog barreled into Aziraphale full speed, knocking him over. Yulera seemed startled and backed away, but did not retreat back down to Hell.

“Aziraphale,” said a muffled voice from the dog’s mouth, and it dropped the flowers. “I picked these for you.”

“M-Mykas?” said Aziraphale.

The dog’s tail wagged furiously, its mouth panting open and its tongue lolling. “Yeah!”

“Er…” Aziraphale gave him a scratch behind the ear. “Nice to see you. Can you let me up, please?”

“Sorry.”

The dog removed its bulk from him, circling around. Angelo appeared a ways off, slogging through the weeds, waving to them, looking tired.

“He’s coming,” said Mykas, laying down and flattening a patch of grass. “He just has a hard time keeping up.”

Angelo paused his advance, his hands on his knees.

“You okay?” Mykas shouted to him.

Angelo gave a distant thumbs-up. “Just takes a bit of getting used to!” he yelled back.

Mykas rolled around in the grass, getting petals and clumps of green stuck all in his fur, letting out satisfied sounds.

Yulera had not moved. She was still sitting on her knees. Perhaps feeling soft grass on her skin for the first time was too much for her.

Crowley got down and sat cross-legged, watching Mykas indulge himself, stretching and running about in the vegetation. “You know, Aziraphale, I’ve been thinking about Raphael’s offer. And I think I’m going to turn it down.”

Aziraphale sat next to him, ripping grass up idly. “Why’s that?”

Crowley looked up at the sky. “There’s no reason I can’t rekindle my friendship with Ramial as a demon. Cralael was who I was before the fall, but…he’s gone now. There’s no sense in trying to get him back, to try and be who I used to be. This is who I am now. And I wouldn’t trade any of this for all of Heaven.”

Aziraphale leaned his head onto Crowley’s shoulder. “Likewise, my dear.”

Mykas, covered in grass and tail wagging, sat at Aziraphale’s feet, looking at Yulera. “Who’s this?”

“She’s just experiencing Earth for the first time,” said Aziraphale, not really answering him.

Mykas trotted over and tucked a flower into her hair. “Welcome to Earth,” he said.

Yulera finally stood, facing away from them, looking towards the distance, the mountain and the sky and the soaring space, how it was somehow both empty but so full at the same time, the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. Her heart was filled with a love that she had never felt before. And she went forwards, almost falling over the unfamiliar terrain, off into this brand new world filled with so many amazing things waiting for anyone who wanted to come see them.

If you want to imagine a future, imagine a wrathful queen, finally pacified in the arms of her lover. Imagine an abused little boy...no, a prince…no, imagine a king, a ruler who governs with such grace and wisdom that even the beasts locked away in the pits of Hell grow to love and respect him. Imagine two leaders finally learning to think for themselves after 6,000 years, discovering gentleness that had not previously been allowed. Imagine a warrior finally resting in the peace he had secretly desired since the beginning of time. Imagine a world where free will is the rule of law, one created to be someone’s toy now left to its own devices to heal. Imagine two beings, lovers and best friends, hand in hand in a park with a duck pond, fear fading with the realisation that they are safe, truly safe and free, in a universe of their own. And imagine that planet, spinning on and on of its own accord, forever.

『 THE END 』

#good omens #my writing #my good omens fanfic

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illuminating-dragons · 7 years ago

Text

White Picket Fences

Summary: The incredibly fluffy (seriously it's pretty much pure fluff) conclusion to the series, where puppies, babies and love abounds.

Sequel to The Truth That Once Was Spoken and Just Deserts

Read it on AO3

It’s surprisingly easy to be in love.

Dean and Cas have their moments, of course—where Dean worries that he’ll never be good enough for Cas, when Cas wakes panting from nightmares of Zachariah’s torture. They cling together so tightly that there is inevitable friction, but they talk, now, about everything, and eventually those moments turn into seconds, rarer than blue moons.

Dean delves into the domestic with real relish, creating a home at the Bunker with Gabriel and Sam. Their friends come in and out, but no one has to hide there—Gabriel and Crowley reach a pact, of all people, and Heaven and Hell pretend that they’ve forgotten about Team Free Will. Which suits them just fine.

Cas learns a new life all over again, except this time he isn’t trading wings for driving but fear for comfort, loneliness for movie nights with his brother and his friends and constant worry for a happy ease in work and play with his lover.

And every night Cas curls into Dean’s arms and they hold each other. Sometimes they make love, sometimes not but they always fall asleep in each other’s strong hold, their fingers intertwined as a promise. I won’t leave. I’m here. I love you.

One night—the new happiest night of Cas’ life—Dean’s finger bears a ring inscribed with that very promise in a delicate Enochian script. Dean jokes that it’s the first time he’s ever said yes to an angel, and the only time he ever wanted to.

Sam is thrilled, Gabriel even more so. The only bachelor party either of them throw is a long drive in Baby to the motel where Cas and Dean got together, and a night of ‘home videos’ which were never filmed that show Cas and Dean’s story from the beginning. There’s licorice and popcorn, and a peanut butter and banana sandwich for Sam to stop the bickering.

It takes some doing, but the wedding is held exactly where it should be: the Roadhouse, at Ash’s invitation. Dean’s father-in-law (Dean still can’t remember when he signed up to being the Creator’s in-law) had a quick chat with an old friend, who comes to the wedding himself with a pizza. Thanks to that chat, their whole family is there, guests from Purgatory and Earth and Heaven…and even one blonde lady that shows up the night before the ceremony. It’s a good thing she did, because both Dean and Sam break down when they see their mom again, and Dean didn’t want to cry at his wedding.

When he and Cas step up in front of Gabriel together, and Sam hands Dean the rings, he cries anyways. When the vows are said and they are wearing their rings, Cas kisses the tears away.

Then there’s gifts, and dancing and laughing, and then an announcement from the back that anyone at the wedding who would like to visit the Bunker, short- or long term, is welcome. Cas doesn’t understand. Not at first. Then he sees tears rolling down his husband’s cheeks as he clings to his family—the family that will be coming back with them—and for a minute he feels his Father’s love more strongly than ever.

When they’re almost ready to go on honeymoon (the beach for a week, then to the Grand Canyon), Gabriel pulls Cas aside for a moment.

“Here’s your gift, little brother.” Gabriel’s eyes are unusually serious. It’s a blank card. Cas doesn’t understand.

“It’s good for two uses,” Gabriel says. “If you want more, we can negotiate, but I thought we’d start small.”

Cas hugs his brother to thank him, although he doesn’t entirely get it.

Two years pass. Cas and Dean move out of the Bunker into a small house nearby. Dean gets a job as a mechanic, his past cleared from the record, and Cas learns to keep bees. They have honey on their toast and go on hunts only when necessary.

They have their family, they have each other, they have their health and they are happy.

Then Cas has an idea.

Dean is hesitant at first, John Winchester’s shadow still looming over his head, but Cas reminds him of Bobby, of Sam and Claire, and Dean agrees. They start talking about how to do it, about adoption and surrogates. Cas never knew how complicated this was.

Then he gets it.

He finds the card from Gabriel tucked in their wedding album. It’s no longer blank. All it says is Boy or Girl?

Dean calls Gabriel immediately, and after a few minutes of intense discussion Cas and Dean decide to let it be Gabriel’s decision. Gabriel promises that the baby will be a soul rescued from a difficult life, and will be theirs wholly.

Nine months later, Gabriel appears in their nursery with a tiny baby girl in his arms with blue eyes that will turn green and fuzzy black hair, and Cas realizes he’s found a new happiest night. They don’t sleep that night, even though Mary Jo does. They sit together in the rocking chair and watch their daughter breathe.

Mary Jo is bright in every sense of the word—intelligent, happy and good. Her wings take years to develop, but that doesn’t stop her from trying to fly. Cas takes her up to Heaven every so often to help her practice, and after much pleading on Mary Jo’s part Dean allows Cas to show him how it feels to fly. He still doesn’t like airplanes, but coasting above the Grand Canyon with his husband’s arm around his waist and his daughter’s delighted laughter in his ear is enough to make him smile.

When Mary Jo is four, she asks for a brother for Christmas. She asks in October, which isn’t much time, but Gabriel brings over a bee blanket and a new crib, Sam behind him with one of their puppies and a baby boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. Dean wants to name him after Bobby and Sam, and Cas agrees, but shoots down ‘Sammy Bobby’ in favour of Bobby Sam. They only ever call their son Bee anyways.

With two children and a Bichon Frise named Balthazar (his namesake is less than thrilled), there’s less time for worrying about themselves. They play and teach and try their best to keep their children from fearing the darkness in the world, which still rears its ugly head every once in a while. Cas especially fears for Mary, the only one who figured in his torture.

Dean keeps reassuring him, telling him that their house is as safe as the Bunker, that no one alive dares mess with them, and that their babies will grow up happy and healthy. Cas does his best to believe him.

They are both still profoundly relieved when Bee turns seven months old.

Sam never imagined feeling this safe.

Ever since that fateful Christmas Eve when Dean confirmed the stories in Dad’s journal, Sam has felt threatened. No matter how good he became at defending himself, there was always the possibility of a mistake, of someone he loved getting hurt. Of failing.

Now both he and his brother have angels watching over them, and Sam lets himself relax.

It’s easy to do with Gabriel, who helps him with translating the Bunker’s library primarily to have an excuse to drag him to bed more often. Gabriel’s waited years to have this love, spent centuries without a family, and he’s not about to let ‘research’ get in the way of more interesting activities.

(On the other hand, they both enjoy quiet rainy afternoons where they read out loud to each other, everything from Harry Potter to ancient Asgardian gossip rags).

While Dean and Cas begin to pull away from the day-to-day of hunting, particularly as their wedding approaches, Sam dives in with renewed vigour. Now with a divine promise that the Men of Letters won’t die out, he sets about expanding it. He, Kevin and Charlie work on reaching out to Legacy families, creating databases and networks among hunters and civilians alike. Jody and Donna are instrumental in this effort, and it takes less time than Sam can really believe to have a semblance of order in the hunter community. Not everyone trusts them (and fewer like them), but the phones ring through the day and the database gets added to constantly and Sam feels proud when he closes the large catalogue he started working on when they first got to the Bunker, their inventory complete.

Dean and Cas come over every so often, and soon they begin to talk about marriage. Sam’s delighted and stands by his brother’s side when ‘Destiel becomes canon’ (as Charlie wrote on the cake). But as their family and friends stand around them, Sam finds himself wishing for the first time in years that he could wear a ring too. But Gabriel doesn’t seem to be into getting married at all.

Sam doesn’t ask, and Gabriel doesn’t bring it up. Dean (because of course it’s Dean who doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut) asks about six months after his wedding when he’s going to get to put on a tux and be Sam’s best man.

Gabriel makes a joke out of it and suggests getting married in Vegas during ‘Vegas week’. Sam doesn’t say anything for the rest of the night, but he forgot that Gabriel could hear his thoughts loud and clear, could feel the hurt—if their relationship was just a joke then it was probably better not to get married, and anyways, why would an archangel want to be tied to someone like him forever?

The next morning Sam wakes up to a small puppy nuzzling his face. She looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and a Newfoundland dog, but she fits in the palm of his hand. Gabriel explains that he couldn’t pick one dog at the shelter so he chose all of them, settling them into one dog that will live as long as Sam does. The puppy’s wearing a soft yellow collar with a diamond ring attached.

Sam names the puppy Ruff. And he says yes.

Their wedding’s a bit more raucous than Dean and Cas’, mostly due to the Asgardian guests’ shenanigans. But everyone seems to have a good time, no one dies and Sam doesn’t even get mad when he realizes that every song on the playlist for a solid three hours has the word ‘angel’ in it. Dean claims it was Cas, Cas blames Dean. (It was Adam’s idea).

When the wedding is over, Chuck takes Sam aside. He doesn’t speak, but he places his hand on Sam’s head and Sam feels a lightness in his body that he’d lost years ago. The damage of the Cage, the wounds that even Gabriel’s love couldn’t heal, are gone.

Ruff grows up fast, and by the time their anniversary rolls around she’s up to Sam’s waist. She’s a wonderful hunting dog, Sam’s constant companion on runs and a great cuddler. She and Arthur, Gabriel’s terrier, act as a wonderful go-between when Sam and Gabriel have one of their rare but inevitable clashes, silently convincing the guilty party to apologize and the angry party to forgive.

Dean and Cas decide to have a child right around the time they realize that Ruff is going to have puppies. As Gabriel cocoons the future Mary Jo’s soul in his Grace, he rubs Ruff’s belly and asks Sam if he ever wants to have kids.

Once upon a time, the answer would have been ‘yes’, but honestly with most of their family in the Bunker and Dean and Cas down the road about to have a child and Ruff and Arthur and the coming puppies…Sam feels like his life is full enough. He and Gabriel have built a family, and it doesn’t have to involve children of their own. He does ask if Gabriel—well, Loki’s—kids are real.

That’s how he ends up meeting two wolves, a snake, a goddess that reminds him of the few good parts of Lucifer he ever saw, and a mare. (The last one was a joke, because Gabriel wanted to test exactly what Sam believed of him.) They threaten Sam and then accept him as a ‘Stair-Dad’ (Sam’s afraid to correct Fenrir, who thought this one up—Gabriel’s very proud).

Ruff’s puppies take longer (“they’re divinely enchanted puppies, Sam, they’re fine”) and gives birth to fifteen puppies of various kinds. Sam names the Dalmatian Pongo. He’s no longer allowed to name the puppies. Ruff has two more litters in the next three years, eight in the first and six in the second, and then calls it quits (according to Gabriel).

When the puppies get older, some go to hunters as trained companions, some stick around the Bunker, and a Bichon Frise is Mary Jo’s Christmas present the same year that Bee is born. Sam loves the name she chooses.

Sam never imagined feeling this safe, and now with his dogs, his husband, his work and his family, all close by, all as safe as they can be in the world they live in…he never imagined feeling this happy, either.

Dean cradles his son close, pressing a quick kiss to Bee’s forehead before he lays him in his cradle. “Goodnight, buddy,” he whispers to the slumbering baby. Bee will be two this Christmas. Dean can’t quite believe it.

Tiptoeing out of the room, he walks down the hall to stand outside Mary Jo’s room. It’s Cas’ turn to read to her tonight, and Dean just listens to his husband read the same old Narnia book he read to Sam all those years ago. They’re nearly finished; the battle is won, and the children are being crowned.

The story stops and the light goes out. Dean comes in to see Cas pressing a gentle kiss to Mary Jo’s cheek as she winds sleepy arms around his neck. Dean sits on the other side of the bed and tucks their daughter in, giving her the stuffed cat she refuses to name to cuddle. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he whispers, and kisses her forehead.

“Goodnight, Daddy.”

Those words—the ones he didn’t get to say after he turned five, the ones he hopes Mary Jo will never stop saying—still make his throat constrict. He strokes her hair, then stands and takes Cas’ hand.

They leave the room, closing the door tightly behind them (Mary Jo hates the hall light that Bee needs). In the dim light Dean can see worry in Cas’ face, a remembered pain. Dean kisses his husband, holds him tight until Cas stops shaking. He doesn’t have to ask. All he can really do is hold Cas close, change the memory where he can. There are demon traps at every entrance for a reason.

When they get back to their room Dean’s phone is buzzing. It’s Sam.

“Hey Sam, why are you calling so late?”

“Dean, it’s eight.”

Dean glances at the clock. “What do you know?”

Sam laughs. “I just wanted to double-check the time for tomorrow; Gabriel told Fen and Hel everything except the actual time, and he’s insisting I got it wrong.”

“You do have it wrong, Samshine!” Gabriel, from the other end. Dean shakes his head.

“Come by around two, that goes for all the guests.”

“Ha!” Sam covers the phone, but Dean has to work hard not to hear what Sam gets for being right.

“Dude, too much information.”

“Sorry.” Dean rolls his eyes; Sam’s married and he still blushes about sex stuff sometimes.

“Don’t forget to bring Ruff,” he remembers. “Bee’s still too little for Fen’s rides.”

“Gotcha.”

“Oh, fair warning. We got Mary Jo a braiding kit for her birthday. And guess who she’ll want to try it on?”

Sam sighs, but Dean knows his brother loves playing with his niece. “Do I have to?”

Dean chuckles. “Goodnight, Sam.” He hangs up and puts the phone on his night table. Cas is already in bed, and Dean slides under the covers. It might only be eight, but they’re hosting a six year old’s birthday party the next day. And Mary Jo’s an early riser; she’s up before dawn on a normal day.

Cas lays his head on Dean’s chest, his earlier fear forgotten, and Dean wraps his arms around him. He does a quick check in his head—Bee and Mary are asleep in their room, Sam and Gabe are fine, he’s gotten texts and calls all day from everyone else, checking in or chatting. His family is safe, happy, and he’s happy too.

It’s an almost daily truth now, but it’s the greatest miracle that Dean’s ever witnessed, and he’s profoundly grateful that it bears repeating.

#supernatural fanfiction #destiel #sabriel #acme146 fanfiction #crosspost #spn fanfiction

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lucifer-gift-exchange · 8 years ago

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Fic: Adversary, Defeated (Deckerstar)

to @ghostofstartraveller776 / from @tmellis

Hope you like it! This manages to check of apocalypse vibes, p l e n t y of angst. Warning for character death.

made for round 1 of the @lucifer-gift-exchange

Even when she was old and clinging to the tattered shreds of her mind, Chloe Decker was always going to remember the day they placed that screaming baby in her arms for the first time.

She would always remember the rush - she’d been so tired after that one last push, she was convinced she’d never be strong enough to hold her daughter up. But as soon as her little baby was in her arms, Chloe had pushed her past the baby blanket and pressed the tips of her fingers to the baby’s chest. She was determined to feel that tiny fluttering pulse. As if she could hold her heart the way she held Chloe’s.

She would always remember her mother’s squalling voice after, when everyone who needed to be there pushed themselves into the hospital room and saw the family for the first time. Someone delivered the must be Dan’s latino side line for the tenth time in regards to the baby’s darker skin tone, which meant Dan tried to hide a wince for the tenth time, trying not to be bothered by the lowkey racism. (Everyone who needed to be there - please, everyone who her mother thought needed to be there.) Penelope Decker crowed on and on about her name is Faith, isn’t that lovely? Chloe, I never knew you were so spiritual. The couple’s eyes lifted from their daughter, meeting with the same look of pure spite.

She would always remember how it felt to sign the paperwork. Dan had been dozing off in the corner beside the baby’s hospital bed - and Chloe had been so tired too, she knew he was just as exhausted as he was. She wanted to let him catch a few hours before their life of parenting began. So she’d accepted the paperwork from the nurse. The man was terribly nice too, offering to stay and quietly help her write down all the right things. They’d laughed about how awful it would’ve been if she managed to spell something wrong. She’d remarked about how fancy his pen was, scratching against the… the parchment… like an old quill… He didn’t even chastise her when she cut her thumb on the sharp edge, spilling a splash of blood over the Jane in Chloe Jane Decker… Never thinking that she was signing her daughter away to the Fates to string her into their ultimate narrative.

She would always remember the day Beatrice Espinoza came into her life. And if she ever forgot… well, then she would always have this. That beautiful baby ’s face, now a girl’s, a beautiful baby girl, contorted in pain, confusion. How could this happen? That was the question big brown eyes asked her. How could her mummy, sworn to protect her forever and ever, not have stopped this? Chloe touched the spot over Trixie’s heart, trying to hold back her tears.

“Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, I’m - I’m gonna fix this. Mommy’s gonna fix this, and you’re gonna be okay, you’re gonna be so okay, I’m sorry, I’m-” She had to be strong, for her baby. She had to be strong because Trixie was hurt and looking to her for her promises. Mommy promised it was going ot be okay, and therefore it had to be. But there was a lot of blood, and Chloe’s rational logic was slipping further and further from her reach. She swallowed back the lump in her throat, pawing a little uselessly to smooth Trixie’s hair back.

This was her fault. All this time, they thought it was something to do with her. It’d never been about her. It had been about Trixie. Of course. Of course. The daughter of a protector of justice and a miracle. Chloe’s gifts weren’t for her own sake. She was meant to be a shield, a shield for the next messiah… for the day the devil would come to claim her as his nemesis.

She didn’t protect her. Her God given duty in this life was to protect her daughter from Satan Incarnate, and she failed.

That was where the rage hit. It struck in the chest like a fist landing a punch, and flared into an incandescent fury. Eyes still glazed over from the tears, Chloe began to shake with anger. The debris that was scattered across the apartment floor cracked and shattered under his weight as he pulled himself to his feet, and slowly started forward again. There had been a blast after the blade had gone through Trixie’s side, powerful enough to knock him back… but they were out of time.

Lucifer was advancing once more, and Chloe met his hellfire eyes with a fire of her own.

“I’m going to kill you,” she promised, pulling her weak daughter closer, ignoring the way Trixie was struggling to breathe more and more. She only glared down the Beast as he stalked closer, that gleaming blade of Death still in his curled fingers. And, as he extended dark angel wings behind him to become bigger than he already was, he smirked. It cut deeper than any divine weapon could. He had smiled like that a thousand times before. It was that stupid smug little grin that came across his face when he was the one to solve a case, when he managed to get her to laugh at his jokes, when she actually admitted out loud, “Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought.”

She was going to be sick. Shaking, she pulled her hand to her belt, pulling her gun to point at him. It made him laugh.

“You think that’s going to stop me?” he taunted.

Chloe was never one for one-liners, one of the things she’d always hated about Lucifer, and she pulled the trigger. His head snapped to the side as the bullet caught his nose and tore through the flesh. A muscle in his neck twitched, tossing his entire head like a jolt of electricity had shot through him… and he slowly turned back, seemingly unfazed by the wound that made a hole in his skull. Lucifer’s jaw twitched back and forth, as if he had something stuck in his teeth - she watched the bullet pass into his mouth, and he spat it to the side.

“Close, but no dice, darling. That won’t work on me. Your nullification was meant to protect the next Bringer of Peace, but you’ve failed. Humanity. You’re mine for the taking. The twisted tempted. I just can’t believe it took so long!” he laughed, as if pleasantly surprised. Clearing milking his victory for all its worth, “It took five years of waiting, but isn’t this worth it? Once the devil left his throne, it was all too easy. Did he not remember the first step to bringing about my apocalypse? When the devil walks in His kingdom again, the Horsemen will follow - and the End of Days shall begin. Of course-”

He tilted his head, pointing the blade at Trixie, who cowered into her mother’s side, “-that was all meant to make sure the Messiah looked really good when she came about to save the day, but I don’t have to worry about that now, do I? I can’t be stopped if the only person who can stop me rots.”

One of his wings lifted, in a surreal sort of shrug, “The villain wins. Evil prevails. If it’s any consolation, I’ll be sure to let your dearest Lucifer know you fought to the bitter end. On your knees, helpless, while the only person you ever cared for died in your arms.”

Did he not remember the first step to bringing about my apocalypse? Your dearest Lucifer. Chloe’s rage faltered - and realized why felt like she hardly recognized the creature before her. It was his demon eyes, his face, his body, but it wasn't him. Not Lucifer. Not her Lucifer. Teary eyes went wide - mouth open to find something to say, but there was nothing. It was too late.

The shadow of that man was hovering over her, wings spread as if in absolute ecstasy. He ordered her, “Close your eyes, mother, lest you want to watch your child die.”

“You’re gonna pay for this,” she promised him, “You’ll never win.”

“We’ll see how far victory takes me. With you and your little runt gone, it will take me all the way. But so be it.” The shadow raised Azrael’s blade, evil taking a gleam in his fire, “This kingdom is mine.”

Chloe moved to shield Trixie from the oncoming blade, when the sickening clash of metal grinding against metal thundered in her ears. It was like mountains coming alive and clashing together, it was so loud and so powerful-

Confused, she lifted her head, and saw that the blade had been stopped in its path by a long metal staff with a spiked ball at the end.

A morningstar.

Light flared in the room behind her, as bright as the sun (only closer), and Lucifer’s thinly concealed intensity rattled her to her bones. She twisted, looking above and behind her. There he was, Lucifer, glowing like the sun and the moon and the stars, brilliant white wings extended behind him as if prepared to launch himself forward. He bared his teeth, like an animal snarling at another. The shadow looked at him, took in the radiant light emitting from him, the wings that were supposed to have been cut from him so long ago, and he had the right mind to be afraid. Lucifer growled, and pushed the mace forward. It forced the shadow back, putting enough space between them that Lucifer could round around the Decker girls and stand between them and their adversary.

“Impossible,” the shadow tried to insist, “How did you-”

“Yes, sorry for the delay. Got caught up in traffic. A quartet of chaps on horses were holding up Sunset.” It sounded so much like him, that laissez-faire attitude, even in the face of his own darkness, that Chloe - despite everything - grinned. The sound prompted him to turn to glance at her, the sharp intense rage giving way to a more comforting look for her sake. As he turned back, he went on to her, “Hope I didn’t miss all the fun, darling. Not to worry-”

He swung the morningstar, testing the handle in his grip, “I’m sure I can keep up.”

“You’re too late,” the shadow hissed, trying to collect a semblance of his previous power, “I’ve already pierced her with Azrael’s blade. Soon enough, she’ll bleed out and die a true death - and not a soul in Heaven or Hell can save her.”

“We’re not in either, though, are we?” Lucifer barked, all levity gone in his tone. “No no, you’re here on Earth, with me. And I swear, Beatrice Decker is under my protection until I draw my last breath. You come for the Deckers, you’ll have to face me.”

“You’re not stronger than me. I am the Adversary. I am the King of Darkness. I am the devil in the flesh-” With those proclamations, the shadow charged forward, raising the blade to strike Lucifer down. But Lucifer parried the blow, twisting around and underneath the crossed weapons to throw the end of his morningstar into his half’s side, then with a quick adjustment of his grip on the handle, swung it back around to shatter the shadow’s wrist. The creature cried out, releasing the blade. Lucifer yanked the mace free of the broken bone, and finally brought it down on his half’s head.

The shadow fell to his knees, but did not die. It could not - made up of all the power of the dark, it was too powerful. As long as evil existed, so would it. But Lucifer seemed to expect it. He removed the morningstar, dropping to the side with the dagger, and he crouched to the other’s eye level.

“You are not any of those things, Samael. You are only a boy. A boy who wanted his father’s love, enough to kill for it.”

The shadow shuddered and shook, until the injuries on his flesh were gone - and only the child remained. Tear-stained and whimpering. Lucifer hushed him, setting a hand on his shoulder. When he did, the inky black feathers on the boy quivered, fluttering as they changed to the same pearl white of Lucifer’s wings.

“You are an angel of God. You are the light bringer - and therefore, the bringer of darkness. This, the apocalypse, was all your design. Plan B, in the face of the impossible future where you lost the war. The Horsemen were your toys, your childhood heroes. Your favourite sister, Azrael, was the most obvious. Death. Amenadiel, the relentless and inevitable doom, Pestilence. Uriel, starved for attention, was Famine, and the last… that which brought your destruction, War. Michael. Mere shades of the true angel. Just like you, Samael. My worst self. My darkness… and you’re only a lonely child. I feel sorry for you. I’m sorry you thought you could not love and be loved. You were so convinced of it, that there was no point in a world where there was no love, and so you set up your toys to burn the entire world down. But the day comes, Samael. The day comes when you meet a woman who makes you feel, and you will know meaning. She is everything. You’d give her the world if you could… and you know what? You will.”

The child, Samael, let out a strangled choke. Pained, he looked down to his chest, where Lucifer had pushed his hand into his chest. He whimpered, looking up at his other half.

“Please…” Samael cried.

Lucifer closed his eyes, and yanked the heart out of Samael. The child fell… dissipating into nothing by the time his body would’ve hit the ground. As he did, the light from Lucifer faded. The effect on him was immediate, his wings sagging until they dragged on the ground. Samael was gone, but the heart remained, heavy in his hands. His feathers were fading from their whites, as if the floor polluted their purity. Already, they were a molting gray.

Chloe hardly dared to breathe, wet eyes staring wide at the scene as she attempted to even begin to understand what had happened. The first to move out of all of them was Trixie, who lifted her weary head and asked quietly (too quietly), “Lucifer?”

He looked up then, and the detective saw that his face was stained with tears of his own. She let out a shaky exhale, just as Trixie opened up her arm to reach for him… and her hand fell.

“Trixie!” Both Chloe and Lucifer cried, and Lucifer was quick to move to their side. Lucifer took Trixie’s hand, all pretenses that he loathed the child gone. There wasn’t time for it.

“You’re gonna be okay, it’s okay, honey.”

“You’re going to be alright, spawn. Listen to your mother, and be okay. You have to be okay - you’re the Savior. You’re going to save the world, but you have to make it.”

Chloe looked back to where Samael had disappeared, “Lucifer… who was that?”

He swallowed, hard, trying to avoid her gaze. But after he made an audible gulp, he explained cautiously, “I… I’ve done a horrible thing. That was… that was me.”

“What?”

“I thought that if I could… if I could separate my darkness from my goodness, I could… I was trying to be enough. For you. Maybe for me too. I… I didn’t think of how stupid it could be, to unleash a truly evil devil upon the world, I didn’t think - and I never thought that Trixie was the one-” Whatever attempts Lucifer could have made to go on were stopped when he looked down at the young girl he’d hurt, the young girl who was dying because of him. He swallowed once more, and looked up to meet Chloe’s gaze. His voice warbled and croaked, “I’m so sorry. I… I don’t know how to… I don’t know how to stop this. Azrael’s blade is too powerful, you can’t just heal from it. Samael thought it was either him or her, and he… I was selfish. It was me, this is all my fault. Beatrice is dying at the End of Days. All the prophecies, they’ve always said, she would be my undoing…”

Lucifer stopped then, his face clearing. Chloe frowned at him, “Lucifer-?”

“No!” Trixie cried out, and whimpered through the pain. Whatever idea had come into his head, she saw it before Chloe did, and was actively protesting. But it didn’t stop Lucifer. He was suddenly moving away, pulling away to fetch the heart and the dagger. He returned, holding the blade up - for Trixie to take.

That was when it clicked for Chloe.

“Lucifer, no-”

“The Savior is a direct source of Dad’s will. It’s more than the magic your fairy tales preach about. It is creation. It’s faith, it’s love, it’s everything that was and is and will be. If Trixie takes my life before she dies, then perhaps it could save her life.”

“And what- what if it doesn’t? Then you’ll be dead. Lucifer, I’m already…” Chloe’s face contorted in pain as she started to sob, “I’m already losing her, I can’t lose you both-”

“Stubborn as ever, you can never just let me die, can you?” Lucifer retorted, but it wasn’t enough to coax a smile from his detective. He faltered - there was nothing in his expression to hide the fear, the pain. He shuffled closer, murmuring, “Trixie doesn’t have time for this. She’s dying, and it’s slow - the worst kind of death. It’s not right, it’s not her time. But if she strikes my heart, here, then it will be quick for me. And I’m… I’m old. Old enough that it shouldn’t be a quarrel. And maybe I deserve this.

“It is written, detective. Good triumphs over evil.” Lucifer opened his mouth, as if to go on, but was suddenly speechless. He lifted a shoulder to shrug at his uselessness - his wings shook, the gray steadily darkening with every passing second. His back bent a little more, as if there was a weight he couldn’t quite hold for much longer. The darkness was attempting to claim back its prince.

“Luci…”

Both adults looked down at the dying girl. Trixie’s breath was shallow now, weak little hiccups as she struggled to hold on. She looked up at them, shaking her head gently, “It’s… not your fault… I don’t blame you…”

“Shhh, baby, don’t talk. It’s gonna be okay.” Chloe cried, reaching to brush Trixie’s hair back.

Trixie turned to her, nuzzling her head against Chloe’s arm, “Mommy… I love…”

Her eyes fluttered shut, and stayed shut. Chloe’s eyes remained open, even though her baby wouldn’t open her eyes, not her baby, no-

“Chloe, please,” Lucifer implored. Chloe shook her head, clinging tighter to Trixie. He shuffled closer, his voice desperate, “Once upon a time, you and I stood on a beach and I told you the truth. It will be her, over everyone else. Over me. I know that it will always be her, I know that. If you change your mind about that now, then you are not the woman I fell in love with. Please. Please let me die in your daughter’s place.”

“N-no,” Chloe was sobbing, “Don’t make me choose.”

Lucifer placed the heart on the floor between the three of them, and reached for Trixie’s limp hand. He didn’t dare look away from Chloe, insisting wordlessly.

“Darling, please. It can’t be me. It has to be her, you have to guide her.”

Chloe sniffed, using her wrist to wipe at her cheeks in futile effort. As much as it hurt to realize, he was right. Of course, he was right. This was foretold. So it was written… She reached down, wrapping her hand around Trixie’s, fastening the grip of Azrael’s blade. Lucifer swallowed, looking as though he was finally realizing the gravity of the decision. But he was prepared - as frightened as he was, he was ready to sacrifice himself.

“I’ll find my way back,” he promised her - them, “If it takes an eternity, I’ll find my way back to the mortal plane.”

“You better. Or I’m coming to get you.” Chloe told him. Lucifer smiled then, and reached up to stroke her cheek.

“Detective,” he whispered.

She drove the blade down, and his hand fell. The Adversary was finally defeated.

And maybe, an eternity later, Trixie held open the doors of the abyss and let the two lovers who saved her find each other again.

#lucifer fox #deckerstar #lucifer morningstar #chloe decker #lucifergiftexchange #fanfic #submission #.round one

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salty-dracon · 6 years ago

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TMX- Epilogue

Grey and his fallen cohorts wake up in a strange land, with their celestial powers fading. They are discovered by a young boy and his sister.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. He fell.

The loss of light was like his loss of air.

He fell and fell.

And fell.

The light drew farther away. He held his hand out to reach it. The darkness bit his hand like frost. He hid it.

He hit the ground with a thud.

Grey’s body shot upright and he opened his eyes.

The first thing he felt was a dull pain in his back, and he collapsed back down. He observed his surroundings- he appeared to be lying in the center of a crater, feeling soil roll down onto his legs. The soil itself was black and granulated, almost like sand. The grass was a muted green.

I’m not dead?

Grey reached his hand out, attempting to stand up. His eyes widened as he realized that the color was fading from his hand. His skin was now a little bit duller.

He attempted to use his healing power on himself, but it only manifested as sparks.

He heard a woman’s groan. He recognized the voice. Typhon, of course. Wherever they had landed, she would most likely have survived. She did have the strongest constitution of them all.

Suddenly, a head appeared above the lip of the crater. “Sis!” the boy cried. His hair was blonde and fluffy. He appeared to be white. “Sis, there’s a man here!”

“I’m coming!“ an adult voice shouted.

Should I ask him for my help? Grey wondered. Let’s see. What do I want? Above all, I wish to return to Brooke. That will require returning to heaven. However, I do not know if these people will help me. It will be a risk, but assuming all seven of us have landed nearby, we can escape if things go wrong.

“Help.“ Grey attempted to reach his hand out. “Please, help.“

Footsteps approached from the distance. On the lip of the crater, A long-haired Vietnamese woman appeared. She was dressed in black armor and carried a staff. Behind her, a black crow followed.

“Venus, what is it?“ the woman asked. She glanced at the distance. “Venus, I told you to be careful! We can’t go touching strange objects, now!“

“Ky Lan, they’re fallen angels! They just fell! Look, there’s seven of them!“

“Well, you’re not wrong. Their powers are fading. We should harvest some of their hair while we’re here.“

They are evil, aren’t they?

“Please... don’t hurt us anymore... “ Grey croaked.

“Relax.“ The woman, apparently Ky Lan, approached him. “We’re just going to take a little. For research purposes. We’ll help you afterward.“ She pulled a set of scissors from a sack she was carrying and snipped a few locks of Grey’s hair off into a small bottle. After capping it with a cork, she helped him stand up.

“Where are we?“ Grey muttered.

“Izudia!“ the boy exclaimed.

“Calm down, Venus!“ Ky Lan laughed. “Well, angel, I guess you could say you’re someplace a long, long way from home. Are those your friends?“

Grey turned around. Not counting his own, there were six craters, each holding a member of his council.

All of them are with me. This is good... however, passage back to heaven will be difficult if they are just as willing as I to return. Perhaps it takes quite a bit of energy to return to heaven, but-

“You don’t care about them, do you?“

Grey’s eyes widened. He glanced down to see a second young boy, who looked slightly older than the first. The boy’s skin was so white it seemed like he had no blood in his body.

“Ares, that’s not nice.” Ky Lan gave a small frown before smiling at Grey. “We’ll help them. Can you tell Father that we need a cart?“

Ares walked away and pressed his fingers together. The next moment, Grey was hit with a blast of energy that knocked him out.

----------

A young Chinese woman gently washed the sweat from Grey’s face. His skin color was fading even more now, and his hair was beginning to lose its luster. He despised the feeling of the hand rubbing the cloth on his forehead. The only woman he would allow to touch him was Brooke.

He watched as the woman dumped the wet cloth into a plastic box and walked away with it.

“Oi, Shen!“

The woman turned around as the one named Ky Lan skipped past her. “Ky. How’s Father?”

“Busy. He’s trying to close off our section of the woods before the rest of the town gets wind of what’s going on. How are our angels?“

“Some better than others. A couple have fallen to the darkness rather quickly. But that one-“ Shen pointed to Grey- “has lasted quite a while.“

The others are dead? So the energy of this dimension really does kill the angels. Meaning I might be killed too soon. I can’t let that happen.

“You aren’t mourning them?“

Grey heard the sound of the young boy, Ares.

“They’re not dead. They’ve lost their powers. But you haven’t.”

“Ah,“ Grey muttered.

Can this boy read my mind?

“Don’t be scared of me.“

“Ares, you can’t just-“ Ky Lan skipped over to Grey and led the young boy away. “Come on!“

“Hao-shen, can you please explain to him?“ Ares asked.

“I’ll do my best.“ The young woman, Shen, sat down next to Grey as the other two walked away.

“Where am I?“ Grey whispered.

“You’re not in heaven. You’ve fallen.“ Shen closed her eyes. “There are many dimensions in the universe. You came from one- Heaven. Angels haven’t fallen from heaven in a few centuries. We don’t know why, but they slowed to a trickle. You and your friends are the first ones in about a hundred years.“

“Am I on Earth?“

“No. There exists a dimension above Earth, but below Heaven, which we call Laceron. That is where you are now.“

“Laceron... “

“It makes sense that you’ve never heard of it. Laceron is an anomaly of sorts. It’s a very small single plane. Its inhabitants are capable of traveling to both heaven and Earth.“

“You can go to heaven?“

“We haven’t been able to do so for a long time. We need the power of a pureblood to access it, and the last one died out a decade ago.“

“Pureblood?“

“Yes. A true fallen. My whole family- everyone in Laceron, really- are all Earthbloods. We were born on Earth, then brought here and corrupted by use of our parents’ magic, which is derived from the power of true fallens.“

“How do I get to heaven?”

“Well, you’re in luck.“ Shen smiled. “A pureblood is a true fallen- an angel who fell from heaven. The entire world is made of descendants of those that fell many years ago. The fact that you’re here means we can open the gate once more.“

“We can?“ Grey whispered. He thought of the others. “All of us?“

“I mean... yeah.“ Shen smiled awkwardly. “We’d rather not all of you leave- I mean, my father in particular would want one of you to marry into the family-“

“I can leave?“ Grey asked.

“Yes.“

“Take me to heaven. Now.“

“Now? But you’re injured.“

“There is someone I must return to.“

“I mean, there’s really nothing stopping you, but-“

“Shen, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.“ Shen turned around. Ky Lan was standing behind her, holding a book. Her once playful and teasing expression was now gravely serious. “Remember that prophecy that Slypher the Valiant spoke of many times?“

“Of course.“ Shen closed her eyes and recited a few words. “Seven sinners from the sky shall tear the clouds asunder.“ She opened her eyes. “Wait, you don’t mean-“

“Just why did you fall?“ Ky Lan asked Grey. “Just why were you cast out? What was your sin?“

The curse of seven follows me, even as I am cast out from heaven. Just in case that strange boy is nearby, I think I should be honest.

“My sin was killing my Earth sister and causing her to enter heaven. There was a prophecy in heaven, as well. Seven humans, cursed by the ones who loved them most, shall change the face of heaven. I was one of those who cursed my soultwin. After a great battle against the humans, led by our soultwins, the seventh plane of heaven, Septima, collapsed, causing the seven of us to fall. We assumed we were heading straight for hell... but we landed here instead.“

“When did the seventh plane collapse?“ Ky Lan asked.

Ky Lan must be a mystic of the multiverse.

“Just a few hours ago.”

“Oh, how do I report this to my professor without telling him we have an angel here... “

“Why not ask her to look through the multiscope?“

“Good idea.”

Another person appeared through the door. It was a nearly naked woman with dragon wings.

“Grey.“ She walked over to Grey, still frowning. “The others are fine. What are you doing here?“

“The curse of seven follows us,“ Grey said. “These girls said so themselves. One of them is a mystic of the multiverse.“

“Who, me?“ Shen asked. “No, no, no. I’m an engineer-in-training.“

“The other one.“

“Uh, I’m an alchemist,“ Ky Lan said. “I mean, I’m also studying numerology and divination... “

“Are you an adept student?“ Grey asked. “How do you foretell the future?“

“I cast dice.“

“What is our fate?“ Grey asked. “Could you tell us?“

“When all of your companions are gathered, I could.“

“Please.“

----------

The seven stood before Ky Lan, her sister, two brothers, and father.

“They asked you to perform a ritual?“ the father asked.

“I know I’m not a seer, father, but he still wanted me to do so.“

“Please allow us,“ Grey said, bowing his head slightly. “It is very important.“

“Ky Lan, will you read them honestly?“ her father asked.

“Ares, do you want to help me?“ Ky Lan asked the older son.

“Yes!“ For the first time, Ares smiled.

Ky handed Grey a pile of dice. “Cast them,” she urged. “But not too hard- we can’t receive the readings again if you fail.”

The dice were emanating a strange, twisted power. Another god of the multiverse, perhaps. Kneeling over the floor, he cast the dice.

He could not read any of the symbols engraved, except for a few numbers. A 3, a 7, a 2, and one very large, nearly round die that read 37.

Ky Lan knelt over them, her eyes traveling between the dice. “Ares?” she asked.

Ares walked over and looked over them. They glanced at each other with frowns on their faces.

“Well?“ Grey asked.

“Ares?“ Ky Lan asked.

“Ky doesn’t think we should let you go back to heaven. The dice say it would be dangerous,“ Ares said.

“No?“ Livia asked. “Grey, they won’t-“

“Can you go into a little more detail?“

“Um, it’s a little-“

“The numeric dice?“ Grey asked.

“Well, there’s a few different operations you can do with those. If you add them all up, you get 49, which is seven squared, and then the threes and sevens here... you know that seven and three are very unlucky numbers for angels, right?“

“Of course.“ The curse of seven.

“Of course, the dice each have their own individual meanings... “ Lily pointed to the die that read 3. “This is the fate die. It indicates how many possible fates there are for you.“

“And there are 3?“

“Yup. The one that says 7 is the truth die. It’s a number of truth. It has some meaning to you, or will, in the future. And the one that says 2 is the past die. Here, it indicates a rather docile past broken into 2 stages.“

“The thirty-seven?“ Grey asked.

“If you take the digital root, you get 1, which indicates chaos, and the three and seven themselves are very unlucky.“

“The coin?“ Grey motioned to a coin with a straight line on top.

“It says that there is no escaping your fate.“

“That’s not fair.“ Thaumas looked over the dice. “The coin has a fifty-fifty chance of landing on either side!“

“No, that’s not true. It’s made with the bones of a dragon, and is therefore weighted on the top-“

“Thaumas. Not right now.“ Grey silenced him. “The ones with pictograms?“

“The zodiac die says Mars, indicating a war in your near future, and the runic die calls forth Ragnarok, the big wolf thing that will bring forth the end of the world. And this one-“ Ky Lan motioned to a die displaying a picture of a human heart- “says that the key to salvation lies in your heart.”

“I see.“ Grey closed his eyes. “In that case, we should not go.“

“But Grey!“ Amelia shouted. “Are we supposed to believe this little girl? She rolled a bunch of dice!“

“I didn’t simply roll a bunch of dice, miss, I infused them with my magic-“

“What is the source of your magic?“ Larkspur asked, kneeling down.

“Why, Drakon, the god of chaos. He sits on the same council as the Goddess of Heaven and Hell and the Twin Gods of the Earth. And I know I’m kind of a novice, but... “ Ky Lan paused and took a breath. “when I’ve infused this much magic into my dice, I’ve never been too far off the mark. This war you’re intent on waging... you will lose it.“

“Grey?” Livia asked.

Grey closed his eyes. “I could feel the power emanating from the dice. I fully believe her.”

“So, you’d keep us trapped here because-“

“I never said that, Livia. Ky Lan spoke of the key to salvation. Should we find this key to salvation, will we be spared from this war?“

“Um.... “ Ky Lan began picking up some of the dice. After cupping them in her hand and rolling them again, they fell to new positions. “... Absolutely, yes.”

“That answers that.“ Grey opened them. “I wish to return to heaven. If I can reunite with Brooke without sparking a war, even if there is a slim chance, I will do so.“

“And the alternative?“ Larkspur asked.

“The alternative is to stay here.“ He glanced at the family. “You will be revered as gods and live like kings, if Haoshen is to be believed.”

“I am to be believed,“ Shen said. “Really, I mean it. Purebloods went extinct so long ago, if one were to marry into the family, we would gain tremendous power.“

“Even if one were to not,“ the father said, “purebloods have the lay of the land. You shall be greater than the existing kings and nobles of this kingdom, without a doubt. Simply choose an heir from the seven billion denizens of Earth, and the people will flock to you.“

“Very well. You have your choices.“ Grey turned back to the other six. “My answer remains the same. Despite the risks laid out by Ky Lan, I will be returning to heaven.“

“I will follow him.“ Livia stepped up to Grey. “I could never live in such a place.“

“Heaven is more to my taste.“ Typhon followed.

“I agree.“ So did Thaumas.

“Ky Lan?“ Larkspur asked. “Should we leave, is there anything stopping us from returning to Laceron?“

“As it stands, no,” Ky Lan said. “You can come back here if you fall through Septima again.“

“Then I shall return.“

“As will I,“ Violet whispered, following Larkspur.

“That leaves you, Amelia.“ Grey said. “Do you wish to return to heaven? I assure you, we will not judge you if you decide to stay.“

Amelia paused for a few moments before speaking. “I have no reason to return. I’ve already disowned Julien, and this lovely family is willing to let me marry one of them. I have no reason to go.“

“So you choose to stay?“ Grey asked.

“Yes.“

“Very well.“ Grey nodded. “As soon as Ky Lan can secure our return to heaven, we shall part ways.“

------------

“So, which one do I marry?“ Amelia asked, looking over the young family. Ky Lan was twirling a small trinket in her hands, Shen was holding a book, and the boys were playing with small wooden trains a ways away. Their father was standing behind them, holding a small metal knife.

“In Izudia, the kingdom we reside in, it is quite acceptable for two men to marry, as well as two women. Should my daughters agree, you can have one of them-“

“Um, absolutely not.“ Ky Lan interrupted him. “I still need to finish my alchemy and divination studies!“

“And what am I going to say to my suitors, Father?“ Shen asked.

“Hopefully little will change for you, Ky Lan. You shall continue your studies at the university. Haoshen, I am afraid you will have to turn them away as lovers, but I have no problem with you loving them as friends.“

Shen looked relieved, and Ky Lan shrugged.

“And your sons?“ Amelia asked.

“Ares is ten years old, training to be a warmage. He will not begin his formal training for two more years, but he shows potential already. Venus, on the other hand, is eight years old, still a young child, and so far I see no destiny for him.“

“I wish to marry Venus.“

“E-Excuse me?“ The father’s eyes widened.

“Venus. The youngest.“

Shen and Ky Lan exchanged worried glances.

“If you had allowed me to continue,“ the father said,��“I would have mentioned that I am also a suitable match, much more suitable than the young boys. My late wife, also a warmage, passed away four years ago from disease. And according to my girls, I have not aged a day over thirty. I am still capable of producing children.“

“My answer remains the same.“ Amelia walked over to Venus. “I want to marry that one.“

“He’s eight years old, though!“ Ky Lan exclaimed. “I would prefer you marry me to him!“

Shen nodded in agreement.

“I remember when Julie was eight years old.“ Amelia leaned down in front of Venus and stroked his hair. “I disowned her, obviously, but she was still such a cutie pie. I’d love to have this one all to myself.“

“Madam, I doubt such a young boy could be, well- “ the father cleared his throat- “good in bed.“

“That’s not what I care about.“ Amelia played with Venus’s ears, listening to him laugh. “I want him all to myself. You have to manage a household and your family, your eldest is in training, the fox girl’s still studying, and this one will start his training in a few years. But Venus loves all the attention he gets now.“ Amelia leaned down to Venus. “Do you want to marry me?“ she asked.

Venus glanced at his family. His father and Shen had blank expressions, Ky Lan looked like she was about to cry, and Ares had a weird look on his face. It was the face he always made when there was something he wanted to say, but that would make someone angry.

“No.“ Venus rolled on his back. “I like Tyra from school.“

#tmx #my terrible worldbuilding #consider laceron to be 'the rift' i talked about in the misadventures

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popcartoonkabala · 7 years ago

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New Gods vs. Old Gods: The Juvenile as Divine Elder, or foil. Tammuz = Yesod she b Malchus

Jack Kirby, in his fixing of Super-hero Mythology for DC in the 70′s, conveniently avoids the war between the Super-modern and the inaccessibly ancient by having the Old Gods, obsolete and yet eternally important, enshrined in the Source Wall, out of commission as is truly the way of the Ancient of Day שביתין ושבקין / חבילין דמעקין.

The challenge is of this: who is satirized out of power, in the freshest story? Who is lionized into the spotlight as the moral of the story gives him the torch of grace? Part of the pop problem is the great parent-punch, where the wicked old gives way to the awesome: how to retell without vilifying the ACTUAL patriarchy of beloved family? This is the ultimate challenge of any non-dualistic narrative, religion, or experience of the schism that makes the world.

Narratives find ways by splitting the distinction between Good Parent and Bad Elder. Note with curiousity: The Angelina Jolie vehicle-version of Malificent takes the Evil Queen and spins her into grace as the Raven Fairy who only loves and is betrayed by the man that turns out immediately to be the Lame King, father of “Sleeping Beauty.” The infinite purity/ecstatic naivety of princess Aurora is very contrasted with the wounded and knowing of Malificent, but the movie REFUSES to be enlightened enough to overcome the need for a villain, and so the Lame Father dies unrepentant for his crime against the goddess, falling out of a building. His daughter never appears, even for a moment, to mourn his death.

The Illumination is coherent, and one god must be sacrificed for the rest to live. This is a fundamental part of Old Egyptian religious covenant, Set-as-Joker: one of the royal family must be villain in order for the heavens to be whole. Because informed masonry demands sacrifice, and cosmic order depends on the self-sacrifice of the highest angel-turned-enemy. The is the friendly gnostic Satan; Leviathan co-operative.

This is the secret of the moon of Tammuz, who is also Adonis, the aspect of Who Knows but Alas! And Woe! For the great king is lost, fallen. But good news! He returns every few months and so does life. Why does he die? According to ld Sumerian myth, it’s because he rules oblivious to the damnation of his beloved Innana. She’s dragged to Hell by Irresistable Cosmic Forces that demand sacrifice for the sake of existence. Accepting this and yet still demanding to return to the earth, that there might be love, life and delight, she is given permission on condition that she bring down someone of equal stature. She returns to Earth in search of unfamiliar kings, but they are all humiliated, dressed in sackcloth and mourning her absence. Not so, her beloved Fisherman, King of the Satisfaction, Tammuz. He sits on the high throne, joyful and fruitful, so that there would be bounty. This offends Innana/Ishtar so, and she casts him down to Sheol/Hel, where he remains until his twin sister convnces Innana/Ishtar to take his place for half the year. So that the world can be. The Romans digest this story, calling Innana “Venus” and Tammuz “Adonis”, de-emphasising his divinity and instead emphasising his beauty and powerlessness before tragedy.

"Then he brought me to the door of the gate of the Lord's house which was toward the north; and, behold, there sat women weeping for Tammuz. Then said he unto to me, 'Hast thou seen this, O son of man? turn thee yet again, and thou shalt see greater abominations than these." —Ezekiel 8:14-15

Things could always be worse. Ptolemy, strangely, claims that Phoenicians worship Mars as “Adonis” even as the comentary of his translator makes clear that Adonis is to be identified with Phyrigian Atys and Egyptian Osiris. Adonis as an epithet like “Ba’al” could be any number of “people.” Literary readings, specifically of Shakespeare’s version of Venus and Adonis, offer to identify him with the Sun, defeated, which could be why the Crab that cuts down the Herculean SunGod is identified with the Moon, like in the Kabbalistic myth where the Moon indicates the problem in Sun and Moon sharing one crown, a criticism that leads to the weakening of the moon into cycle of wax and wane. Egyptian Osiris, alternately and meaningfully, was the Sun (Ra) when he was alive but became Saturnine and next worldly upon his castration and defeat by the trickster villainGod Set, leading to the claiming of the Sun Throne by Horus, alternatingly refered to by the Hellenists as Mars or Apollo This Osiris, you’ll recall, is identified by Heraclitis and Plutarch as identifiable with both Saturn, Hades, and Dionysus, all one “for whom they wage and wail”. The Talmud in Avodah Zara further identifies this composite Vegetation, Fertility, and Underworld deity with the Biblical Patriarch Joseph.

Mishnah: IF ONE FINDS UTENSILS UPON WHICH IS THE FIGURE OF THE SUN [or a dragon, they are prohibited].

Therefore the first and last clauses deal with the act of finding and the middle clause with the act of making!

Abaye said: That is so,

the first and last clauses deal with the act of finding

and the middle clause with the act of making.

Raba said: They all deal with the act of finding,

and as for the middle clause it is the teaching of R. Judah.

For it has been taught: '

R. Judah also includes the picture of a woman giving to suck

and Serapis.'

A woman giving to suck alludes to Eve who suckled the whole world;

Serapis alludes to Joseph who became a prince [sar]

and appeased [hefis] the whole world.

Avodah Zara 43:a

The implication here is profound: There is a difference between the one who feeds the world and the one who creates the world, the feeder being inherently more vulnerable, because he is closer to you. Friedriche Nietche identifies Prometheus with Dionysus, Sarapis and Tammuz, another face of the tragic hero, in his Birth of Tragedy. All drama and all tragedy, as well as all idealism as to the value of crime-as-liberation-as-concience are expressed through the divinity of theater. The similarity in the Joseph story in the bible is undercut by the tradition connecting Joseph’s death to the Summer Solstice, as well as his Messianic identifcation as the Hero who Appears To Die but Actually Feeds The World. The irony, biblically, is the degree to which he also innovates selling the world into slavery, for his grain, much like agriculture and intoxication make a certain sort of willing slaves out of us all.

Slaves to a good master, are his sheep, happily sacrificed as are all the innocent people killed in the background of every exciting explosive hero moment. Kurt Vonnegut in his pinnacle work Breakfast Of Champions tries to break the cycle, and set his characters (heroes?) free. It’s important to try and break a cycle, if we can. The heroes themselves want to be better, and stop all wrong from being, and for this, we the incapable appreciate them.

One ancient proto-Cinderella is the proto-Buddhist deity Kwan Yin; the poor, righteous orphan worked to death, but then sainted into immortality as the Goddess of Yin. She will not stop from her chores, so she gains the power to set anyone else free. Building merit in the Buddhist narrative comes with the promise that labors will, ultimately, be appreciated. She is the Tammuz here, except even more virtuous.

Biblical Abraham finds a way out of sacrificing child, partly by putting Bull in his place. But sacrificed the child is, the circumcision compels caution and restraint of vision and creative imposition of will. Siegfried and Sigmund, Gilgamesh and Horus are all untroubled by parent-imposed wound; on the contrary it is the Osirian Father and The Wild Man who is castrated, Votun whose spear shatters. This is what is offensive about the civil impulse of Abraham: it's a first step in what pretends to be a trustworthy, eternal stability, relatively likeable over the nightmare of Babylon and Ur. Vonnegut is in a proud tradition.

------------------ In one of the first stories published and circulated, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the sacrifice of the fallen lover of the Queen of the Dawn is noted as a model NOT to be imitated. Gilgamesh distrusts the Goddess, because her love destroyed the greatest mythic heroes. This offends her to a fairy tale degree, and he must contend with this hostility/affection. This cannot make him trust her more, but it does keep HIM from becoming a divinity, enshrined in the stars and months as the summertime moon of mourning and tears, “Tammuz”. Also known as Dumuzi “The Sheperd/The Fisherman” Superman, like Tammuz, is an often dead-and-ressurected Solar deity. He is not failed by love, or made vulnerable by either idealism or corruption-- nonetheless, he is not, and may never be, a father god. To the degree that he ever has children, he cannot raise them, an idea explored in Bryan Singer's Superman Returns and in Greg Weissman's Young Justice alike, both of which treat superman as a very uncomfortable absentee father, unable to take almost any emotional or functional responsibility for the bastard children cloned from or identified with him. The best he can do is rescue and preach, but he cannot devote himself to specific children-- in 1950's superman “imaginary” apocalypse literature, being responsible for wife and child is exactly what finally cripples and destroys superman after all. It's a bit different for Batman, formed from the duality represented by his two horns. Conflicting duality, Black and white, is the very definition of Gothic. Metropolis is not, and can never be, Gotham, even in narratives as inversionary as Kingdom Come or Dark Knight Returns: Gotham is Black & White, Metropolis is gleaming bright gold and steel. And yet-- Both are New York City, just as equally. Or wherever the capitol of the world is. This is part of the absurd theatre that the city becomes. Age plus success equals implication in the eternal crimes of the city, or increasing merit in the construction of that which is beloved about it. Superman's and Spider-man's eternal youth is partially their innocence and alienation from the source of the problem. Batman is different-- he is not a solar deity except in the context of his own internal cosmology; barring that, he's as lunar as it gets. One of the main mythic responsibilities of the Moon is to literally second guess the Sun, with a question that divides the kingdom but restores wholeness and insists sensitivity to the failure of the normative order. This is the moral advantage that Batman tends to have over Superman-- although in Grant Morrison's post 52 Action Comics, this order is inverted-- with Batman being the super-mainstream expression of society's natural beneficence, and Superman as the radical socialist, come to critique and overcome the corrupt excesses of the Great City. This will not last, hardly lasting into Morrison's brief run, any more than the original populist Superman of 1938's Action Comics #1 was able to be anything other than a cheerleader for the American Way, once exposed to the wider airwaves. Superman is also categorically NOT a child, but most Superman villains for all intents and purposes are; it's the nature of tyrants. Superman's presence, and functional stasis, are in the space in between the super maturity/responsibility of a new adult, freshly but firmly out of his parent's home, but not building a life of his own. Numerous brilliant efforts at writing the story of Superman as father have been written, but none allowed to be canon. The Super child of Kingdom Come appeared once, and then becomes unavailable, the great Kurt Busiek “Birthright” treatment could only occur in distant earth prime, a reality conspicuously destroyed in the Infinite Crisis. Contrast this with Batman, who is defined by his pack of children and lovers.

The problem of lovers and sidekicks: First, it's meaningful how easy it is to confuse the two in relationship to Batman, as opposed to Superman. A lover, a ward, and a friend, all of whom can share the occasional title of “partner” if they're so graced, but generally come to play the part more of some kind of a cavalry; a children's crusade as training unit to take care of peripheral missions (which often tend to wind up being crucial situations that the kids get stuck in.) There must be a pattern, occult logic hopes, to how these peripheral helpers form naturally off the sweat of the overwhelmed human hero. First is Robin. Notably somewhat gender neutral in impression, or at least too young to feel overtly masculine, the role has been taken by a range of kids over the generations.

Two girls, four boys, not counting the myriad alternate realities, Robin is the defined First Supplement to the super-competent Batman, and traditionally, the stand in for the reader themselves. All Robins, unlike Batman himself, must be trained to some degree before the traumatic event that leads them to abandon normative childhood to become child soldier vigilantes. Compare this with the Batgirls-- similarly trained before the signal to masked vigilantism in some variety of acrobatics or combat-- in either case, it is the existence of something like a Batman that pulls these boys and girls out of the wood work to support the Batman's apparent mission. This is powerfully satirized in the film Super, where one man's psychosis, borne out of a combination of some kind of brain damage, sexual frustration, weird religious fundamentalism and exposure to pop-television, inspires him to become a ferocious vigilante, dealing out justice to anyone he witnesses offending him somehow, with his chosen weapon: a wrench. This inspires the girl who works at the comic book store to want to come along, help in whatever (violent) capacity, which can be as simple as screaming at a defeated foe, and at a crowd surrounding the action, about how fucking hot they are.

There is a similar relationship described in many astrological systems between the Sun and Mercury, described in the Talmud as “the scribe of the Sun.” ( Babylonian Talmud, Shabbat 155b) The mythic relationship between Apollo and Hermes, between Horus-Ra and Thoth, between Sol and Odin all describe this similar intimacy that all have witnessed in the physical movements of the literal star Mercury (just called “Kochav” in Hebrew, literally “Star” or even “Mark”) in direct correlation with the movements of the Sun itself. The narratives that emerge to describe why and how this arrangement came to be are meaningful whenever they are. Mercury is known traditionally as the Greco-Roman tradition as the “youngest of the gods,” stealing, working, tricking and charming his way to godhood after most of the worldly and divine order are established. But when Julius Caesar and Tacitus witness the main father god of the Norse and the Celts, Odin, they readily identify him with Mercury, as do all subsequent generations of syncretists. Mercury and Thoth, the gods of intelligence and communication, who teach language to the world-- there's some mystery about how much they are the ones who initiate creation, and just stay aloof enough not to have to rule. This model goes back to African Anansi, who although the most vulnerable in most of the stories, winds up with all the stories, tricking his way to the very beginning of creation, and perhaps made the whole origin possible. Hebrew Kabbalistic tradition, relating to the biblical Seven days of creation, attributes the creation of divinities in the heavens, stars and angels alike, to the Fourth day. The original light that filled all creation from the first moment was pulled back and hidden away also smaller forces, priorities and characters would shine. Tuesday night at 6pm is already Wednsday in this model (“It was evening and it was morning the fourth day,) and so the tradition makes clear that Mercury was the first amongst the stars, before even the Sun and the Moon, although the sun and the moon are identified with the conflicting primordial masculine and feminine that divorce on the second day of creation, they come not into their minor fullness and place in the heavenly heirarchy until Mercury emerges, followed by Jupiter, and then Venus. Saturn takes it's place at the center of of the week, just as the Sabbath is the center of the weekdays, surrounded by three on each side, on the opposite end of Mercury. Theres a whole game-mystery of reverse-on-reverse, where the attributes of one is expressed only in the other, hence much of the confusion and evolution of the heavenly hierarchy-- who ever acts as if they're in charge must not be in charge, whoever acts as if they're foolish is the smartest one there is. Hence that traditional self mutilation and even partial suicide of Odin, who hangs himself and lets himself be pierced in the side in pursuit of Knowledge, also indenturing himself like biblical Jacob as a shepherd, just to learn, furiously. The fool, the child, stepping blindly, might actually have a plan all along, all the plans even. But it's not clear, because we're being tricked.

Venus, on the other hand is never tricking you-- it's your own will that compels you forwards, and hence the deep confusion about how originative she is. Greek philosophers came up with two distinct Aphrodites: one, the cosmic, celestial and originative, borne out of Uranus's castrated phallus, once it fell into the great ocean, and second, the lower earthly one, “Pandemos” identified with worldly passions, as opposed to originative cosmic yearning. The main distinction between a moon goddess and a Venus is how much they are defined by their wildness and independence vs. civilizing eroticism in the context of consortium chambers. Wonder Woman is not a Venus; she's an Artemis, a Diana. The Moon might depend on the light of the sun, but it's not trying to impress the sun, and that's the dignity of the moon vs. the intoxicating intimate irresistibility of the morning star. Every other plastic come hither is more of an Aphrodite, like Poison Ivy, Catwoman, or Vampirella.

-----------------

Speaking of the difference between Lovers and Sidekicks: Who is closer? Superman and Batman or Superman and Wonder Woman or Batman and Wonder Woman? Generally the first, as often almost the other two, especially maybe in any given future, as too many World's Finest stories are told (god forbid) and maybe one of the other two. There was some investment in a Batman/Wonder woman romance for a time, and in a Superman/Wonder woman coupling occasionally, both and either treated as almost messianic unions. The child is rarely seen, or used as more of an omen, or future narrator, because he's too perfect to fathom for long.

This dreamchild is a huge issue in comic book apocalypticism, one which, to my knowledge, is rarely translated to Cartoon or film, perhaps because it's too disturbing except for horror. It's certainly one of the stranger parts of Kubrick's 2001: A space odyssey, and it's been coming up more and more: It was the major plot development of Alan Moores LOEG 2009, as well as Jonathan Hickman's extended Fantastic Four/FF run, where the previously similar Franklin Richards, oft hinted to possess invincible power in the future, emerges as a major character, both as a divine child from the chronological present, and as the nigh-omnipotent and apparently immortal that he grows up to becomes, a god over gods, who enslaves Galactus the world eater and fixes time. His introduction and incorporation is a testament to Hickman's narrative ambition, to make the shocking future more accessible; not humanized, but appreciable. This is the aspect of the redeeming child, which is who the old testament ends with the promise of, and in at least a few French and Italian traditions, who the Tarot begins with.

Noted Kabbalist R' Nachman of Breslov tells an allegorical story once about a master of prayer whose mission is, partially, to reunite a shattered royal family, torn apart by a hurricane. Very few of the actors in this family are able to actualize their redemption and reunification except through some degree of personal expression and actualization in the context of being found by those who seek them. The child is both the oldest and the youngest, last found most central. But who is the youngest of the gods? The inevitable answer: whoever is most compelling at their root, is who is infinitely focused on in youth, specifically. This is who can be “youngest of the gods” and oldest of fathers all at once. R' Nachman tells another story, about sailors on a great ocean marooned on an Island with a great tower. On this tower they find great food and clothes stored away, and upon feasting and relaxing begin to ask each other “what's the first thing you remember?” As they begin to describe progressively more originative memories of what becomes closer and closer to the first moment, the history of expressed kabbalistic exploration is also shared, with the approach to the earliest moment of almost-existence expressing the most innovative mysticism, as well as revealing which amongst the crew is secretly the oldest of all assembled. Naturally, ironically, meaningfully, the youngest amongst them is the one with the access to the most primordial memories, and is revealed by the stories end as secretly the oldest of them all, as the assembled sailors are met by the owner of the tower, the Great Eagle, who leads them out in similar fashion to biblical Joseph's arrangement of his brothers, in age order, with the first and oldest actually being the youngest. It occurs to me something similar occurs with certain Pantheons, where Mercury or Anansi are the youngest of the gods, and secretly the originators of all language and narrative, and, as such, all existence.

The advent of graphic literature came with two directions-- the violent and the romantic. But it started with the neutral gendered Kid. The original image that first spoke with an avian fowl surprising a medium into existence was The Yellow Kid. Although satyric images hewn into stone have appeared since as long as anyone can remember, the novelty of a sequential set of images, creating a popular story medium never before quite possible in the history of graphic literature. Heralded by that bald pre-heroic central pillar of engaged, powerless but invulnerable; infant-king recurs in Windsor Mckay's dream hero Little Nemo, but survives into modern hero cartoon as Kirby-Lee's Uatu The Watcher, The Last Airbender, Mxyzptlk, and even into as a number of specifically Superman Villains, notably Mxyzptlk, Lex Luthor and especially Brainiac, who also parallels a number child-monsters spawned from science or alien world-- the borg/Trelane, V-ger, Ultron, Moondragon assorted children of heroes who were transformed by any encounter with the cosmic. What is this original kid? The first card in the Tarot, 0/Aleph, is called the fool but identified with the divine child, the youngest one in the room who still remembers further back before any one else, even though all appear older than him. It's the very first moment, that remains as innocent and entirely original and revolutionary as it did that very first moment where a stupid blind step was taken out of nothing and no where.

His manifestation as Robot-alien is profound and the ultimate terror, literally. The dynamic relationship between Hank Pym and his two robot “children” (both notably bald) is indicative of this tension: one is profoundly noble, and even humanly capable of devotion, nobility and love, and the other is heartless, monstrously devoted to the death of all flesh, with an alarming tendency towards actual genocides and atrocities-- such is the gamble of blind capricious invincibility, that something wonderful and/or something terrible might emerge. Notice the moral flexibility of the Superman villains in this model too, their tendency to incarnate as heroic occasionally, if not often, bespeaks the degree to which the chaos that Superman is reining in actually can go either way in it's selfish fervor.

The secret truth of the universe is the degree to which we'd rather not acknowledge that the hunger is our own, The great hunger consuming all is the good that surrounds, filled with an astonishing depth of emptiness within. It's tail, it's tale, is the problem of how to end a story that lives to not end: the pickle of pop narrative myth.

What is the earliest version of the end of Herakles? He never does the thing that he's ultimately prophesied to do, that is, replace the father god as Master of the Universe as Zeus did to his hungry horrible father before. Hercules ascends to heaven, and there can be no more stories about him after that-- until the Cartoon serials resurrect him into modernity. The Greeks have no Apocalypse, because their stories, like the Egyptian, Vedic, and Babylonian astro-narratives before them, aren't meant to end; and by the time they might, slipping into mediocrity (Christianity) they lose control of their essential narrative, as the Roman Book of Revelations is written from a Greek island used as a way station for exiles from Judea. The ancient Egyptian apocalypses turn quickly into creation myths, reflecting the suspicions of cosmic cyclicalism reflected by the solar voyage. The exception to this rule is the Trojan War, from whose survivors the literary Romans claim descent as elaborated (or invented?) in Virgil’s Aenid, before he dies and guides Dante through the depths, as Innana was once guided. Story endings are invitations for strangers to pick up the charachters, now literally in the public domain.

The alternative to the Apocalype/Resolution model is a beginning and and end that are ultimately relatively unrelated, i.e. an ULTIMATE end that offers no future. Many characters are born from this scenario, this moment, and then brought back into the present. The X-men are replete with such figures, notably Cable, Bishop and the Rachel Summers Phoenix, who is dragged to the end of history to become the great goddess Askani, before being brought back to youthful modern triviality. Both Cable and Rachel Summers, it must be noted, shared parents, the great noble first couple of the house of X(-men.)

So too with Hercules, Samson, and King Solomon: another Christ child made immortal by his ability to travel into the future. The Legion of Superheroes only really comes back to see one particular hero--Superman, or maybe sometimes Abe Lincoln, or Julius Caesar. Super-villains just go back for Helen of Troy. Hercules comes to New York as easily as he makes it to Hollywood. Inevitably.

Later this week: more about the Divine Julius and the Romulan/Vulcan tension, in the context of Star Trek and Old Roman Religion. Plus: Audio cast about the mystery of Enoch and Markolis (Hermes/Thoth); i.e., how and why does a person become the voice of G-d, identifiable with and representing? Only on Pop Cartoon Kabalallalalalalalalalaaaaaa!

1Kurt Busiek, as opposed to contemporary diamond age adventists like Mark Waid, Peter David and Karl Kesel, suffers on explorations of characters and concepts that are inherently peripheral. This is his genius, and perhaps his curse, an eye that gazes specifically on the pop-awesome from a certain degree of alienation and distance. This is the way he was able to partially intiate the Diamond age of late nineties integration of Silver Age awe into super-modern dark age post-modernism, without the filter of Warren Ellis's cynical cleansing cinematude.

2Dark Knight Returns, at this point in our cultural discourse, might as well be considered cannon of sorts. The pre-apocalyptic vision of an aged Batman returning, somehow not to fight “crime” but to overcome military dictatorship by rallying the gangster children of Gotham into a militia army parrallels the transition from an alienated elite mission to a genuinely populist heroism, an authentically helpful radical Batman, at last on the same page with the people he was ostensibly protecting, but generally more just keeping down. This is the only moral triumph that can ever justify a weirdo like Batman, his personal crusade against the kind of “crime” that killed his parents being naturally extended to a socially intelligent revolution that would unseat the essential alienation that IS the cause of “crimes”.

3 Babylonian Talmud, mesechta Shabbat 155b

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